Chapter 1: Perhaps There’s Still a Miracle
Chapter Text
- Year One: The Awakening -
31st October, 1979
The rain lashed against the windows of the office with relentless force, the droplets sliding down the glass as if trying to invade the warmth of the room. Inside, the soft crackling of the fireplace filled the space with a comforting heat, and the bed in the corner of the room seemed like an irresistible invitation to lose oneself under the covers.
But, for some reason, Albus Dumbledore couldn’t sleep.
The clock had long since passed two in the morning, and he felt the weight of the late hour in the weariness that had settled deep in his bones. With a quiet sigh, he stroked his long, silver beard, his eyes fixed on the darkness outside, where the occasional flash of lightning briefly illuminated the distant silhouettes of Hogwarts’ towers.
Youth had abandoned him long ago—so many decades that he had almost lost count at times. And with experience had come the uncomfortable knowledge that he would pay the price for a sleepless night. When the sun rose and the students filled the Great Hall to enjoy the Halloween holiday, he would be there, sipping a steaming cup of tea, trying to ignore the heaviness of his eyelids and the inevitable fatigue that would demand its toll.
However, at that moment, he only had the storm for company.
His gaze wandered around his office, filled with artifacts and items accumulated by various headmasters over the centuries. The Sorting Hat snored softly, asleep on a shelf. Then his eyes rested on Fawkes, his faithful phoenix, who slept peacefully on his perch. A few feathers had fallen, and he looked visibly frail. Fawkes was nearing his burning day; soon, he would be reborn. It was always a melancholy sight to see his companion wither before rising from the ashes, vibrant and full of life once more.
On his sleepless nights, he often reflected on a myriad of topics: sometimes, his academic research; other times, the challenges of running Hogwarts. There were also the matters of the Wizengamot and the ambitious, manipulative wizards he—with great patience and cunning—kept carefully in check.
But, for the past few years, one topic in particular had always found a way to dominate his thoughts, like a persistent shadow that could not be shaken: the ongoing wizarding war, led by Tom Riddle—or, as he now preferred to call himself, Voldemort. No one but himself and Tom knew his true name and miserable past, but that hardly mattered now.
Sighing, and without realizing it, his hand had already found the small glass jar beside him. He twisted the lid absentmindedly and popped a lemon drop into his mouth, letting it slide onto his tongue. The sharp, citrusy flavor exploded in his mouth, a welcome contrast to the bitterness of his thoughts. It was hard to face such dark matters without something to soothe the mind—and, if possible, the heart as well.
He remembered the last time he had seen Tom, before he had become the greatest terror of the modern wizarding world, before he had revealed himself as a cruel and bloodthirsty monster.
It was impossible to forget that strange encounter, filled with so many unspoken words.
Dumbledore had watched Tom from across the table with a calculating gaze, the serene afternoon sun streaming through the open windows of the room. It had been years since Riddle had been there, but the handsome, charismatic young man of yesteryear was different now. His face had lost much of its aristocratic beauty; he was paler—almost completely white—his eyes slightly reddened, as if reflecting something dark.
“How are your affairs, Tom?” Dumbledore had asked casually. “If I recall correctly, you’ve been missing for quite some time, a decade or more. Personal reasons, I imagine?”
Riddle had smiled, but Dumbledore recognized falseness when he saw it.
“Ah, nothing extraordinary, Professor. I decided to travel, to learn more about magic, explore ancient artifacts, and perfect spells around the world. I can confidently say that Greece has much to offer in that regard.”
A soft pop announced the arrival of a house-elf, who set down two cups of tea before disappearing again.
Dumbledore had watched him thoughtfully, running his fingers through his beard. “Indeed, many wizards try their luck hunting for relics and artifacts. I never imagined that would be a field of interest for you, however. Since you mention your travels, is there anything noteworthy you’d like to share?”
Riddle had taken a sip of tea, prolonging the pause before answering.
“I’d love to say I have something that might be useful to your academic research, Professor. I heard you recently discovered twelve new uses for dragon’s blood. Impressive, to say the least. But, unfortunately, I’m no expert in potions. Professor Slughorn was excellent at teaching and passed on much of the knowledge I have today on the subject, but my passion has always lain elsewhere.”
Dumbledore had nodded, not believing a word of it. He had never trusted Riddle, and now his suspicion was stronger than ever; his appearance and evasive behavior were unsettling. He had tried to probe the former student’s mind but found a barrier as solid and impenetrable as stone.
“That’s truly a shame,” Dumbledore had said lightly, masking his frustration. “I would have liked to hear more about your discoveries.”
Tom had tilted his head slightly upon noticing the attempt at Legilimency, a smile that didn’t reach his lips playing on his mouth.
“And how are things here?” he had asked casually. “It’s been years since our last conversation. Any students of particular note?”
“Ah, there are always promising talents,” Dumbledore had replied, resting his elbows on the table. “Every generation brings its own prodigies, just as it has since the time of the four founders. But I don’t believe you’ve come here merely to catch up on the latest bright minds at Hogwarts. So, in that case, what is the real reason for your visit, Tom?”
Dumbledore’s direct tone had made a muscle in Riddle’s jaw twitch, but he had quickly masked any sign of irritation.
“Straight to the point, as always, Professor. Very well. I’ve learned that Mr. Chaptole will be stepping down from the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I was wondering if there might be an opportunity for me to take his place. I have the necessary certifications and experience, should they be required.”
Dumbledore had understood immediately the hidden intentions behind the request.
During his years at Hogwarts, Tom had proven himself a master of manipulation, cloaked in a charming charisma that masked his true nature. Using his influence, he had gathered a select group of followers, who called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis. Ambitious, loyal, weak, and easily manipulated young wizards, who, when necessary, acted on Riddle’s indirect orders, always ready to execute his will without ever compromising his image. Tom, as always, kept his hands clean. He preferred to operate in the shadows.
Dumbledore pressed his lips together, his gaze distant.
It wasn’t something he was proud of—in fact, it was one of the most questionable practices he had ever adopted—but sometimes, he would probe the minds of certain students. Never invasively, never without reason. But when it came to Tom… with Tom, it was different. He needed to be sure. Letting him believe he still held some form of control was a dangerous game, but perhaps less dangerous than letting him act unsupervised.
The most alarming thing, however, was how no one had ever suspected the brilliant and disciplined Tom Riddle. The exemplary student, the impeccable Head Boy. Always courteous, always respectful. If Dumbledore hadn’t known what lay behind that perfect mask, he would have been fooled like everyone else.
And now, that man coveted a position of authority to mentor young minds.
Granting it would be a catastrophic mistake. Tom didn’t seek to serve, only to command. He saw further than anyone could predict, but always through the lens of his own ambition.
Dumbledore couldn’t allow it.
He feared—with every fiber of his being—what might happen if Tom Riddle got exactly what he wanted.
“I’m afraid that’s a proposal I must decline, Tom,” Dumbledore said calmly.
Riddle had never been interested in the art of Magical Sensitivity, so despite maintaining an apparently unshakable expression at the refusal, he couldn’t hide the hatred in his magical aura as his plans were thwarted. Dumbledore sensed an overwhelming wave of anger and malice emanating from him, almost suffocating.
Despite this, Riddle kept his voice polite. “Professor, I wouldn’t ask for a high salary, nor would I demand luxurious accommodations. Just a chance. After all, it was you who assessed my NEWT scores. You know I’m qualified. Besides, you know me.”
“And it’s precisely because I know you that I cannot accept,” Dumbledore replied directly.
Riddle’s eyes burned with a red intensity, and his jaw tightened.
“Disappointing. I expected more consideration from a former professor. This is absurd.”
“It’s not a lack of consideration, Tom. It’s prudence. With that said, is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”
For a moment, the silence in the office was almost palpable. Dumbledore felt Riddle’s anger reach a peak and kept his hand close to the wand hidden in his robes, ready for any reaction. He also released a hint of his own magical aura, making it palpable even to those with no sense of Magical Sensitivity.
“No,” Riddle said finally, letting out a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I think that’s all for today.”
He rose with almost theatrical elegance, adjusting the collar of his dark cloak before casting one last calculated look at Dumbledore.
“Until next time, Albus. No need to worry about me—I won’t disappear for long periods as I did before, so I’m certain you’ll hear much more about me in due time.”
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, maintaining the serene tone that seemed to irritate his former student.
“I hope it will be good news. It would be regrettable to hear otherwise.”
Riddle narrowed his reddish eyes and turned toward the Floo Network.
But before disappearing, he paused, glancing over his shoulder.
“Ah, a word of advice… choose carefully who will fill that position,” Tom said coldly. “I have a feeling you’ll need far more than a dozen good Professors to handle the subject from now on.”
Dumbledore remained still, his expression unreadable. “Thank you for the advice, Tom. I’ll consider it carefully.”
With one last look that seemed to carry both a veiled threat and the promise of something inevitable, Riddle vanished into the Floo Network in a whirl of green flames.
Since Dumbledore had refused Tom’s offer for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position years ago, the Dark wizard had dedicated himself to darker and crueler methods of expanding his army. If he couldn’t influence young minds as a professor at Hogwarts, then he would use giants, werewolves, acromantulas, and even dementors to quench his thirst for blood and chaos. There were disturbing rumors that he was now turning murdered Muggles into Inferi, reanimated corpses that worked as dangerous slaves to bolster his front lines.
Cruel? Undoubtedly, but Dumbledore knew that, unfortunately, Voldemort surpassed Grindelwald in cruelty and disdain for life—which was no compliment.
It was why, in mid-1973, he had founded the Order of the Phoenix, a small secret group of witches and wizards willing to fight against the rise of darkness. At the time of its creation, many current members of the Order were still children, as were many of the current Death Eaters—Voldemort’s loyal followers. These children had grown up together, sharing corridors and classrooms; competing for the House Cup and Quidditch matches, before parting ways and choosing opposite sides in the war, where they swore death to one another, killing when they could.
“They’re still children…” Dumbledore reflected bitterly, as the path things had taken unfolded faster than he could prevent.
The thought weighed on him like a cold stone. He sank into his armchair and rubbed his tired eyes. Where had he lost control? Hogwarts, the prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry in Britain, which he loved so dearly, had once been a sanctuary where students dueled with tickling charms and laughter, but now those same students were divided, trading hexes and deadly curses. Backward, idiotic ideas of blood supremacy and purity had seeped like poison into the minds of the most manipulable and weak-hearted.
Even with new recruits joining the Order, the ratio was alarming: twenty Death Eaters for every member.
How could he protect all those innocents without more people getting hurt? How could he save the wizarding world from impending destruction and, most importantly, how could he stop a merciless madman like Voldemort?
The answer wasn’t clear. He thought of Molly Weasley—née Prewett—who had lost her brothers, Fabian and Gideon, in a deadly ambush. The searing pain of that loss still echoed within her, yet she fought on with the unyielding faith of a lioness. But she wasn’t the only one suffering. One by one, members of the Order were hunted down and eliminated. Killing one Death Eater seemed to bring three more in their place, hungry for blood and vengeance.
Dumbledore sighed deeply, popping another lemon drop into his mouth, knowing he would have to face the entire Order once more the following afternoon at a meeting and admit that he still didn’t have a definitive plan to end this chaos. The light in his life came from his former students, who still believed in a better future.
James and Lily had recently married, and he remembered the wedding with a gentle warmth in his heart.
The ceremony had been small but filled with love and hope, as if every corner of the venue shone with the promise of a bright future. Lily had invited her sister and brother-in-law to the wedding. However, even by Muggle standards, Petunia and Vernon Dursley seemed out of place. They lingered on the sidelines, stiff and visibly uncomfortable, as if the mere proximity to the magical world might contaminate them.
Dumbledore, ever polite, had tried to strike up a conversation with them but quickly realized his efforts were in vain. Vernon, his neck red and tightly squeezed into a ridiculously small tie, muttered monosyllabic responses, while Petunia kept her thin lips pressed into a disapproving line. They seemed determined to keep their distance, watching from afar as if the event were a spectacle they didn’t want but couldn’t avoid attending.
Still, the atmosphere was one of celebration. Minerva McGonagall was present, elegantly dressed for a woman of her age, her chest visibly puffed with pride as she witnessed two of her brightest students finally unite their lives. The rare smile she wore left no doubt about how much the moment meant to her—and he could have sworn he saw a tear escape her eyes.
Dumbledore, standing beside her, watched the couple with a serene yet attentive gaze. He could sense something special in the union of Lily and James—a rare harmony that, perhaps, only he, Minerva, and the Potters themselves could fully perceive. It was as if their auras danced together, intertwining in perfect harmony, creating something greater than themselves.
“Soulmate encounters always surprise me,” he mused, gazing out the window as heavy raindrops streaked down the glass.
Dumbledore smiled at the thought, his eyes twinkling as he lost himself in the memories of that celebration.
When James and Lily exchanged their vows, he had felt his old, weary heart fill with hope, like a grandfather watching his grandchildren find happiness. The love between those two was one of the reasons worth fighting for, a promise of a better world. He imagined future happy marriages among the younger members of the Order and dreamed of the day he would see a new generation of witches and wizards attending Hogwarts in times of peace, free from the dark shadows of their parents’ past and the madness of blood purity.
But it wasn’t that simple.
The smile that had touched his lips vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as Dumbledore returned to the present, where grim news and constant threats seemed to weigh even heavier on his already burdened mind. More massacres, more wizards and Muggles dead. Each day, the darkness deepened, and the feeling of helplessness became harder to ignore.
He knew he shouldn’t bear the burden of the war alone, but deep down, he felt there was something deeply personal about this battle. He had defeated Grindelwald before, a threat that had once seemed insurmountable.
“Why does everything feel so much harder now?” he wondered.
The answer was simple and bitter.
“Voldemort has no limits…”
And that lack of limits was what made the fight against him a race against time. Dumbledore knew, with a sinking feeling, that he would need to find a solution before it was too late.
“I’ve seen so many shadows—so much darkness… But this… this is different.”
His wisdom and life experience weighed heavily in moments like these because he knew what was likely to happen soon—that the story of more pain and suffering would repeat itself once again, as it always did, just like in the Global Wizarding War. But he couldn’t afford to falter or give up.
“Not yet…”
He knew the reality of the war was far from over. Only a miracle could change it, but even miracles seemed scarce. The Order was in tatters, with members missing, dead, their families constantly threatened.
Dumbledore glanced at his peculiar clock on the desk—enchanted not only to tell time but also to track the positions of the sun and moon. The dial revealed that the night was fading, and dawn was approaching with silent steps.
Perhaps it would be wiser to try to sleep, rather than let melancholy thoughts consume what remained of the night. If he continued like this, he wouldn’t be productive the next day. Besides, there was no need to make Halloween even more dreary than it already was with his lack of energy.
Letting out a soft sigh, he rose from his chair, feeling the protest of aged bones and tired muscles. Age had its subtle—and sometimes not so subtle—ways of reminding him of its presence, especially when he strayed from his routine.
As he took the final step toward the stairs leading to his bed, a bright red light caught his attention. He turned, startled, his eyes fixed on the glowing orb on a shelf in the office.
“It can’t be…” he murmured, incredulous, slowly descending the steps.
“What?” said one of the former headmasters, still drowsy, from his portrait.
“You may go back to sleep, Headmaster Vindictus,” said Dumbledore as he approached the orb.
Vindictus grumbled something and closed his eyes again. Dumbledore’s fingers encircled the glowing orb, thoughtful. Its true purpose had always been a well-kept secret among the headmasters. Only they knew its function, and they could never speak of its meaning, bound by ancient protective spells no longer fully understood.
“So, Albus, you are the chosen one?” asked Rowena Ravenclaw, appearing in her portrait with a keen gaze. As a founder, she had been the first headmistress of Hogwarts. Her portrait was by far the largest and most imposing, positioned at the center of the others.
Other portraits stirred, startled to see the orb in Dumbledore’s hands.
“The orb!”
“It will show the way, finally!”
“Is it possible?”
“I thought it was just a myth.”
“Silence! Let Albus think!” Rowena cut in, her presence commanding respect even from the oldest portraits.
Dumbledore stroked his beard, examining the orb as he murmured to himself.
“Fascinating… but why would it activate now?”
“Albus,” Rowena called, her tone grave, “The orb will show you the way, and the artifact awaits your choice. Take it; it is the key.”
“If I may ask, Founder Rowena, what am I to do with the artifact? I never imagined I would be the headmaster to deal with this.”
“None of us know for certain,” Rowena admitted. “When he created the secret, he made it clear that the chosen headmaster would have the answers when the time came… I believe you will know what to do.”
A thunderclap rumbled, shaking the ground and illuminating the office with a silvery light.
Without hesitation, Dumbledore slipped on his shoes, took the orb, and left, descending the stairs of his tower. Hogwarts slept under the storm.
The orb emitted a beam of light, guiding him through corridors and staircases until it led him to the dungeons, into a rarely used wing. On an ancient, weathered wall, a stone door appeared, adorned with green vines and two carved dragons. Dumbledore approached, and the orb glowed brighter. The dragons’ eyes on the door flickered with a vivid red, and the door creaked open heavily.
He entered the chamber. The room was austere, made entirely of polished dark gray stone, devoid of any decorative adornments, as if it sought to convey a straightforward and discreet message.
Lighting the space with Lumos, Dumbledore spotted a white marble pedestal at the center, adorned with dragons carved into its base. There, a simple silver ring rested on a dark green velvet cushion.
“A miracle… perhaps there is still a miracle,” he murmured to himself, his eyes gleaming.
Smiling, he held the ring carefully, as if it were one of the most delicate artifacts he had ever touched. If what Armando Dippet—the former headmaster—had revealed to him when passing on the role was true, it was almost poetic that an object of such power and importance would disguise itself as an ordinary ring.
As soon as he returned to the office, he barely had time to reposition the orb on its stand. Now, it was completely opaque, as if all the energy that once pulsed within it had drained away.
Before he could reflect on the meaning of it all, three firm knocks echoed through the door, cutting the silence like a sharp blade.
“Come in.”
Argus Filch, the castle caretaker, entered holding an old lantern, breathless and as surly as ever.
“Rubeus first apologizes for calling you at this hour, and second, he asked me to tell you—two centaurs are at his hut, wanting to speak with you. They said you should bring an object—an artifact or something—and that you’d know what it was.”
Dumbledore nodded slowly. Two centaurs had crossed the Forbidden Forest to Hagrid’s hut just now? The night couldn’t get more intriguing.
“Thank you, Argus. I’ll go at once.”
Filch nodded silently and closed the door. Dumbledore slipped the ring into his robe pocket, donned his purple hat and cloak, and before leaving, cast one last glance at Rowena’s portrait. She simply smiled.
“Good luck, Albus.”
The little owl’s heart raced unevenly as it struggled to maintain its balance in the air. The strong wind, mixed with the torrential rain, battered its grey feathers, making the flight unstable and arduous. It was hungry, and it had been hunting for something to eat.
And that night, it was in luck.
Just below, a small rodent was rummaging through the soil in search of roots. In a swift motion, the owl dove toward the ground and, with deadly precision, seized its prey. Moments later, only the tail of the creature hung from its sharp beak, while the owl’s orange eyes glowed in the darkness.
With its stomach satisfied, it felt the storm continue to lash the world around it. The wind howled, and the thunder rumbled like a distant drum, but there was no time to waste. It was time to seek shelter. It found a sturdy branch high up in a tree that stood alone on the plateau. There, it settled, watching the agitated forest below. Its keen vision saw the treetops twisting in the wind, as if the entire woodland was dancing to the rhythm of the storm.
Suddenly, something strange happened.
In the valley below, a lightning bolt split the sky with surprising violence, illuminating everything for a moment, like a bridge of light between the ground and the clouds. The crash of thunder followed, so loud it nearly knocked the owl off its perch. With a quick flutter of its wings, it steadied itself, startled by the intensity of the light that lingered for a moment before fading, returning the night to darkness.
But then, something else appeared. From the point where the light had vanished, a glowing sphere emerged, shooting across the sky toward the owl. On instinct, it swerved, narrowly avoiding being hit, as the ball of light continued its mysterious journey through the heavens. It watched for a few seconds, curious, until finally, the sphere disappeared into the vastness of the night, leaving only the distant sound of the storm as company.
The well-kept stone streets of Godric’s Hollow were deserted on the rainy Halloween night. The rhythmic sound of the rain echoed on the pavements, mingling with the soft glow of the magical streetlights swaying in the wind.
The village, by nature, was quiet at night. Only the small local church remained open almost continuously, while the few pubs had long since closed. The last patrons, somewhat unsteady on their feet, had found their way home.
In the houses lining the street, the windows were dark, their curtains drawn, shielding the residents in a sleep lulled by the constant sound of the rain.
All except one.
From the second floor of a modest house, a yellowish light seeped through the gaps in the curtains, an anomaly in the stillness. It was the home of the Potters, a young couple who had recently settled there.
James Potter, after a long and delicate conversation with Lily, had convinced himself to leave the Potter manor where he had grown up. That large, imposing house no longer felt welcoming since his parents had passed away. The silence that was once filled with happy memories had become an empty echo, unbearable when it reminded him of the slow death that had consumed them daily due to dragon pox. The small house in Godric’s Hollow, humble in comparison, promised new beginnings. A home for his new family, where he and Lily could build something entirely their own.
The kitchen showed signs of recent activity—dishes piled in the sink and pans left carefully on the stove.
In the living room, the fireplace still glowed with embers, spreading a gentle warmth. In the cozy corner of the sofa, curled up on his own tail on a bed made of plush blankets, a ginger cat slept soundly.
In the dining room, the table remained set. Two plates of spaghetti sat half-eaten, abandoned and now completely cold. Beside them, empty red wine glasses and an open bottle, already less than half full. The white candles that had illuminated the meal were still burning, well spent.
That night, as on so many others even before they were married, James and Lily reaffirmed the love they felt for each other. Between laughter and knowing glances, the conversation took a special turn. They decided it was the right time—the time to take the next step, to start a family. To bring a new life into the world they shared together.
They were ready to have a child.
And that was why, in the silence of the first floor, the muffled sounds of passionate moans and the rhythmic echo of thuds against the walls escaped from upstairs.
Going up the stairs, there was a trail of clothes. First, button-up shirts and sweaters had been hastily discarded. Further up the hallway, shoes were tossed carelessly, and near the bedroom entrance, a pair of jeans and a long skirt lay forgotten on the floor.
In the suite, the couple was making love as they never had before.
Words of affection were exchanged with intensity as they breathed through their mouths, feeding on the lust of each other’s bodies, completely naked on the bed, between the white sheets.
Lily was beneath James, holding him tightly—her nails almost scratching his back—her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as he thrust into her warm, wet core.
James had his face buried in her silky red hair, savoring its characteristic rose scent.
“You enjoying this, love?” he asked, concerned if he was giving her what she needed.
“Yes... don’t—don’t stop,” she managed to say, running her fingers through his hair without scratching.
It had been a long time—longer than they usually took—since they had begun this passionate dance, and now they were approaching its final act.
James looked at her closed eyes, not stopping his movements against her core. He still couldn’t believe he had the girl of his dreams in his arms, that he could satisfy her so well, that he was so lucky she was his promised soulmate, the woman of his life. He felt like the most fulfilled and happiest man in the world.
He gently brushed his thumbs over her flushed cheeks; they were warm and soft as silk.
“Look at me, darling,” he asked gently. And she obeyed without hesitation.
Those almond-shaped green eyes, shining like emeralds, still had the power to send a shiver through his entire body whenever she looked at him that way—so intensely, so seductively—as if begging for more, for everything he could give. He felt special; she only looked at him like that, no one else.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I know,” he declared.
James ran his hands lovingly over her. He cupped her soft breasts, rubbing his fingers seductively over her already hardened nipples. Lily let out a soft moan, a sound that echoed gently in the room and filled him completely.
His hands then slid slowly, following the curves of her waist, until they finally settled on her bum, gripping it firmly. She arched her back slightly, letting out another moan, this time rougher and more intense, as if every touch of his took her deeper into that shared moment.
“Bloody hell, and the sexiest too,” he panted, smiling, feeling intoxicated by her beauty.
Lily let out a soft laugh at his heated compliments. She loved hearing those words from him, about how beautiful and seductive she was. What wife wouldn’t? Those words were music to her ears and warmed her heart.
“And you... are the strongest, sexiest, and—Ah!” She moaned and buried her face in his broad shoulder as he began to increase the pace of his thrusts.
“Don’t want you thinking too much,” he growled.
“But... I don’t need to think, it’s what you are,” she replied, kissing his cheek.
James let out a soft chuckle. She was impossibly cute even when he was bringing her close to orgasm.
“Can you open up more?” he asked.
Lily didn’t answer, just spread her legs wider, giving him more room. He responded with a passionate kiss.
“Good girl,” he praised, stopping the kiss as he needed to focus on not finishing right then.
She began to let out even more soft moans, muffling them by kissing the sensitive spot on his neck she knew would unravel him.
“I—I love you... so much... so much,” she murmured in his ear, her eyes closed.
James let out a satisfied groan. He loved when she said it like that.
“I’ve wanted you... for so long,” he whimpered, holding her more possessively, as if she might slip away. But she would never go far from him.
James felt Lily smile as she planted more kisses.
“You have me, love... I’m yours... No one else’s,” she whispered seductively, her breasts bouncing slightly with each movement.
James gasped. “Say it again—please, I want to hear it again.”
“I’m yours—Ah!”
He was reaching his limit, wanting to give it his all at the end. She was too, for the third time.
“I’m going to—I’m going to—” he murmured, unable to finish the sentence, feeling his climax reach a level of pleasure he had never experienced before.
“I want your child—Our child. Please,” she begged, tightening her embrace, breathing frantically.
Unable to hold back any longer, he thrust into her one last time, looking into her almond-shaped green eyes with passion as he released inside her, groaning loudly as he felt her insides clench around him. James saw stars and lost all sense of his body.
Lily rolled her eyes back, arching her back and quickly releasing her hold on him, gripping the bedsheets tightly as she let out a wild moan in her climax, her body spasming with pure satisfaction. She released a few more primal sounds, which James matched with his deeper timbre.
Both reached their limits together, the force of their shared desire so strong that it made the lights in the room flicker wildly while the white sheets turned a light blue. Both felt their magical auras dancing joyfully, igniting like tall flames in a violent blaze, touching each other on another plane, as satisfied as possible, as united as spiritually possible.
They intertwined, completing each other in a passionate embrace.
James, feeling his strength fading, gently rested his head between Lily’s soft breasts. Both were utterly exhausted, yet silly smiles lingered on their faces.
Her chest was warm and damp with sweat, the love they had made so good that he almost thought of falling asleep right there, nestled in her comfort. James let out a muffled laugh as he remembered when they had lost their virginity together. He had joked that he could easily make those breasts his pillow, and he had been surprised when she took it seriously and said he could.
They remained in that position for a long moment, enjoying the tranquility and softness of the night. Lily lazily ran her fingers through his hair, while James rubbed his thumb over her shoulders. They kissed again—now a slow, gentle kiss, as if time had slowed down. When they parted, James turned to his side of the bed, and Lily snuggled as close to him as possible.
“It’s going to be a boy,” she said, her eyes shining with happiness.
James chuckled softly, amused. “How do you know? Is it because the sheets turned blue?”
Lily let out a little laugh. “You’re the one who changed the colour of the sheets.”
“Me?” James feigned surprise, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re always transfiguring something. Last time, who was it that changed the colour of my hair, Mr. Potter?” She raised a challenging eyebrow.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about, Mrs. Potter,” James replied, his voice smooth and seductive, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “But, for the record, I prefer your red hair to blonde.”
He gave her a charming smile, the kind that used to make the girls at school blush and swoon, but now, he reserved it solely for her.
And it made her feel even more special, powerful. She gave him a lingering kiss on his lips.
“It’s good, really,” she purred with a satisfied smile, resting her head on his chest again. “It matches better in photos with Pumpkin in my lap.”
“I can’t believe you named the cat Pumpkin.”
“He needed a name,” Lily shrugged.
“That’s a name Hagrid would’ve definitely come up with.”
“But he’s the one who gave me the idea!” she protested, looking up, a playful smile on her face.
James looked at her with a serious expression before both of them burst into laughter. Then, quietness filled the room, and the only sound was their calm breathing.
Lily, feeling the coolness of the night, wrapped herself in the blankets up to her shoulders, and James draped his arm around her, rubbing her shoulders lightly to warm her up.
“But what if it’s a girl?” he asked, his tone soft and thoughtful.
“Daddy’s little princess?” Lily teased.
James gave a mischievous grin. “Of course, I’ve already got the queen, might as well have the princess too.”
Lily let out another laugh, shaking her head. “Incredible, you never miss an opportunity.”
James shrugged. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I made it clear I fancied you in third year and have been chasing you since fifth.”
“I know...” Lily blushed slightly, hiding her cheeks in the sheets like an embarrassed schoolgirl, remembering the many times she’d turned red from James’s compliments and flirting.
James found it utterly adorable when she got shy and tried to hide her cheeks or face. Back in their Hogwarts days, she’d hide her cheeks in her scarf during winter, and he’d always loved those little details about her.
“But no—I don’t think it’ll be a girl,” Lily shook her head slowly. “It’s a mother’s intuition, I think. It’s going to be a little boy. You can mark my words.”
She smiled, feeling her heart warm at the thought of becoming a mother.
“If you say so, I believe you,” James replied affectionately. “Will I get to teach him how to ride a broom?”
“At what age are we talking?”
“If it were up to Sirius, I reckon he’d start looking at catalogues for child-sized brooms the moment he finds out you’re pregnant.”
“Oh, and you’d encourage that?” She looked at her husband suspiciously.
James pointed to himself innocently. “Never, my love.”
They laughed softly together. Lily kissed his chin and inhaled the scent of his cologne, a woody fragrance she’d grown accustomed to over the years.
“So, it’s Henry, right?” James asked.
They’d agreed their son would be named after James’s paternal grandfather, Henry Potter.
Lily frowned slightly, murmuring something to herself. Sometimes, she had the habit of talking to herself, another little quirk James found irresistibly endearing.
“God, I love this woman,” he thought, smiling.
“What is it?” James asked, stroking her shoulder with his thumb.
“What about Harry? He had that nickname, didn’t he? Your grandfather?”
“Harry?” James pulled back slightly, surprised.
“Yeah... Harry James Potter.”
“Wait, when did my name come into this?”
Lily looked at him with her bright green eyes. “I’ve always thought your name was lovely too.”
James chuckled softly. “But wouldn’t it be Henry Potter?”
“I don’t know... double-barrelled names sound nicer, and Harry suits better, don’t you think? And I know you’d be proud to have James in his name too,” she teased, poking his arm lightly.
“Alright, I’ll accept that... but only if, in case it’s a girl, you put your name in the middle.”
“Fine. But then it won’t be Heather Lily Potter... or people will think she’s opening a flower shop straight out of the cradle,” she replied.
“She’d definitely be the best in Herbology in her year,” James said, amused. “Alice would love having an apprentice.”
That made both of them laugh like silly teenagers.
After a few more affectionate words and the excitement of thinking about their future child, the euphoria settled, and the gentle silence of the night enveloped them. After sharing one last goodnight kiss, they fell asleep together, lulled by each other’s warmth, feeling complete in the company of the one they loved most.
Later that night, the rain continued its soft melody, tapping against the windows and filling the house with a soothing sound. It was then that a bright, white sphere of light appeared from the heavens like a shooting star, gliding silently through the front gate. In its translucent form, it passed through the front door without causing any disturbance.
Pumpkin remained fast asleep. The light, though intense, seemed unable to disturb him, as if its brightness didn’t exist for him. The sphere then began to float toward the second floor, ascending the stairs in absolute silence.
At the end of the hallway, the sphere stopped in front of a closed door—the couple’s suite. For a moment, the light remained still, as if waiting for the right moment, before slowly passing through the solid wood.
Inside the room, the darkness was momentarily banished. The sphere illuminated every corner, every detail, as if the midday sun had invaded the space. Yet, neither James nor Lily stirred. They continued to sleep soundly, entwined in the blue sheets and in a peaceful embrace.
The sphere floated toward Lily, who was still nestled against James’s chest, and, without warning, was absorbed into her, disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. The light faded, and darkness reclaimed the room.
Lily, still asleep, was enveloped by a warm dream. In it, she and James were in a sunlit field, playing and laughing with a cheerful little boy who had messy black hair like his and emerald green eyes like hers.
23rd June, 1991 – almost 11 years later.
Harry stood in the Dursleys’ kitchen that morning, scrambling eggs. His clothes—oversized and awkward—were hand-me-downs from his cousin Dudley, who was three times his size and much louder. The sleeves hung over his hands as he stirred the eggs, and the heat rising from the frying pan made his face glisten slightly with sweat.
“How long is it going to take to make those blasted eggs?” grumbled Vernon, hidden behind his newspaper, not even bothering to look at Harry.
“They’re almost done, sir,” Harry replied in an automatic, emotionless tone.
It was the kind of response he’d learned to give to avoid trouble.
Dudley sat at the table next to his father, his face sulky. His expression wasn’t far from that of a bull about to charge, irritated by the “unfair” number of presents he’d received for his birthday.
“I still can’t believe I got fewer presents!” Dudley complained, crossing his arms and stomping his foot on the floor.
Harry had lost count of how many presents Dudley had received when the number passed thirty.
“Oh, my darling!” exclaimed Aunt Petunia in her overly sweet tone that she reserved for him. “We’ll buy more after we go to the zoo, alright?”
Harry rolled his eyes and made a face, but only because his back was turned and he knew he wouldn’t get scolded for it.
Dudley let out a grunt, as if pondering whether this emotional bribe would be enough.
“Yeah. I guess so,” he replied, as if he were doing them a favour.
“If you want, we can stop by that shop that sells video games, what do you think?” Vernon asked with a smile.
“Really? Can we go?” Dudley bounced in his chair.
Vernon laughed heartily. “Only if you pick the best games, otherwise it’s not worth it.”
“Brilliant! I already know ten off the top of my head!”
“Only ten?” his father teased, amused. “I was expecting at least twenty.”
“Let me grab the magazine, I can show you the coolest ones!”
Dudley then ran upstairs, as noisy as ever.
Vernon had a strange way of dealing with his son, acting like a doting fool while Petunia coddled him like a baby hippo. Harry had learned to keep a neutral face around this kind of treatment. If he showed any sign of unhappiness, he could end up locked in the cupboard or even beaten, depending on Vernon’s mood.
Today, Harry felt lucky. Vernon wouldn’t ruin Dudley’s birthday by remembering his existence too often.
Harry carefully held the frying pan, sliding the golden, steaming eggs onto his uncle’s plate, then his aunt’s, and finally Dudley’s, who was still upstairs. The salty smell of the eggs mixed with the aroma of the strong coffee Petunia had just served, creating a homely atmosphere that, for Harry, never seemed to include him. Vernon didn’t even glance up from his newspaper, which rustled softly under his thick fingers, as the plate was placed in front of him with a faint clink.
“Eggs again,” Vernon grumbled, not taking his eyes off the headlines. “I’m getting sick of them.”
Harry held back a sigh, feeling the familiar weight of ingratitude press on his shoulders. He knew the eggs were exactly how Vernon liked them—the yolk firm but not hard, and the whites slightly crispy at the edges. But compliments were as rare in the Dursley household as a sunny day in a British winter.
“Sorry, Uncle Vernon,” Harry murmured, retreating to the table.
At least he hadn’t been criticised about breakfast in a while. Harry had been cooking since he could reach the counter, and Petunia made sure he kept at it after years of punishments.
Harry sat in his usual spot and picked up a slice of dry bread from the centre of the table. The bread was hard, almost crunchy, and he chewed it slowly, trying to ignore the bland taste that seemed to stick to his palate. He was used to this kind of treatment—the dry bread and the feeling of invisibility—but it didn’t make the experience any less unpleasant. Meanwhile, the Dursleys continued with their usual breakfast, as if he weren’t even there. The sound of knives scraping against plates and the clinking of teacups filled the air, while Dudley chattered excitedly about a series of game titles Harry didn’t recognise and didn’t bother to understand.
“And there’s Zelda,” Dudley said, his mouth full of toast, “and Super Mario World, which is the best of all! And the—”
“Dudley, darling, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Petunia interrupted with an affectionate smile that vanished the moment her eyes landed on Harry.
When Dudley finally paused to breathe, Vernon seized the moment of silence and turned his heavy gaze to Harry.
“Try not to ruin everything today, boy,” he grumbled between sips of coffee. “We don’t want any of those... weird incidents.”
“But I don’t have control—”
“Don’t have control?” Vernon interrupted, raising his voice just enough to make Harry flinch slightly. “Well, you’d better learn to. I don’t want any trouble from you again, understand?”
Harry lowered his eyes, fixing them on the bread he still held in his hands.
“Yes, I understand, sir,” he murmured, nodding.
The table fell silent again, except for the sound of Dudley chewing noisily and the ticking of the clock on the wall, which seemed to mark every second of discomfort.
He knew what Vernon was talking about—the “weird” things that happened around him. Since he was five, these mysterious occurrences had been happening, things he seemed to do without meaning to, without knowing how.
There was the time at the dinner table when he wanted the water jug at the far end. No matter how much he asked, everyone ignored him. He reached out, and without understanding how, the jug slid through the air straight into his hand. That night, Vernon punished him with the belt for “doing freaky tricks.”
Another time, when he was six, he was tending to Aunt Petunia’s roses—a task he hated, as he always pricked himself on the thorns. Vernon was mowing the lawn nearby when, suddenly, as another thorn pierced his finger, the roses burst into flames right before his eyes. As a result, his aunt screamed at him for hours and, furious at the destruction of her beloved flowers, made Harry scrub the bathroom with a toothbrush for days, even though the floor was already spotless.
When he was nine, his aunt gave him a crude haircut—since he wasn’t worth a trip to the barber. But when he woke up the next morning, his hair was exactly as it had been before. The look on Petunia’s face when she saw him was almost comical—until he went a whole day without food.
There was a more recent memory, from last year, when Dudley and his gang had tormented him all day at school. At dinner, Harry grew angry at the way his cousin claimed to be almost a saint who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and suddenly, everyone was staring at him: Dudley’s hair had turned bright pink. It had been funny, but it earned him days of belt lashings until his hair returned to normal.
These were some of the more memorable episodes, at least the ones his aunt and uncle had witnessed. There were others, too, but those he’d learned to keep to himself.
Soon, everyone finished eating, and the house sprang into motion. The family was preparing for their trip to the zoo, followed by another round of present shopping for Dudley. His birthdays were always a big deal in that house.
As Harry headed to the car, a firm grip on his shoulder made him stop abruptly. He already knew what it was when he turned and faced Uncle Vernon’s threatening glare. The man’s moustache twitched slightly, which was never a good sign.
“Listen carefully, boy,” he growled, his voice low and laced with irritation. “I only let you come this time because Mrs Figg broke her leg. So, I’m stuck with you.”
Harry held back a sigh. Whenever the Dursleys went out, he was usually left with old Mrs Figg, a woman who loved cats and whose house perpetually smelled of boiled cabbage. She made him spend hours looking at photo albums filled with nearly identical cats. It was boring, but undoubtedly better than what awaited him now. Ironically, Mrs Figg’s accident was Dudley’s fault—he’d been racing down the street on his new bike days earlier and crashed straight into her garden fence.
Harry, however, knew that speaking up now wouldn’t do him any good.
“If you do anything strange,” Vernon continued, narrowing his eyes, “if you ruin the day, hurt Dudley, or cause me any sort of trouble... you’ll have me to deal with. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured, knowing any other response would only make things worse.
“Good. Now get in the car. Let’s go.”
The trip to the zoo could have been uneventful, if not for Dudley, who seemed to have endless energy to torment him. Every time he spotted a car of a specific colour, Dudley pinched or punched him in the arm, a “game” he’d invented to amuse himself on the way.
Vernon, watching through the rearview mirror, blamed Harry every time he saw Dudley hitting him, accusing him of “provoking his son” and ordering him to “take it in silence.”
With each groan of pain Harry let out, his uncle huffed impatiently and threatened him with punishments as soon as they got home.
Harry just turned to the window, trying to ignore the pinches and punches, as the streets of London rushed by on the other side of the glass, like a glimpse of a life he’d never have. If he could, he thought, he’d run far away from this place and never come back. Sometimes, he caught himself imagining what his life would be like if his parents were still alive and hadn’t died in that car crash.
Aunt Petunia had once told him that, when he was born, his parents had started drinking.
“Your father was a freak, and your mother, insufferable,” she’d say, especially on days when she was in a bad mood.
According to her, on Halloween, when he was just one year old, James had been driving drunk and, losing control of the car, crashed into a tree, killing them both.
“Did they love me? Or at least like me?” Harry sometimes wondered.
He didn’t even know their faces well, but on the nights he felt sad and lonely in his cupboard, he imagined what they might have looked like. Even if they had started drinking because of him, maybe his life would have been better if they were still alive.
When a red car passed by, Dudley pulled him out of his thoughts and back to harsh reality with another punch to his already sore shoulder, this time harder than before. Still, he suffered in silence, as his uncle had ordered, to avoid trouble.
They arrived at a large toy shop, where Dudley delighted in picking out new presents.
Harry kept his shoulders hunched and his hands hidden in the sleeves of his old coat, trying to blend in among the shelves and avoid the gaze of strangers.
“Wow, look at this action figure, Dad!” Dudley pointed to a box with a superhero.
“Incredibly well-made. Do you want it?” Vernon said, ignoring the outrageous price.
Without even answering, Dudley tossed the toy into the already half-full shopping cart.
While his cousin gorged himself on the latest gadgets, Harry spotted a set of miniature medieval figures from a tabletop RPG game called "Dungeons & Dragons.” He didn’t know anything about the game, but the small figures—especially a wizard with a long white beard and a knight in armour—caught his attention. The idea of having these characters in his cupboard to talk to and play with during long hours of punishment seemed almost comforting.
Lost in contemplation of the box, suddenly, the box began to levitate slightly, lifting off the shelf. Startled, Harry took a step back, accidentally bumping into a young shop assistant, causing the box to fall to the floor with a loud crash that drew the attention of several people nearby.
“S-sorry,” Harry stammered, his eyes wide with fear, expecting a reprimand.
The assistant looked at him in surprise, then offered a gentle smile.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll pick it up for you.”
“I’m really sorry—” Harry tried to say again.
However, at that moment, Harry saw his uncle stomping heavily toward him, his face red with anger. Vernon looked like a bull ready to charge.
“What have you done now, boy?” he growled, his voice dripping with disdain.
“N-nothing, I just dropped the box,” Harry replied, his voice trembling and his heart racing.
“Did you do something freaky?”
“No, sir,” Harry said, his eyes wide, trying to speak softly so it wouldn’t sound like a lie.
Vernon narrowed his eyes, choosing to believe him—for now, at least.
“Good. From now on, you’re staying by my side,” Vernon ordered.
He grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him away from the assistant, who watched the scene in astonishment but remained silent, returning to her work.
Harry tried to free himself, but it was useless. He was dragged down the aisle of the shop, his uncle muttering about how he always “ruined everything.” Harry’s face burned with shame, and he saw Dudley, from a distance, taking one last look at the miniatures before following his father.
If Harry’s day wasn’t bad enough, it got even worse when he found out that Piers Polkiss, Dudley’s friend and usual accomplice in tormenting him, would be joining them on their trip to the zoo.
When they arrived, Dudley was so excited he seemed about to burst. He jumped out of the car as soon as the doors opened, barely waiting for his parents. Harry got out more slowly, keeping his distance, while Vernon and Petunia focused on spoiling Dudley with treats, ignoring his presence.
Dudley and Piers soon spotted an ice cream stand, decorated with vibrant colours that promised delicious desserts.
“What’ll it be today, lads?” asked the vendor, smiling.
“Chocolate! I want chocolate!” exclaimed Dudley, enthusiastically pointing at the menu.
“I’ll have one too!” Piers chimed in, casting a hopeful look at Vernon, who, smiling, pulled out a few pounds from his wallet.
“Two chocolate ice creams for these champions!” Vernon said, handing the money to the vendor with a grand gesture.
“Of course!” the vendor replied.
He glanced at Harry, who was watching the scene from a distance.
“And what about that other champion over there?” he said, nodding toward Harry.
Vernon, momentarily forgetting Harry’s presence, turned with a look of disdain.
“Oh, him? He doesn’t get anything. He’s lactose intolerant, you know?”
“We’ve got lactose-free ice lollies too,” the vendor said promptly.
“Oh, really?” Vernon grumbled. “Fine, give him the cheapest one.”
“Perfect, two ice creams and a fruit ice lolly,” the vendor replied, continuing to prepare the ice creams for Dudley and Piers with careful skill.
Harry stayed quiet, trying to be as invisible as possible, while Dudley and Piers enjoyed their ice creams, savouring every moment with satisfaction, while he nibbled on a lemon ice lolly that tasted like water.
“At least it’s refreshing,” he thought as he watched the elephants bathing.
The day was hot, and the zoo was packed with families. Children ran around, shouting excitedly, while Harry followed the Dursleys at a safe distance, aware that any misstep could earn him a scolding—or worse, being left behind.
They passed through several animal exhibits, and Harry was fascinated by the big cats section with its lions, tigers, and panthers.
When they reached the reptile house, Dudley and Piers couldn’t wait to see the snakes. The two crowded in front of a large enclosure, where a dark green python, speckled with black spots, lay lazily on a tree branch. The snake seemed utterly indifferent to the commotion of the visitors.
Before Harry could get closer to take a better look at the snake, Dudley and Piers started acting obnoxiously and noisily.
“What rubbish! It’s not even moving!” Dudley grumbled, banging loudly on the glass of the enclosure.
Harry felt his irritation grow as he watched Dudley’s expression. It was impressive how he could be unbearable even with animals. It had been the same with the turtle Uncle Vernon had bought him last summer; Dudley lost interest after just two days, leaving the poor creature in Aunt Petunia’s care, who fed it as if fattening it up for Christmas.
“Hey, stop that!” Harry protested, frowning at Dudley. “It’s sleeping.”
“I don’t care!” Dudley retorted, crossing his arms and scowling. “I want it to move now!”
“Is that all it does all day? Just sit there?” Piers sneered, leaning closer to the glass. “What’s so hard about moving a bit?”
Harry shot an annoyed look at the two.
“Maybe it’s tired of people banging on the glass and shouting all day.”
Dudley ignored the comment and gave the glass another hard knock, this time so forceful that the snake seemed to sway slightly inside the enclosure.
Harry sighed, crossing his arms. He wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed by the boys’ rudeness or sad for the snake, who clearly didn’t deserve such treatment.
When Dudley and Piers finally moved away, Harry approached the glass, speaking softly.
“Sorry about them... I know what it’s like to be stuck somewhere you don’t like.”
To his surprise, the snake raised its head, and its deep, reptilian eyes focused on him.
“A Speaker! I am honoured by your presence, Speaker!” hissed the snake, its voice muffled by the glass.
Harry froze.
“You... can understand me?” he asked, leaning closer, trying not to look like a madman talking to a snake.
“Of course, you are a Speaker. What an honour,” replied the snake, tilting its head in an almost reverent gesture. “My name is Ssscheila... may I know yours, Speaker?”
“Harry—Harry Potter... Miss Ssscheila.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Speaker Potter,” her voice had a solemn tone.
“What does Speaker mean? Is that why I can understand you?”
Before Ssscheila could answer, Dudley shoved Harry hard, sending him tumbling to the ground.
“Look, it moved! Do it again!” Dudley shouted, with selfish and ignorant enthusiasm, pressing both hands against the glass, ignoring the sign that warned against it.
Filled with anger from the miserable day, especially because of Dudley, Harry narrowed his eyes, a heat of fury building inside him. In an instant, the glass of the enclosure shattered with a loud crack, startling the three children.
The snake—seizing the opportunity—began to slither out. Dudley, horrified, stumbled and fell onto the damp floor, while Piers watched, his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water.
Still on the ground, Harry watched the snake slither first past Dudley and then past him, feeling a shiver run down his spine. But the snake didn’t look at him coldly; instead, its gaze seemed strangely grateful.
“Thank you for that, Harry Potter... Have a gracious day,” Ssscheila hissed, tilting her head in gratitude.
“Of course—I mean—You’re welcome. Have a good day too,” Harry replied, unable to hide his astonishment.
The snake gracefully slithered toward the zoo exit, spreading panic among the visitors, until it disappeared into the crowd without causing any harm. Harry looked at the broken glass, wishing with all his might that it wouldn’t be a problem... and, as if by magic, the glass repaired itself, intact, as if nothing had happened.
As Harry started to get up, he saw Dudley pale as wax.
“It almost bit me!” Dudley squealed, flailing in Aunt Petunia’s arms as she held him tightly, trying to calm him down.
“It’s alright, darling, Mummy’s here! The snake’s gone, it won’t hurt you anymore!” she repeated, her voice trembling with panic.
Harry barely had time to process the scene before a roar of fury erupted through the zoo.
“YOU!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, his skin red and his eyes blazing. “This was your fault, wasn’t it?!”
Harry felt his stomach drop. He’d been in trouble before, but never for something like this.
“It wasn’t! I—I swear!” he said desperately, the words tumbling out.
“Liar!” Vernon spat, his moustache quivering with indignation. “I know you, boy, you’re lying! You did another one of your—your freaky things, didn’t you?”
“But—”
“QUIET!” Vernon snarled, and Harry’s mouth snapped shut instantly.
His heart pounded in his chest. How could he explain this? The snake had called him a Speaker. And he... well, he had talked to it. But how could he tell someone like Uncle Vernon? How could he explain that talking to a snake wasn’t a “freaky thing”?
Before he could even try to formulate a response, Vernon grabbed him by the arm and yanked him so hard he nearly fell.
“I knew you’d ruin everything!” Vernon growled, dragging Harry out of the zoo. “Weird things always happen when you’re around!”
“But I didn’t do anything!” Harry protested, struggling to keep up with his uncle’s rapid strides. “I didn’t even touch the glass! It just disappeared, and the snake got out!”
“Didn’t touch it?” Vernon sneered, tightening his grip on Harry’s arm. “You don’t need to touch anything to do your freaky stuff, you little freak! You’re going to regret being born, boy!”
The rest of the outing was a blur. Harry was forced to follow the Dursleys to the car, where he shrunk into absolute silence, terrified of what might come next. He imagined, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that if Vernon deprived him of food for too long, he might faint from hunger, having only eaten a few dry pieces of bread that morning, and even being denied a cup of tea because it was a weekday—Harry was only allowed anything other than water on weekends. Dudley, though he hadn’t suffered so much as a scratch, spent the entire ride lamenting the “terrible fright” he’d had, while Aunt Petunia fussed over him and comforted him.
When they finally arrived home, Vernon dragged Harry to the cupboard under the stairs and locked him inside without a word. In the dark, cramped space, Harry felt a whirlwind of confusion and sadness, the loneliness growing with every second.
Lying on his side on the tiny bed, he hugged his knees to his chest, the way he always did when they locked him in there, seeking some comfort. He tried to understand that strange power, that inexplicable feeling of something inside him slipping out of his control.
“Why does this always happen to me?” he murmured to himself, miserable and confused, then let the tears fall silently.
A day had passed since the incident at the zoo. Harry had been kept locked in the cupboard, deprived of food and only allowed to use the bathroom when he begged. His aunt, with a cold and impassive expression, waited outside while he used the toilet, escorting him back to the cupboard as if he were an imminent threat.
The next morning, Petunia—displaying her usual indifference—brought Harry some cold, nearly expired leftovers from the fridge. Beside the plate of food, she placed a glass of lukewarm water and, with a curt gesture, pushed it toward him. Vernon had already left for work, and Dudley was out playing with his friends in the street. Harry pounced on the food with voracity, his stomach growling in protest.
As he devoured every bite, his aunt began her usual monologue, spewing venom as she spoke about Harry’s mother and how “insufferable and bizarre” she and his father, James, had been, though she admitted she had barely known his father.
“I went to your parents’ wedding, you know?” she said, her nose in the air, as if this were some kind of heroic feat. “It was full of weird people. It looked more like a freak show than a proper wedding.”
Harry sometimes wondered what these people had done to be considered weird, but whenever he asked, his aunt never answered.
“Lily... well, she looked like she was forcing herself to be there. And your father! Goodness gracious! He hung around with three idiots—I suppose they must be his strange friends—one was short and had a rat-like face, simply disgusting, the other was the tallest of them and looked like he’d been run over by a bus, with the face of someone who hadn’t slept well in a month, clearly worn out, probably from spending so much time with your father, must have affected the poor man’s mind... the last one was always by his side, like a bodyguard. He was quite well-built, tall, with black hair and greyish eyes... a rather... robust man—not bad-looking, of course, but...”
She cleared her throat, her eyes drifting to some unpleasant thought.
Harry frowned, trying to understand where she was going with this.
“Now that I think about it,” Petunia continued, “he looked like a dog. And your father too, come to think of it!”
Harry couldn’t hold back this time. He looked up, his expression incredulous.
“A dog?”
“Yes—exactly! A dog, and a mangy one at that!” she exclaimed, pleased with her own conclusion. “That man who stood by your father’s side. There was something wild about him... he had a strong jaw and—and this ridiculous grin for anyone who looked his way! Can you believe he gave me one of those smiles? Pathetic! A man with such an aristocratic and strong bearing like that—it’s unacceptable, I’m sure he must be dangerous too...”
She drifted off into her thoughts again, staring at a fixed point in the room, imagining disturbing things, until she snapped back to reality.
“Uh—what I mean is, I never liked him. Too rebellious. I bet he hit people or was a womaniser... Yes, definitely! The type who dumps anyone the moment he gets bored. Any woman who got involved with a man like that would have problems, big ones!”
Harry just nodded, continuing to eat quickly and desperately. It was better not to know exactly what she was thinking; Aunt Petunia sometimes voiced some strange thoughts aloud.
“Well, enough about bizarre people,” Petunia spat venomously. “Vernon thinks you need to go without food for a while longer. What you did to our dear Dudley was unacceptable—completely unacceptable. I agree with him. But, since I’d rather you have the strength to do chores, you can eat. As long as you clean the kitchen afterward.”
Harry, his mouth full, just nodded, mumbling a “Yes, ma’am” between bites, trying to finish before she changed her mind. Her next words barely registered in his mind, as he could only think of finishing everything as quickly as possible, fearing she might take the plate away.
Less than a week until Harry’s eleventh birthday.
The incident at the zoo had become an almost forgotten topic at the Dursleys’ dinner table. However, Harry still felt its effects. Dudley and his gang were crueller than usual, chasing him around the house and the neighbourhood with their sadistic games, which usually involved shoving, punching, and pinching. When they couldn’t find him to torment, they amused themselves by jumping on the stairs above the cupboard where he slept, causing a muffled thud that made dust fall onto Harry’s makeshift mattress. He tried to hide in silence, pretending he didn’t exist.
That morning, Harry was, as always, preparing breakfast—delicious scrambled eggs that he was almost never allowed to eat. As he stirred the eggs in the frying pan, he heard the familiar sound of the mail being delivered through the letterbox.
“Go get the mail, boy,” Vernon ordered without even looking up from his newspaper.
“Yes, sir,” Harry obeyed.
As he picked up the letters from the floor, he quickly glanced through them—bills for water and electricity; a bank services advertisement; and a peculiar letter.
He stopped abruptly.
There was something very different about this piece of mail. The envelope was made of thick, yellowish parchment, with a red wax seal bearing an impressive crest featuring four distinct animals. The address, written in careful, handwritten script, immediately caught his attention:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Harry frowned, confused.
“School of Witchcraft? Is this some kind of fancy dress party invitation for Dudley?” was the first thought that came to his mind.
He turned the envelope over, and upon seeing the recipient, his heart leapt.
Addressed to Mr. Harry James Potter.
For a moment, he could hardly believe it. His eyes shone with surprise and excitement. A letter... for him. Someone, somewhere, knew who he was.
Harry stood still for a moment, holding the letter as if it were the most precious thing he had ever touched. He had never—in his entire life—received something addressed to him. Whenever letters or packages arrived, they were always for the Dursleys. He could barely believe his name was there, written so carefully by hand.
The sound of Vernon clearing his throat snapped him out of his trance.
“What’s taking so long, boy?” he grumbled, not looking up from the newspaper.
“Ah... nothing, sir, just looking at the bills.”
“Bring them here,” Vernon ordered.
“Of course.”
Harry hurried to pick up the rest of the letters from the floor and handed them over, except for his own. He clutched it tightly, trying not to draw attention. Vernon flipped through the letters, uninterested, while Harry, his heart racing, slowly returned to the kitchen, the letter still pressed against his chest.
He had to open it. He needed to know what it said.
Harry rushed to the pantry, the only place where he could have a bit of privacy. There, away from the Dursleys’ prying eyes, he carefully tore open the envelope and pulled out the thick parchment inside.
Harry’s eyes widened, his hands trembling with anticipation. A school of magic? Was this some kind of joke?
As he continued reading, the text explained that he had a guaranteed place, with a list of supplies he would need for his first year—various books with strange names he had never heard of. It also mentioned how he would get there, on the Hogwarts Express, and that everything would happen on September 1st at King’s Cross Station, Platform 9¾, which would take him to the school. He would spend the entire school year in a sort of boarding school in Scotland.
Boarding school. Scotland. Far away from the Dursleys.
It felt like a dream. Like going to Disney, kind of like when the Dursleys went and left him with Mrs. Figg, forcing him to listen to all the cool things there were to see. But now, imagine actually living and studying there? Having a place to stay far away from those three and maybe even a chance to change his life?
Alright, it was still a school, but it was in Scotland, and he had never really been anywhere beyond the outskirts of Surrey. That alone was pretty awesome.
Reading further, he discovered he would need a cauldron, potion ingredients, parchment, ink pots, quills, and even a wand... but where on earth would he get these things? And who would take him to the station? Vernon?
“He definitely wouldn’t take me, not even if they paid him,” he thought gloomily.
Before he could think of a solution, the pantry door swung open violently, revealing a scowling and suspicious Vernon Dursley.
“What are you doing in here?” he growled, narrowing his eyes as Harry tried to hide the letter, but Vernon saw it.
“That’s mine—” Harry began, desperately trying to shield the letter.
“Give that here!” Vernon was faster and snatched the letter from his hands, starting to read it.
As his eyes scanned the words, his face grew redder with anger and disbelief.
“Witchcraft? School of magic? What kind of nonsense is this?!” Vernon shouted, holding the letter as if it were a threat.
“I-I don’t know, it was in the mail and... Wait, no—don’t do that!” Harry tried to stop him.
Vernon tore the letter to pieces in front of Harry’s eyes, throwing the shreds to the ground.
“We’re not having any of that in this house! You’re not going anywhere!” he bellowed, furious.
“But that was mine!” Harry said loudly, indignant.
“Not anymore!” Vernon started muttering before grabbing the pieces and throwing them into the fireplace in the living room.
Harry felt a wave of despair and indignation. That letter was his, the first important thing he had ever received in his life. He wanted to scream, but he knew it wouldn’t help.
Vernon wouldn’t allow him to have anything that could bring him even a shred of happiness.
With no other choice, Harry retreated to the cupboard, his forced refuge, as anger and sadness grew inside him.
Feeling bitter, he spent the rest of the day in a state of mourning, as if a part of him had been forcibly taken away.
The next morning, however, another surprise awaited him: a new letter, identical to the previous one, slid through the front door. A similar scene unfolded, with Petunia discovering what had happened the day before and becoming enraged and indignant, calling it nonsense.
“What else can you expect from the son of two freaks?” Petunia snarled, her face twisted with alarm as she read the second letter.
“Can these... these things come here?” Vernon asked, visibly worried.
Petunia shook her head, her lips tight. “I don’t know. They came to talk to her that time—around the same age as him—but that was so long ago. Maybe not.”
“This is all your fault! It’s always your fault!” Vernon exploded, pointing a fat finger at Harry, his face growing even redder.
Harry swallowed hard, his heart racing. The deadly glares from both his aunt and uncle bore down on him, making him tremble. He knew that any wrong word could lead to more punishment, even though he had done nothing but receive an invitation that, in their eyes, was an outrage.
“And what do we do with this?” Petunia asked, holding the letter as if it were something toxic.
“I’ll burn this one too. Give it here.”
With a sharp motion, he crumpled the letter, his fat fingers turning white from the force. Then he marched to the fireplace and threw it into the flames, watching as the paper twisted and turned to ash.
“I knew something like this would happen,” Petunia said, her voice trembling with disgust. “There’s no use denying it, Vernon. This boy... he’s just like my sister. Always different, bizarre... abnormal.”
“Don’t even mention her! That’s already ruined my morning enough today!” Vernon huffed like an enraged elephant, his cheeks quivering.
He looked at Harry as if he were a problem rather than a child.
“I just wish we didn’t have to deal with this... damn you and that whole bloody world!” he exasperated.
Harry remained quiet, shrinking back as Vernon shouted at him, his breathing shallow, feeling smaller and smaller under the gaze of his aunt and uncle. Petunia’s comment, however, struck a chord. He had always known his aunt hated talking about his mother, but there she was, revealing more than he had ever heard before—a venom and disdain that went beyond her usual monologues.
“Son of two freaks,” Petunia repeated, now with more venom in her voice, “I always knew this would happen. Ever since they left him on our doorstep, we knew he was—that you were a... a problem. A problem like her and that James.”
Vernon grunted in agreement, still clutching the crumpled remains of the letter.
“And we’re not going to let this continue,” he growled. “This... this madness isn’t going to take over our house!”
Harry, still trembling, tried to speak. “I—I didn’t do anything. I just got the letter. I didn’t ask—”
“SHUT UP!” Vernon interrupted with an explosion of anger. “You were never supposed to receive this, never supposed to think about replying! Magic, witchcraft... These freaky things aren’t happening here! We’re going to put a stop to this, once and for all!”
Before Harry could react, Vernon stormed out of the room, huffing. Petunia, on the other hand, remained standing there, looking at him with a mix of disgust and... something else. Harry didn’t know what it was, but for the first time, he saw a faint trace of fear in her eyes.
For the rest of the day, Harry was kept under constant surveillance. Every time a shadow moved near the door, Petunia rushed to make sure it wasn’t another letter. Vernon spent the day muttering to himself about “curses” and “freaks.”
That night, as Harry tried to sleep in his cupboard, he heard the Dursleys whispering upstairs. He couldn’t catch the exact words, but it was clear they were worried. He closed his eyes, feeling a mix of frustration and anger at them for throwing away his second invitation. Something was happening. Someone cared enough about him to send two letters, so it had to mean something.
At least it meant something to him.
The next morning, the day of his birthday arrived, and as always, Harry would spend it in the silence of his cupboard, celebrating only with his two worn-out action figures that kept him company or the occasional passing spiders.
However, something inside him felt different.
Even without receiving a response, the idea that someone knew he existed—and cared enough to send a letter—was already a reason for joy. He hoped to receive another invitation on his birthday; that would be his gift.
As he prepared breakfast, Harry was strangely excited. He had never made scrambled eggs with such care. He woke up earlier than usual and set the table meticulously—which immediately caught his aunt and uncle’s attention. Vernon and Petunia exchanged suspicious glances. Something was wrong in their eyes. Even Dudley, who never missed an opportunity to torment him, was quieter than usual, as if a strange tension hung in the air.
Harry noticed that not having the Dursleys grumbling about him or complaining about something else was already a blessing. Vernon tried to read the newspaper, but his hand trembled slightly as he brought his teacup to his lips. Petunia, usually so authoritative, seemed shrunken and distracted. Dudley, though quieter than usual, tried in vain to engage his parents in conversation, only to be ignored or met with disinterested grunts.
Then the mail arrived.
The familiar sound of letters sliding through the letterbox made Harry’s heart race. He dropped everything and ran down the hallway, a flame of hope burning inside him.
“Let me get it, sir!” he said eagerly.
With quick hands, he gathered the stack of envelopes and began sifting through them. Credit card bill. A letter from Aunt Marge to Uncle Vernon. Supermarket flyers advertising absurd discounts on ham and bleach.
And nothing else.
The hope that had warmed his chest vanished in an instant.
No letter for him. No unusual envelope. No sign that someone, somewhere, still thought of him.
Harry felt a tightness in his chest.
“Maybe... maybe they’ve given up on me for not replying...”
The thought weighed on his mind like a stone. He stood there, frozen, holding the mail without really seeing it, as melancholy spread through him.
That glimpse of hope, that small ray of light in his dark life, had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
“Well?” Vernon grunted, with a curious and malicious look. “What do we have in the mail today?”
“Just the... usual—”
“HA!” Vernon exclaimed, slamming his hands on the table in celebration with a wicked smile. “I knew it—I knew they’d give up on you! I told you, didn’t I, dear?”
He shot a triumphant smile at Petunia.
Dudley, for some reason, celebrated along with his father.
“Who would care about him, right, Dad?” he laughed with his usual disdain.
“That’s what I thought too,” Vernon agreed, nodding contentedly. “At least now we can get back to normal.”
But Petunia didn’t seem to share Vernon’s relief or Dudley’s joke. She remained tense, her eyes fixed on Harry, as if anticipating something the others couldn’t see.
Dudley’s laughter echoed in Harry’s mind like a hammer, each laugh driving deeper into his already shattered soul. Vernon and Dudley were celebrating his misery, his insignificance. They were happy to see him suffer, happy to remind him that he didn’t matter to anyone.
Harry felt something inside him snap and scream to break free, like a caged animal growing louder every second. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t just pain. It was a primal rage, built up over years. It was the weight of an entire life being treated as nothing—and what hurt the most was that, deep down, he was starting to believe he was exactly that: nothing.
“I just wanted...” he said in a hoarse and weak voice, but he couldn’t finish what he was going to say, his eyes beginning to well up.
The words stuck in his throat as frustration, despair, and the feeling of being abandoned consumed him.
It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair.
Suddenly, Harry felt his fingers tingle, his entire body reacting to a rush of adrenaline, and with it, the anger exploded from within him—an intense fury that could no longer be contained, manifesting as a horizontal pulse of energy that touched the walls and made the house shake.
The lights in the house began to flicker uncontrollably. The fridge made a loud noise, turning on and off as if on the verge of breaking. The table trembled, rattling the plates and cutlery, and Harry felt his body vibrating with an energy he had never felt before.
“What the hell is going on?” Vernon shouted, rising from his chair, fear beginning to mix with his usual anger. “Stop crying and get to the cupboard... NOW!”
But Harry wasn’t listening anymore. Tears streamed down his face so intensely that he could barely breathe. His hands trembled, and he felt his heart beating irregularly. Years of contempt, humiliation, and invisibility were drowning him.
He felt like nothing more than a nuisance, a dead weight that should never have been born.
Petunia tried to intervene, her voice trembling with fear. “Vernon, stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
But it was too late. The energy pulsing inside him seemed ready to explode with even greater intensity. Harry fell to his knees on the floor, his glasses flying off his face to some corner of the house, his hands covering his face as he sobbed. The scream that came from his throat was a cry of pure agony, a scream that carried the pain of years of being treated as a burden, as something disposable. The force and the high-pitched, childish sound caused all the windows on the first floor to shatter into pieces, his aunt’s china cabinet turned into a disaster, and the windows and glasses couldn’t withstand the intense power being released from within him.
The entire house shook. The lights burst with a crack, and a current of energy formed around Harry, like a furious storm. The Dursleys’ pictures fell from the walls, their canvases cracking, the drawers opened violently, and papers, utensils, and objects from the living room and kitchen began to fly around the room, hurled violently, some requiring his aunt and cousin to dodge to avoid being hit.
Petunia screamed, pulling Dudley back, both terrified, not understanding what was happening.
Vernon, furious, tried to advance.
“Come here, you little brat!” he shouted, trying to reach Harry.
But the force around him was so powerful that Vernon could barely get close. Every step he took felt like he was being pushed back by an invisible wall. He was hit by a few objects in his path, the TV remote hitting the side of his forehead with enough force to make him clutch his head.
The sound of loud banging on the front door almost made it fall, but no one paid attention.
Harry, still sobbing and trembling, looked at Vernon with an intensity he had never shown before. His eyes, blazing with anger and pain, locked onto his uncle.
“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” Harry shouted, extending his arm and pointing at him.
In the next instant—Vernon, with one hand on his forehead and the other trying to reach him—was thrown across the room with supernatural force, slamming hard against the wall.
Then the front door of the house was blown open with a bang, and someone seemed to have entered, but Harry didn’t look. He didn’t care who it was. All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was one thing that had been denied to him his entire life.
“I JUST WANTED A FAMILY!”
Chapter 2: Happy Birthday, Harry
Chapter Text
BANG! CRACK!
The front door of the Dursleys’ house had been blown open with a loud crash.
The living room was in a state of absolute chaos. Among the remnants of shattered vases, food stains, and random objects scattered across the floor, two figures entered the house, each in a distinct manner but both with worried expressions.
The first was a tall, stern-looking woman with thin-framed glasses and a long emerald-green robe. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she wore a pointed black hat on her head. Her expression was a mix of surprise and concern as she took in the desolate scene.
Beside her stood a man—more like a wardrobe in size—over three meters tall, with a mane of long, wild black hair and a beard that covered most of his face. He wore a large, shaggy overcoat, his imposing size contrasting with the gentleness in his dark eyes.
Harry, in the midst of an uncontrolled crying fit, was at the center of the turmoil, barely noticing the visitors’ arrival. The chaos around him reflected his inner torment.
Plant pots flew through the air, the breakfast table had been hurled against the patio, and the living room sofa changed colors as if it were alive. The room was in complete disarray, and Harry was at the center of it all, his life seemingly falling apart before his eyes.
Lying on the floor, now curled up in a fetal position with his arms covering his head and his knees pressed against his face, Harry desperately tried to shield himself. He didn’t want to see what was happening; the only sound he could make out was muffled voices calling his name, voices he couldn’t identify or understand. His mind was clouded with fear and confusion.
The woman stepped forward carefully, her eyes focused on the boy on the floor and alert to the objects flying toward her.
She effortlessly stopped anything that threatened to hit her with a flick of her wand, creating magical shields with absolute precision and skill, all without saying a word.
The woman approached with firm steps but without any sign of threat. Her gaze, though stern, carried genuine concern.
“Mr. Potter—Harry. Harry, please, look at me.”
Beside her, the enormous man, whose presence seemed to fill the entire space, crouched down next to the boy. His thick arms formed a protective barrier as small objects continued to fly through the air, hitting him without him seeming to notice.
“Easy there, little one,” he murmured, his deep voice soothing. “We’re here to help.”
But Harry kept his eyes shut, his arms wrapped around himself as he rocked back and forth. His entire body trembled. He didn’t know who these people were, but a part of him was certain he would be punished for what was happening. He always was.
The woman knelt beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a careful, almost hesitant touch.
“There’s no need to be afraid. We’re here for you.”
The man noticed the terror on Harry’s face and backed away slightly, trying not to appear so intimidating.
“Tha’s right,” he said, nodding. “Ain’t none o’ this yer fault. An’ yeh’re not alone.”
Harry hesitated.
A part of him wanted to believe it, but it was hard. Big, authoritative people had never been kind to him before. Still, something about those voices felt different. Slowly, his body stopped trembling, and the invisible force that had dominated the room began to weaken.
The chandeliers stopped flickering. The objects floating in the air fell one by one. The charged atmosphere dissipated.
Harry lifted his head hesitantly, his face still wet with tears, and met the eyes of the two strangers. There was something in them—not just concern, but understanding. As if they knew exactly how he felt.
“W-w-who are y-you?” The question came out between sobs, his voice faltering.
The woman pursed her lips, her expression growing even softer. There was something in her gaze that Harry didn’t understand—a kind of silent regret.
“I am Professor McGonagall, and this is Mr. Hagrid. We’re here to speak with you and deliver your invitation. May we talk?” Her voice, though gentle, still held a note of firmness.
Hagrid smiled warmly.
“Tha’s right, Harry,” he said. “We’ve come ter deliver a letter, tha’s all. Don’ mean ter scare yeh. Jus’ need yeh ter listen ter us, alright?”
Harry wiped his face with his sleeves, trying to hold back the tears, and nodded slowly.
Hagrid’s smile widened. With a careful gesture, he extended his enormous hand to help him up.
Harry hesitated before accepting it, but in the next moment, he was practically lifted off the ground in one pull. His feet barely touched the floor before he lost his balance.
“Oops—” Hagrid quickly grabbed his shoulders, preventing him from falling. “Blimey, yeh’re lighter than I thought yeh’d be.”
McGonagall noticed it too. The two exchanged a loaded glance, but neither made any comment.
Hagrid cleared his throat, a slight tone of guilt in his voice.
“Erm... sorry, Harry. Shouldn’ta pulled so hard. Yeh alright?”
Harry shook his head, trying to compose himself.
“I think so... I’m fine... I... I—” His voice faltered. He still didn’t know what to say.
Everything felt like a blur of chaos and confusion.
Then his eyes swept across the room, and his stomach sank.
The house was completely destroyed.
Torn wallpaper, peeling paint, overturned furniture, debris scattered everywhere. The appliances, or what was left of them, were broken as if a hurricane had passed through. The kitchen? Unrecognizable.
His chest tightened. His body grew tense.
He knew what would happen very soon. He would probably get the worst beating of his life.
His legs began to tremble as the adrenaline started to fade, and he lowered his head, his eyes flickering to the two adults before him. They knew. He saw it in their faces.
McGonagall offered him a sincere smile. A smile Harry wasn’t sure he should trust—adults were rarely kind to him for no reason.
“Can someone explain what’s going on here?!” Vernon Dursley hissed through his teeth, fury and confusion mixed in his voice.
McGonagall kept her gaze fixed and imposing on him, as if examining a particularly unpleasant creature under a microscope.
Vernon froze in place, snapping his mouth shut but trying to maintain his patriarchal stance. After all, these bizarre people had invaded his home! However, the subtle tremor in his mustache betrayed that his confidence was far from unshakable.
“I would also like to understand, Mr. Dursley,” said McGonagall, her voice sharp as a blade.
She took a step forward, and Vernon, who was still sitting on the floor, instinctively pressed his back against the wall.
“What exactly did you do to leave your nephew in such a deplorable state?” she asked.
A heavy silence fell. Petunia exchanged a nervous glance with her husband, swallowing hard. Her face was pale, her lips tight, as if she already expected a reprimand.
“W-We kept him as we were told, w-we took care of him the way we were asked.”
Harry, still trembling, looked at them with hurt and disbelief.
“You... you hate me.”
McGonagall turned to him, ignoring the Dursleys’ mutterings. With a delicate motion, she bent down and picked up Harry’s broken glasses from the floor.
“What happened, Harry? Can you tell us?” she asked, her tone surprisingly gentler than he expected.
Harry hesitated, fighting the lump in his throat.
“I... I got a letter two days ago. Uncle Vernon got furious and tore it up. He said he didn’t want ‘that freakish stuff’ in this house. The next day, another letter arrived, and he tore it up again. Today, I didn’t see any more letters, and they started telling me that no one cared about me, that I would never go to... Hogwarts... I think that was the name. And then... you showed up.”
He didn’t need to go into more detail.
McGonagall and Hagrid exchanged another glance. The professor straightened her shoulders and turned to the Dursleys, her face as hard as granite.
“Mr. Potter,” she said formally. “After receiving no response to our letters, we decided to deliver yours in person. It’s standard procedure for the institution, something that should have been communicated to you.”
The Dursleys shrank as McGonagall shot them a piercing glare. Then she turned to Hagrid, who wasn’t paying attention to her, instead glaring at the Dursleys with a dangerous look.
“Rubeus, please?”
“Eh? Ah, righ’—righ’, Professor... it’s ‘ere somewhere... ah, yeah!”
With surprising delicacy for someone of his size, Hagrid rummaged through the inner pockets of his enormous moleskin coat. He pulled out a parchment envelope—identical to the ones Harry had seen before—and handed it to the boy with an encouraging smile.
“I reckon yeh’ve been waitin’ fer this, haven’t yeh?”
Harry’s eyes shone with emotion as he took the letter, his hands still trembling. Even with his eyes watery, a small smile appeared on his face.
“It—it was this, thank you,” he said, holding the envelope as if it were a true treasure.
“Oh, no need fer thanks! I’d’ve delivered this even if I had t’ go 'round the world,” Hagrid said with a light laugh.
While Harry examined the letter with a mix of awe and anxiety, the Dursleys reacted in the complete opposite way.
Vernon and Petunia looked on with pure disdain, as if they had just lost an important battle, while Dudley just blinked, confused, not understanding anything.
“So... you’re from there? From Hogwarts?” Harry asked hesitantly, curiosity beginning to outweigh his fear.
McGonagall nodded.
“Exactly,” she replied politely. “I don’t know if you managed to read any of the letters, but this one contains the same information. If you’d like, you can open it.”
They gave him time to read the letter carefully, examining every detail.
The Dursleys began to fidget on the floor, Vernon started muttering, but when Hagrid cast another glance at them, it made them freeze and stay silent.
Harry, who was reading the letter quietly to himself, looked up, curious and hesitant.
“Ma’am, I don’t think I know what this is... what is Hogwarts?”
“Hogwarts, Mr. Potter, is the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” McGonagall replied, raising her chin with a solemn air. “It’s where all young witches and wizards in Britain learn to use magic. This letter is your official invitation.”
“Magic... it’s... it’s real? It actually exists?” Harry asked, as if it were something unreal, a concept too distant to be true.
“O' course it exists!” exclaimed Hagrid, a wide smile lighting up his bearded face. “Yer a wizard, Harry!”
Harry blinked several times, trying to absorb that information.
“Me? A wizard?”
“Just like your parents,” McGonagall added, her voice softening as she mentioned Lily and James. “They also had magical abilities. And now it’s your turn to learn to control yours.”
Hagrid nodded solemnly, a nostalgic glint in his eyes.
“James an’ Lily were good wizards. Very dear... they fought bravely t’ the end.”
Harry lowered his head, thoughtful. The words echoed in his mind.
“I... I wish I could’ve known them. But they died in a car crash, didn’t they?”
The silence that followed was thick as smoke. McGonagall and Hagrid turned to the Dursleys at the same time, their looks incredulous.
“A car crash?!” McGonagall exclaimed, her voice laden with indignation.
“Is that what yeh told 'im?” bellowed Hagrid, his enormous hands clenched into fists.
Petunia raised her chin, crossing her arms with disdain.
“What did you expect me to say?”
“The truth would’ve been a good start!” McGonagall shot back, fury evident in every word.
“We did what we thought was best! We don’t understand any of your nonsense! What do you think he would’ve asked if he knew?”
“It was his right to know!” McGonagall said, controlling her anger. “This should never have been hidden from him! And saying you didn’t understand is a poor excuse—you knew how things worked, Mrs. Dursley!”
Hagrid took a threatening step forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the Dursleys, who shrank back.
“This is an abomination, an insult!” he roared. “They died as heroes! An’ that’s what he should’ve known from the start!”
Harry looked from one to the other, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Heroes? My parents... were heroes?”
McGonagall took a deep breath, regaining some of her composure.
“Exactly, Harry,” she said softly. “Your parents fought against one of the darkest wizards our world has ever known. They gave their lives to protect you.”
Harry’s world spun. He turned slowly to Petunia, disbelief etched on his face.
“So... you’ve been lying to me all this time?” he said, his voice trembling with shock. “If my parents didn’t die in a car crash, what else is a lie? My dad... he wasn’t a drunk, was he? And my mum? Was she really as insufferable as you always said?”
Petunia’s silence was all the confirmation he needed.
Harry clenched his jaw and tightened the hand that wasn’t holding the letter, his anger and indignation boiling over.
McGonagall pressed her lips together, her face slightly red with anger, while Hagrid let out a low, threatening growl, like a bear about to roar.
“Professor,” said Hagrid, his deep voice restrained. “I reckon that’s enough. We should go.”
McGonagall nodded, casting one last icy glare at Petunia, as if her mere presence were an affront.
“Yes, you’re right, Rubeus,” she said, her voice firm but with a lingering trace of indignation.
With a precise flick of her wand, a silver flash sparked at the tip and spread through the room like an invisible wave. The broken glass tinkled in the air before snapping perfectly back into place. The table righted itself with a faint creak, the marks on the walls vanished as if they had never existed, and the plates and dishes returned to their original positions, the food magically rearranged on the pristine tablecloth.
In a matter of seconds, the chaos was gone, as if no magical hurricane had passed through.
The Dursleys, dumbfounded, could barely process what they were seeing, but Harry, despite his confusion, felt a wave of relief and surprise. Everything began to return to its place—the broken cabinet was restored, the lights reignited, and the appliances looked as good as new, as if none of it had ever happened. The window glass was repaired as if it had never been broken.
McGonagall took a deep breath.
“I’ll have to alert the Ministry about this incident, as I’ve used magic here. I’ll send an owl.”
Hagrid agreed. “Best t’ warn 'em before they come 'ere an’ make things worse.”
She turned to Harry, her expression softening.
“Now, Mr. Potter, as a formality, I am obliged to ask. Do you wish to attend the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?”
“Yes!” Harry replied quickly, a mix of nervousness and excitement in his voice. “I want to go—but I don’t know how...”
“If you wish to go,” McGonagall smiled gently, “Mr. Hagrid and I can take you today to buy your supplies. And then we’ll figure out how you’ll get there. What do you say?”
Harry’s face lit up, hearing the coolest invitation he had ever received in his life.
“I’d love to!” he said, his gratitude evident.
“Excellent. In that case, go and get changed—we’ll wait for you here,” she instructed.
Harry darted toward the cupboard under the stairs, disappearing inside before McGonagall or Hagrid had time to react. The two exchanged perplexed glances.
“Why did he go into the cupboard?” McGonagall asked, her brow furrowed as she turned to the Dursleys.
Vernon opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, trying to come up with an excuse.
“Erm... you see, we—”
“Where is his room?” McGonagall interrupted, her voice firm and impatient.
Petunia exchanged another series of nervous glances with her husband, never having done so much of that in such a short time. Dudley just stood there, motionless, holding what looked like the remains of a half-melted chocolate bar he had found on the floor moments earlier.
“I’ll ask again. Where is his room?” McGonagall repeated, her tone now icy.
Petunia opened her mouth, but it was Vernon who let out a muffled grunt, trying to explain.
“Er... well, technically, he... stays... there,” he said, reluctantly pointing to the cupboard door.
McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “There? You’re telling me he sleeps in that cupboard?”
“Well... yes,” Petunia stammered, “but only because there wasn’t any other room—”
“Another room? You have spare rooms in this house! I checked myself before bringing him here!” McGonagall exclaimed, her voice now filled with an indignation that even made Dudley take a step back. “And this is what you do? Shove a boy into a cupboard like he’s an old pair of shoes?”
“I... I knew this would happen! I always knew! You—” Vernon tried to interrupt, but McGonagall, with a flick of her wand, cast a Silencing Charm so quickly he barely had time to react.
Petunia’s eyes widened, and she grabbed her husband’s arm, while Dudley stumbled backward, looking at McGonagall as if she were a predator about to strike.
“I warned Albus about you,” McGonagall continued. “I warned him this was a reckless choice. And look at the result: treating a boy, an orphan, in such a barbaric and inhumane way. You should be ashamed!”
Hagrid leaned slightly toward her, his arms crossed.
“If yeh want, Professor,” he murmured, “I can teach 'em a lesson... jus' a quick one.”
McGonagall looked at him incredulously.
“Obviously not, Rubeus!” she exasperated, as if the mere suggestion were unthinkable.
Hagrid raised his hands innocently, as if he hadn’t suggested anything out of the ordinary.
“Alright, alright...”
She pursed her lips and looked back at Vernon and Petunia.
“Though, honestly, they deserve it—if it weren’t completely unethical, unprofessional, and a crime of assault against Muggles.” McGonagall took a deep breath.
The Dursleys swallowed hard.
While this conversation was happening and Harry was getting dressed, he only heard muffled sounds of conversation that suggested Vernon and Petunia were in trouble with the professor and the large man. He didn’t know them, but for them to yell at his aunt and uncle on his behalf, they were already trustworthy in his eyes.
He just hoped he wouldn’t have trouble with the Dursleys after all this.
A short while later, the cupboard door clicked open, revealing Harry, dressed in clothes so large he seemed to be swimming in them. He blinked at the light, his nervous green eyes landing on the professor and the gentle giant.
McGonagall waved her wand again. Harry’s clothes began to shrink and adjust, transforming into something simple but clean and well-fitted. They were still Dudley’s old clothes, but at least they fit him now.
“Wow! Thank you, Professor!” Harry said, genuinely surprised, his eyes wide with gratitude.
He didn’t even fully understand how it worked, but he already loved magic.
McGonagall softened her expression for a moment and nodded.
“Let’s go, Mr. Potter. There’s nothing more for you here right now.”
As they left the Dursleys behind and stepped outside, Hagrid had to duck to pass through the doorway, as he had knocked it down with his strength. He positioned it back in place, and McGonagall glanced around the neighborhood, making sure no one was watching before repairing it with another subtle flick of her wand.
Hagrid cleared his throat to get Harry’s attention and, with a shy smile, pulled something from his enormous coat—it was a squashed box.
“I almost forgot, Harry,” Hagrid said, looking a bit embarrassed. “Today’s a special day, ain’t it? Yer birthday. I made this fer yeh... well, I came on me motorbike—and I think I sat on it—but it should still be as delicious as it was meant t’ be!”
Harry took the box carefully and opened it. Inside was a simple, squashed cake with pink icing and poorly written green letters:
Happie Birdae Harrye.
He looked at the cake, feeling a lump in his throat. This time, he didn’t cry. Instead, he gave another bright smile.
Someone cared enough about him to remember his birthday, and that alone made this the best day of his life.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.
Hagrid gave a warm laugh. “Yer welcome, Harry. Yeh deserve it”“
And with that, they left Privet Drive, for the first time, with a spark of hope.
The sensation was instantaneous. Harry felt as if he were being pulled by an invisible hook behind his navel, squeezed from all sides as he was forced through something akin to a narrow tube. Professor McGonagall had described Apparition as “uncomfortable,” but that was an understatement. It was suffocating and bizarre in a way he had never experienced before.
They had landed in a quiet alley, the distant sound of London traffic echoing in the background. The ground beneath Harry’s feet seemed to sway as if he were on a ship at sea. He staggered, leaning against the nearby brick wall, feeling a growing wave of nausea. If he had eaten anything for breakfast, he was sure he would’ve lost it right then and there.
“Are you alright, Mr. Potter?” asked McGonagall.
“Yes... just—well, that was really strange,” he said, swallowing hard, trying to sound steady.
“Strange? Uncomfortable, more like!” exclaimed Hagrid, wrinkling his nose as if he had bitten into a lemon. “Tha’s why I prefer me flyin’ motorbike fer these things. At least wi' it, I know what t’ expect.”
“Flying motorbike?” Harry blinked, curiosity battling the nausea.
“Oh, aye, like a regular motorbike, only it flies. An’ fast!” Hagrid replied enthusiastically, his eyes lighting up at the memory.
Then his expression darkened, and he looked at Harry with a touch of melancholy.
“It’s the one I brought yeh t’ yer aunt an’ uncle’s house on... if only I’d known better,” he murmured the last part so quietly that Harry didn’t catch it.
“So you knew me back then?” Harry asked, curious, as the three of them began walking through the streets.
“Of course I did! I remember it like it was yesterday. Yeh fit in the palm o' me hand,” Hagrid said, extending his enormous hand as if he could still hold baby Harry.
Harry tried to picture it and ended up chuckling softly. Hagrid seemed genuinely affectionate, like an uncle probably would be.
As they walked, Harry noticed that McGonagall’s old-fashioned robes and Hagrid’s colossal size didn’t seem to attract any attention from the people on the streets. It was as if no one paid them any mind, and when they did glance their way, they simply shook their heads and seemed to remember something very important, quickening their pace to get away from them.
“Just out of curiosity—and no offense—but your clothes aren’t exactly normal for city folks... and they seem to be ignoring us on purpose?” Harry asked, frowning as he watched a man walk past Hagrid without even hesitating.
McGonagall nodded without breaking stride.
“No need to worry about offense, Mr. Potter. Our worlds are completely different, and questions like these are normal.”
“Aye, I know someone me size ain’t seen every day,” Hagrid chuckled. “But yeh get used t’ it over time. I don’t come 'ere often anyway.”
“But why are they ignoring us?”
“There’s a small enchantment on our clothes helping us stay discreet called the Muggle-Repelling Charm,” McGonagall explained didactically. “It makes Muggles ignore us and remember they have something urgent and much better to do. I cast it on us before we left.”
“Muggles?”
“That’s what we call non-magical people.”
Harry nodded, accepting the explanation. It was clear to him that understanding all of this would take longer than he expected.
“You know, I also remember when you were little,” McGonagall said, her voice warmed by a distant memory. “Your parents were so happy. It was impossible not to like you—always laughing, always curious.”
Harry looked at her, his green eyes shining with cautious hope.
“So they loved me?”
McGonagall pursed her lips as her eyes took on a melancholic glint. It was a question that, in her mind, Harry should never have had to ask. Finally, she inclined her head and gave a gentle smile.
“They loved you as if nothing else mattered, Harry. You were their world.”
Harry felt a warmth spread through him, something he rarely experienced. He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes fixed on the ground, trying to process the words.
“They loved me...” he thought with a happy smile.
Finally, they arrived at a narrow, dimly lit street. In front of them stood an old, run-down pub that looked like it was about to collapse. The façade was dirty and covered in signs that read “CLOSED” in faded letters.
The place was called the “Leaky Cauldron.”
“Is this it?” Harry asked, looking around with a raised eyebrow. “The place is closed.”
“Not everything is as it seems, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall replied politely.
“It’ll take some gettin' used t', but yeh’ll get the hang o' it sooner or later,” Hagrid added. “A closed place means an open place fer us in the Muggle world—at least wi' the Leaky Cauldron 'ere.”
Harry decided not to ask any more questions. He realized that if he tried to understand every strange detail of that day, he’d probably lose his mind before nightfall. And so, with Hagrid by his side and McGonagall leading the way, he followed along.
As soon as they stepped through the door, the old pub revealed itself to be a bustling inn, filled with lively voices and the clinking of glasses. The place was teeming with witches and wizards dressed in eccentric attire.
Long, flowing robes, pointy hats with crooked brims—some looking like pajamas, in Harry’s opinion. There were scruffy-looking men in crumpled, mismatched suits, while the women wore embroidered cloaks and wide-sleeved dresses, somewhat faded by time. This probably wasn’t the place for the upper crust of their society, though it was, in its own way, welcoming.
There was a peculiar smell of a drink permeating the place that Harry didn’t recognize.
“If they dress differently, they must drink different things,” he reflected, accepting his own explanation.
The large fireplace crackled in the corner, spreading a pleasant warmth throughout the hall.
Harry was surprised. Looking at his clothes, he felt as if he were at a costume party without the right outfit.
At the back of the bar, a bald, wrinkled man with few teeth was drying a dirty glass with a grimy cloth, but his face radiated genuine friendliness.
Hagrid approached the counter, but before they could pass through the back door, the barman spotted them.
“Hagrid! Pleasure to see you!” The man grinned from ear to ear. “The usual?”
“Not today, Tom—not right now, at least. I’m on Hogwarts business,” Hagrid replied with a proud smile, casting a meaningful look at Harry.
The barman’s eyes widened as he noticed the scar on the boy’s forehead, barely hidden beneath his hair. Harry had the habit of hiding it to avoid bullying at school, but sometimes it showed when his hair moved too much.
“Merlin’s beard! Is that—can it be? Bless my soul. You’re Harry Potter?”
Harry froze. The chatter in the inn ceased instantly. All eyes turned to him.
“Yes, that’s me, sir,” Harry replied, feeling his face heat up under the attention.
Everything fell silent, and Harry thought he was in big trouble.
But Tom grinned broadly as he extended his hand to shake Harry’s enthusiastically.
“Good, good—what an honor! Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back!”
“Uh... thank you?” Harry said more as a question than a statement, with a smile and a confused look at the attention.
Within seconds, other patrons began to stand up, murmuring his name, and soon they were surrounding him. Everyone greeted him.
“Is it really you? Harry Potter?”
“Merlin, it’s him!”
“It’s an honor to meet you, young man!”
“Pleasure to meet you!”
“Hey! Harry Potter is here!”
Harry, confused and stunned but smiling, began shaking the hands extended to him, still not understanding why there was so much commotion.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all too,” he replied.
McGonagall, with pursed lips, waited patiently for the commotion to die down. She noticed a colleague approaching and nodded.
“Professor Quirrell, what a pleasant surprise.”
The man walking toward her wore a huge purple turban with a matching robe, walking with a slight hesitation.
“N-nice to s-see you again, P-professor McGonagall,” he stuttered, visibly nervous.
Harry observed the professor with curiosity. The man seemed uncomfortable, as if he were constantly on edge. Hagrid smiled upon seeing him, greeting him warmly.
“Professor Quirrell! How’re yeh?”
“F-f-fine, Rubeus.”
McGonagall gestured to introduce the professor to Harry.
“This is Professor Quirrell, Harry. He will be your Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor,” she said formally.
Harry nodded and extended his hand to shake Quirrell’s.
“Hello, Professor, nice to meet you.”
Quirrell looked at Harry’s hand for a second, hesitating before finally shaking it.
“This guy is weird,” Harry thought, but he figured maybe he was the odd one here, dressed wrong and clueless about who these people were.
“The p-pleasure is mine, Mr. P-P-Potter,” Quirrell greeted with a faltering smile and a limp handshake.
“Defense Against the Dark Arts? What’s that?”
“Well, Harry,” Hagrid began. “Jus' like in the Muggle world, there’s bad people an' creatures in the wizardin' world. At Hogwarts, Professor Quirrell’ll teach yeh how t’ defend yerself against 'em. Ain’t that right, Quirrell?”
Quirrell jumped when Hagrid gave him a pat on the back, nearly sending him forward with the sheer force, but he quickly nodded.
“Y-yes, of course! It w-will be an honor to t-teach—I l-love teaching.”
“Well, we must be on our way,” McGonagall interjected. “We have much to do today. Again, it was a pleasure seeing you, Quirinus. Have a good day.”
“Y-you too,” Quirrell said, disappearing into the crowd.
“Follow me, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall’s voice was firm, leaving no room for hesitation.
Harry hurried to keep up with her as they crossed the Leaky Cauldron. The professor led them to a stone courtyard at the back of the pub, stopping in front of what appeared to be an ordinary brick wall.
With a precise flick of her wand, she tapped specific bricks. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a gentle tremor, the stones began to shift like puzzle pieces, moving apart until they formed a wide arch, revealing a secret passage.
Harry’s eyes widened. On the other side, a bustling, colorful street unfolded before him.
“Welcome t’ Diagon Alley, Harry!” Hagrid exclaimed, giving him a pat on the back that nearly made him stumble. “Where yeh can find everythin' yeh need... an' some things yeh didn’t even know yeh needed.”
What unfolded before Harry was unlike anything he had ever seen. Diagon Alley stretched ahead in a winding path, its crooked, cramped buildings seeming to vie for every inch of space. The shop fronts were vibrant, some adorned with glowing golden signs, others covered in moss and magical lanterns that flickered softly even in the daylight.
The air was filled with a mix of strange and exotic smells—mysterious herbs, caramelized sweets, and... parchment? Harry looked around and spotted a wizard restocking a small florist shop. He was scribbling something on a parchment while pots filled with exotic plants shifted slightly, as if breathing.
The buzz of animated conversations filled the space. Laughter echoed, and witches and wizards of all ages hurried by, carrying bags full of curious objects. Some wizards sold their own wares on the streets, in boxes that levitated with spells and shouted low prices and promotions as they moved through the crowds.
“Ostrich and peacock feathers! You can only get them here!”
“Inks in every color you can imagine—if you think it doesn’t exist, we’ve got it!”
The vendors called out loudly with their various products.
“Now that the start o' the Hogwarts term’s approachin’, the Alley gets like this,” Hagrid said to Harry.
“Is Hogwarts the only school around here?” Harry asked.
McGonagall nodded.
“Indeed, in Britain, Hogwarts is the only school—and one of the most prestigious in the world. There are others, of course. Beauxbatons in France and Durmstrang in Norway are just two examples.”
Harry noticed some of the attire the people wore here, which was much more refined than at the Leaky Cauldron. Some wizards paraded in impeccable outfits—well-tailored robes, flowing dresses, and wide-brimmed hats—with an air of sophistication. In contrast, others emerged from narrow, shadowy alleys, wearing tattered and disheveled clothes, with no concern for appearance.
Above their heads, owls flew in every direction, carrying letters and packages tied to their feet.
The shop windows gleamed with fascinating items. In one, cages displayed owls of all sizes and colors, while in another, plump frogs hopped about carelessly. Further ahead, Harry saw stacks of steaming cauldrons next to shelves crammed with enormous books, some so old they looked ready to crumble into dust.
And then, in a glass display, he spotted a row of jars containing... things. Things floating in viscous liquids, twisted and pale. Harry decided not to ask what they were.
“I hope the new editions of your academic books at Flourish and Blotts have come out this year,” McGonagall commented. “There are some interpretive errors in one of the books I use for teaching. I’ve sent letters requesting corrections for two years straight.”
“But Professor, I don’t have any money,” Harry said worriedly. How could he go to school without money?
“Tha’s why we’re makin’ a quick stop at Gringotts first,” Hagrid replied.
“Gringotts?” Harry frowned. It wasn’t a name he’d heard before in reference to a bank.
“The wizardin' bank, Harry,” Hagrid explained, pointing with his enormous finger to a grand, slightly crooked building that stood out at the end of the street. “The safest place t’ keep yer Galleons, if yeh ask me. Well, aside from Hogwarts, o' course.”
“Certain enchantments at Hogwarts are so ancient that even we don’t fully understand how they work.” said McGonagall, adjusting her glasses. “Unfortunately, that knowledge was lost over time.”
At one end of the street, with its marble-white and crooked architecture like everything else in the alley, a large sign read for all to see:
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
The three entered the building, and Harry heard all the noise from outside muffle and be replaced by the sounds of scribbling, papers, and stamps, along with some whispers and low conversations.
Harry moved closer to Hagrid, startled when he saw small creatures with long fingers, pointed noses, and ears, some with dark, slanted eyes, dressed in formal attire.
“What are they, Hagrid?” he whispered.
“Goblins,” Hagrid replied in a tone that mixed respect and discomfort. “Best not t’ mess with 'em, Harry. They’re a bit... complicated, if yeh know what I mean. Stick close t’ me.”
McGonagall, who was listening to the conversation, pursed her lips as if she found Hagrid’s explanation insufficient.
“They’re magical creatures, Harry,” she said in a professorial tone. “Intelligent, talented, and extremely proud. They run Gringotts and handle financial matters in the wizarding world. But I’ll give you an important piece of advice: never try to cheat a goblin.”
“Not that I want to cheat anyone, but why’s that?” Harry asked, curious but somewhat apprehensive.
McGonagall gave him a serious look.
“Because, in your History of Magic studies, you’ll learn that there have been many rebellions and wars between wizards and goblins. Most of those disputes happened because someone tried to take advantage of them. And goblins never forget an offense, Mr. Potter. There’s also an unspoken tension that many wizards consider themselves superior to them, which doesn’t make coexistence beyond neutrality easy between our two worlds.”
At the end of the corridor, at a larger and more important-looking desk, McGonagall stood in front of a bald goblin with a grumpy expression.
“Hello, we’d like to access vault 687, please,” she said formally.
The goblin didn’t even look up from the paperwork he was reading, completely uninterested.
“Key?” he asked bluntly.
She looked at Hagrid, who was distracted by something a goblin was carrying—a large, lead-gray egg in a reinforced cage with multiple locks.
McGonagall cleared her throat softly. “Rubeus?”
“Hm? Oh, right,” Hagrid approached and pulled a long key from an inner pocket of his coat. “Here it is.”
The goblin quickly examined it and frowned. He slowly looked at Harry, nodded silently, and returned to his paperwork.
“Mr. Griphook will take you to the vault,” he replied in a monotone voice.
While they waited, Harry approached Hagrid.
“What was that goblin carrying in the cart? An egg?”
Hagrid’s eyes lit up for a moment, and he smiled.
“Well, yeh see, Harry, some places in the bank are so important that they use dragons t’ guard the entrances,” Hagrid explained. “Apparently, that one was a new security addition somewhere important.”
“Dragons, that’s so cool... wait, Dragons?!” Harry’s eyes widened, suddenly excited.
“Tha’s right, magnificent creatures, each more beautiful than the last!” Hagrid said.
“Dragons exist? Like in the stories? Big, with wings, and breathing fire?”
“Of course!” Hagrid confirmed, his eyes shining. “I’ve never read those Muggle stories, but if yeh’re talkin' like that, they must’ve been inspired by the ones we know.
Then—cutting the subject short—another goblin with black hair and completely black eyes approached the trio.
“I am Mr. Griphook, and I will take you to the vault. Please follow me.”
They walked to a large, thick circular metal door, which Griphook opened with a key.
After passing through the large door, Harry felt the sound of the environment shift to a silence with the hiss of air in the darkness of the place. It felt like he was entering an abandoned mine when he saw a cart on tracks.
What gave him a sinking feeling was seeing that the tracks were suspended, and it was impossible to tell how deep they went because of the darkness, in case they fell.
None of them seemed worried, and Harry simply followed them without questions.
“If they’re not worried about dying, I shouldn’t be either,” he thought.
Hagrid, who almost occupied the entire back seat alone, had his large legs awkwardly folded. Griphook, with sharp eyes, held a lever beside him, preparing the cart for the dizzying descent.
Without warning, the cart shot forward rapidly, plunging down the winding tracks, speeding through underground tunnels at a breakneck pace. The biting wind made Harry’s hair fly back, standing on end as if he had just stepped out of a storm. He had never been on a roller coaster, but he was sure this experience was even better than any he had heard of. The walls of the caverns buzzed around them as they passed vaults embedded in the rock, appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye.
When they finally stopped in front of a gigantic vault, Harry could barely contain his excitement. He was still recovering from the ride, laughing a little and trying to fix his messy hair.
Griphook, with an indifferent expression, pulled a silver key from his robes and approached a massive iron door. He turned it in the heavy lock, which opened with a deep, metallic sound. The door moved slowly, revealing the inside of the vault, and what Harry saw left him speechless.
Mountains of gleaming gold coins sparkled under the dim light. Chests overflowing with jewels and artifacts shone as if freshly polished. Harry blinked, marveling at the glow emanating from the room. He had never seen so much wealth in his life.
“Wow!” Harry exclaimed, his mouth agape in astonishment. “Who owns all this?”
“You do, Harry,” McGonagall replied matter-of-factly.
He looked incredulously at McGonagall and Hagrid.
“Me? But... this can’t be mine, can it?”
“Of course it is,” Hagrid said with a warm smile. “Yer parents wouldn’t’ve left yeh with nothin’! On the contrary, they left yeh well-prepared.”
Harry felt a lump in his throat. He had no idea his parents had left anything for him, much less a fortune of this size.
“How much should I take to pay for all the supplies?” he asked, still a bit dazed.
They briefly discussed how much Harry would need to take—a ridiculous amount compared to the immense treasure before him. When he entered the vault, he was surprised to see that his wealth wasn’t just piled up there. There were several heavy, locked doors leading to other chambers, where even more golden coins and treasures gleamed in the flickering torchlight.
After they took what they needed, Griphook closed the enormous door with a heavy clang, locking all that wealth back inside the vault.
McGonagall then pulled another key from her robes.
“We need to access vault 713 as well, Mr. Griphook.”
The goblin nodded and, without wasting time, led them back to the cart. Once again, they descended even deeper, and Harry noticed that as they went to lower levels, the atmosphere around them felt different. The place grew colder and seemed more dangerous, or more protected.
As they wound their way through the depths, Harry couldn’t contain his curiosity. What could be stored in such an inaccessible place?
The cart finally stopped in front of a large open courtyard. The door was even more imposing than the previous one and stood a considerable distance from the tracks. In the background, waterfalls could be seen, and bats flew in swarms.
“Mr. Griphook,” Harry called as they walked toward it. “Are all the bank’s vaults here?”
“Yes, all of Gringotts’ vaults are in these caverns,” he explained. “The lower the level, the more secure the vaults.”
“What happens if someone falls off the carts?”
“No one has ever fallen off the carts accidentally, but if someone tries to steal something and falls, they’ll end up straight in the waters of the bank’s depths, which is the last security measure to stop criminals.”
“And how do you know if someone’s down there?”
The goblin gave a smile, showing his sharp teeth.
“We don’t need to. The dragon sharks take care of the cleaning for us.”
Harry swallowed hard. This was definitely the craziest bank he had ever been in. He had gone to the bank once with Uncle Vernon, and waiting a few minutes in line didn’t seem so bad anymore.
Vault 713 had an even more intimidating door, as if it guarded an important secret.
“Can anyone with a key open these vaults?” Harry asked.
“No,” Griphook replied as he turned the key with precision, giving it several twists. “If someone who isn’t a goblin tries to open this vault, they’ll be sucked inside and trapped there.”
Harry’s eyes widened.
“And how often do you check if someone’s in there?”
“Ah... about every ten years or so,” Griphook said with unsettling calm.
“Oh,” was all Harry could reply, stunned at the idea of someone being sucked into a vault and left there for a decade.
When the door finally opened, Vault 713 revealed itself to be much smaller than Harry’s parents’ gold-filled vault. There were no mountains of wealth, just a small, carefully wrapped bag. The room seemed disproportionately empty, as if that single object were more valuable than all the treasures in the world.
McGonagall stepped in with firm, precise steps, picked up the package, and quickly tucked it into her robes.
“What’s that, Professor?” Harry asked, intrigued.
McGonagall gave him a stern look, though not without kindness.
“Hogwarts business, Mr. Potter. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Harry nodded, asking no further questions about it.
With the package secure and some “Galleons,” as they called the wizarding currency, the three left Gringotts Bank and headed back into the bustling streets of Diagon Alley.
As Hagrid mentioned that he needed to attend to some matters, promising to return later, McGonagall seized the opportunity to make a request.
“Rubeus, before you go, send a message to the Ministry about this morning’s events. It’ll save time if they can resolve it as soon as possible.”
She reached into her robes and pulled out a piece of parchment, which immediately floated in the air beside a quill. With a slight flick of her wand, the quill began to scribble on the paper, jotting down word for word what she dictated—a straightforward and objective account of what had happened, accompanied by a formal request for the matter to be handled with utmost efficiency.
“All right, I’ll take this. See yeh later!” said Hagrid, grabbing the parchment and disappearing into the crowd, his massive frame quickly blending into the bustle of Diagon Alley, though it took a while for him to fully vanish due to his size, which was twice that of most people.
With Hagrid gone, Harry was left in McGonagall’s care. The professor, maintaining her usual air of authority, guided him from shop to shop to gather the necessary supplies for Hogwarts.
At each stop, McGonagall explained the subjects he would study throughout the year. Her tone was always clear and informative, but there was a special glint in her eyes when she reached the topic of Transfiguration.
“It’s one of the most complex and fascinating branches of magic,” she said as they exited Flourish and Blotts—the best bookstore in Diagon Alley, according to the professor—loaded with heavy volumes, which she had shrunk to fit inside the cauldron Harry had also purchased. “Transfiguration allows you to alter the form and nature of an object, and, with sufficient skill, even that of a living being.”
Harry stared at her, fascinated. “So... it’s like turning a cup into a rat?”
McGonagall’s lips curved slightly, almost a smile.
“Exactly. Although, ideally, the rat shouldn’t retain the cup’s handle as a tail.”
Harry laughed, but inwardly, he was impressed.
In addition to Transfiguration, McGonagall explained other subjects Harry would take: Charms, Potions, History of Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, and Herbology. Each one seemed fascinating in its own way, but the professor’s expression when discussing Transfiguration left Harry particularly eager for that class, perhaps precisely because she taught it and was so passionate about it.
“Besides these subjects, as a first-year, you’ll also have flying lessons,” said McGonagall as they walked between shops.
“Flying? We can fly?” Harry exclaimed, surprised, clutching his cauldron full of supplies close to his chest.
“Yes, on broomsticks, of course. But you won’t be allowed your own broom until second year. Until then, you’ll use the school brooms for lessons.”
As they passed a broom shop, Harry saw some children with their faces pressed against the window, mesmerised by a particular broom.
“Look!” one of them exclaimed. “A Nimbus 2000! I can’t believe it’s been released!”
“The fastest broom in the world!” commented another boy. “I’d win any game with that. Robert wouldn’t stand a chance with his Comet!”
“You could have the best broom in the world, Edgar, but you’d still be a terrible Chaser,” teased another, sparking laughter among them.
McGonagall smiled faintly at the scene as they weaved through the crowd.
“What’s Quidditch?” Harry asked.
The professor’s eyes lit up.
“Ah, it’s the most famous sport in the wizarding world. Seven players on each side fly on their brooms, each with unique objectives that make them win together. Hogwarts also has teams. Each house has its own, and at the end of the year, the winning house takes home the Quidditch Cup.”
“Houses? What houses?”
“Hogwarts has four distinct houses, and students are sorted into them based on their personalities. Generally, the houses are: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. I, for example, was a Gryffindor during my time as a student and am now the head of that house.”
Harry nodded. “Quidditch sounds amazing, completely different from the football I know... Has your house—Gryffindor—won many cups?”
At that moment, McGonagall’s face hardened slightly, and her tone became more reserved.
“We’ve won many, yes. But in recent years, it’s been... complicated due to various factors.”
They continued their shopping, acquiring a telescope, sets of glass phials for potions, and a set of brass scales.
Until Harry found himself in a clothing shop for the first time in his life, buying clothes for himself. At Madam Malkin’s, he tried on the Hogwarts uniform with the attentive help of the proprietor, who adjusted every detail to ensure the robes fit perfectly.
“Stand still, dear, just a moment,” she said, pulling at the sleeve of the robe to measure the length. “You’ll see, it’ll be perfect.”
When she finished measuring him for his uniform pieces, he saw McGonagall beckoning him.
“Harry, come here a moment.”
“Yes, Professor?” He walked over to her, curious.
She held a small, square package, wrapped in vibrant red paper with an elegant silver ribbon that shimmered softly in the shop’s light. Her eyes met Harry’s.
“I know it’s not much,” she began, her voice slightly softer, “but it’s from the heart. Happy birthday.”
Harry stood still for a moment, surprise etched on his face. His eyes widened in astonishment, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“A present... for me?” he asked, his voice incredulous, his eyes shining with a mix of joy and confusion.
“Of course,” McGonagall replied, a small smile curving her lips. “It’s my gift to you. As a Hogwarts student, I’m sure this will come in very handy. Trust me.”
With slightly trembling hands, Harry took the package with reverent care. He unwrapped it slowly, savouring the moment. When he finally removed the lid of the box, his eyes lit up at the contents.
It was a black scarf, simple in appearance but incredibly elegant. He touched it gently, immediately noticing the softness of the fabric against his fingers. As he unrolled it, he realised it was long and thick—longer than his own height, made of a material that exuded quality.
“Wow... thank you, Professor!” Harry exclaimed, a wide smile lighting up his face. He held the scarf against his chest, almost as if hugging an old friend.
“I hope it serves you well,” said McGonagall, her eyes watching Harry with affection. “When you’re sorted into your house, the scarf will adapt to its colours. And believe me, in Scotland, you’ll find something like this essential, especially during winter, during midnight Astronomy lessons.”
He had never received a new present before, something just for him, so personal, so thoughtful. Harry would wear this gift with great pride.
After storing the scarf with his purchases and continuing to try on the rest of his clothes, a blond boy with cold eyes was in the shop with his mother. He scrutinised the clothes with evident disdain, dismissing any piece he deemed inferior.
“This is ridiculous. I don’t even know how anyone could wear this,” the boy said to his mother, who nodded in agreement.
Harry and McGonagall ignored him, leaving the shop after thanking the proprietor.
“Now, all that’s left is your wand,” McGonagall commented as they walked, checking the list of supplies once more with precision.
“And where do I buy one?”
“At Ollivander’s, of course. All witches and wizards have bought theirs there for centuries. The Ollivander family has a tradition of being masters in the art of wandmaking,” she replied, leading him to an old, modest-looking shop.
As they entered, the sound of a bell echoed through the narrow, cluttered shop. The faint, sweet scent of incense hung in the air. Suddenly, an elderly man appeared from behind the counter, a curious expression in his eyes.
“What a surprise!” he said with a smile as he adjusted some boxes. “If it isn’t Minerva McGonagall in the flesh! It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”
“Yes, Garrick, it has been a long time,” replied McGonagall, adjusting her glasses.
“And who might you be, young man?”
“Harry Potter, sir.”
Ollivander’s eyes widened slightly, and he began moving around the shop with peculiar energy, picking up some boxes.
“Ah, yes—yes... I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Potter, for many years now.”
“Expecting me?”
"Your parents reserved a few wands for you here when you were just a baby. They've been kept here, waiting for the day you'd come to claim them," Ollivander explained as he brought several boxes to the counter.
Harry was astonished. The idea that his parents had planned so much for him warmed his heart, especially considering that the Dursleys rarely spoke of them, and when they did, it was with disdain.
“Remember when you came to choose your wand, Minerva?” Ollivander asked casually from the back, with a chuckle.
“Oh, of course, how could I forget? Your father took his time finding mine, as I recall. I nearly destroyed the shop in the process.”
Harry heard more laughter from the back before Ollivander approached the counter with some boxes.
“I was the one handing him the wands to give to you to try,” Ollivander said. “Back then, it was hard to know what would suit each person. You were one of my test customers.”
She raised an amused eyebrow. “Was it you? I’d never have guessed.”
“Well, let’s see if I don’t make the same mistake with Mr Potter here,” Ollivander commented, returning with a box in hand. “Now, let’s see which wand chooses you.”
“The wand chooses me?” Harry took one from the box Ollivander offered.
“Of course, every wand must choose its wizard. Let’s see if this is the one.”
Harry looked at the wand in his hand, uncertain. “And how do I do that?”
“Just give it a little wave—like this,” Ollivander demonstrated with a gesture.
Harry tried. Everyone jumped when a glass jar exploded behind the counter.
“No, definitely not a thestral tail core for you,” Ollivander said calmly, handing him another wand.
Harry took it in his hand and gave it a different wave. The moment he did, a powerful burst of flames shot from the tip of the wand. Harry instinctively aimed it upward and dropped it in shock.
The professor’s expression was one of genuine surprise, and she looked at Ollivander, who shared the same expression before clearing his throat.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that,” Harry said, alarmed.
“We know you didn’t, don’t worry about it, Mr Potter,” his professor said, still surprised by what he had managed to do.
“Well, I admit you seem to have potential, young man, that’s for sure, if you have the right wand in your hands...” He paused, frowning thoughtfully before resuming his peculiar behaviour.
“Unless...” he murmured, heading back into the depths of the shop.
It took some time before he returned with an older, battered box, pulling out a different, slightly more rudimentary wand.
Ollivander looked at the wand and then at Harry before handing it over with a curious expression.
“Holly, supple, eleven inches... try this one, Mr Potter.”
When Harry took that wand, he felt a connection like never before. His body surged with energy, and he felt as though that wand was the right one, the perfect one, as if he were the only one capable of wielding its power. The three of them felt a breeze swirl around Harry and the wand, that feeling of connection flying out the window as Ollivander looked intrigued.
“Curious... very curious...” Ollivander murmured, observing Harry with interest.
“What’s curious, Garrick?” asked McGonagall, suspicious.
“Ah, Minerva, many things are curious in my line of work,” Ollivander replied with a small, enigmatic smile. “This wand, besides being a rare combination of holly and phoenix feather, has a unique peculiarity.”
“And what exactly is that peculiarity?” pressed McGonagall, frowning.
“The feather, my dear, came from a very special phoenix... Fawkes, Albus Dumbledore’s phoenix, as you know. There are only two wands in the world that possess feathers from him.”
Harry tilted his head, curious. “And where’s the other one?”
“The other, Mr Potter... belonged to You-Know-Who.”
McGonagall paled slightly, and Harry frowned, confused.
“You-Know-Who? Who’s You-Know-Who?”
Harry chuckled lightly, feeling a bit foolish for a moment, as if he were speaking in riddles.
McGonagall sighed and looked at Harry with a sad expression.
“He’s the wizard who murdered your parents, Harry.”
The smile faded, and Harry felt a knot in his stomach as he looked at the wand in his hands.
Ollivander, noticing his reaction, leaned in with an experienced gaze.
“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, but it’s the wizard who decides how to use it,” he explained. “May this wand serve you well. Something tells me it will play an important role for you.”
Harry swallowed hard and nodded, still thoughtful. This wasn’t the wand that had killed his parents. It wasn’t a piece of dark magic tied to a murderer. It was his now—and he would prove he could do good with it, that he wouldn’t be like that man, even if his wand had any connection to his.
“How much... how much do I owe you?” Harry asked quietly.
Ollivander inclined his head slightly, his silvery eyes gleaming again.
“Seven Galleons, please.”
When he left the shop accompanied by McGonagall, he spotted Hagrid waiting outside with a broad smile and a large cage in his hands. Inside, a snowy owl with amber eyes watched him curiously.
“Ah, there yeh are!” said Hagrid, waving. “Got everythin' yeh needed, Harry?”
“Yes, Professor McGonagall helped me with everything,” Harry replied, smiling slightly at the professor, who nodded in approval.
“What a magnificent owl, Rubeus. A new addition to Hogwarts’ perch or a personal assistant?” asked McGonagall with interest.
Hagrid smiled, scratching his beard.
“Well, neither, actually. It’s a gift. Happy birthday, Harry!” He lifted the cage so Harry could see the owl better, who hooted softly.
Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, and then his face lit up with a radiant smile.
“Really? She’s for me?” He reached out, gently touching the owl’s soft head through the cage.
Two presents in one day? This was by far the best birthday of his life.
“Yes,” confirmed Hagrid with a twinkle in his eye. “I saw 'er at Eeylops Owl Emporium an' couldn’t resist. She seemed t’ be waitin' fer yeh. Beautiful, ain’t she?
Harry agreed, and the owl hooted, puffing out her chest proudly.
“She’s beautiful—isn’t she a girl?—do you have a name yet?” Harry asked, marvelling.
The owl hooted in response.
Hagrid shrugged. “Nothin' beyond ‘snowy owl’ for now. Thought yeh might give 'er a good name.”
Harry looked at the owl, thoughtful. After a moment of contemplation, he smiled and said:
“Hedwig—her name is Hedwig.”
The owl hooted again, nipping lightly at Harry’s finger as if approving of his choice. She then settled in the cage, clearly satisfied.
“An excellent name, Mr Potter,” commented McGonagall, her gaze softening for a moment.
At that moment, Harry’s stomach growled loudly. He realised he hadn’t eaten since the events of the morning, and hunger now hit him hard.
“Let’s head t’ the Leaky Cauldron fer lunch,” suggested Hagrid, casting a concerned look at Harry. “Yeh must be starvin'. A good stew’ll do yeh good—and don’t ferget, yeh’ve still got cake fer dessert! What d'ye say, Minerva?”
“You’ll have to lunch without me,” replied McGonagall, adjusting her hat as she looked around. “Did you manage to send the letter alerting the Ministry?”
“Oh, yes. I took care o' it while yeh were finishin' up the rest o' the shoppin’,” said Hagrid with a satisfied nod.
McGonagall nodded, seeming pleased.
“Good. I still have a few matters to attend to.” She said, “I’ll meet you later at the Leaky Cauldron. Take care.”
Harry and Hagrid waved in agreement as the professor walked away, disappearing into the crowd of Diagon Alley with determined steps.
“Why do you need to alert the government about what happened?” asked Harry, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
“Well,” began Hagrid, scratching his beard as if pondering the best way to explain, “it’s not exactly the government yeh know, Harry. It’s the Ministry o' Magic, which regulates everythin' in our world. See, they’re quite strict when it comes t' underage magic.”
“So... what happened earlier was a problem?” asked Harry, feeling slightly guilty.
“Ah, don’t yeh worry 'bout that,” said Hagrid with a reassuring smile. “It didn’t cause any trouble fer us. Everythin's sorted. It’s jus' protocol, yeh see? In fact, yeh brought happiness—I’m jus' happy t’ see yeh again, an' so is the professor, yeh can be sure o' that. Yeh’ve grown into a fine young man.”
Harry blushed a little at the compliment and gave a shy smile.
“Thanks, Hagrid.”
Hagrid let out a warm laugh, his massive shoulder shaking as they continued walking.
“Come on. Let’s make sure yeh get a good meal. I bet after today, yeh’ll need yer strength.”
The three of them—Hedwig now joining the group—made their way back to the cozy inn. Harry, following Hagrid’s advice, ordered a stew that came with plenty of meat and vegetables. Hagrid, on the other hand, ordered a huge tankard of butterbeer, sighing contentedly after taking a deep sip.
Harry also fed his new friend some treats, which she promptly accepted.
“Ahh... nothin' like a cold butterbeer after a mornin' like that,” said Hagrid, leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed in pure satisfaction.
But Harry was still lost in his thoughts. What Ollivander had said about the connection between his wand and You-Know-Who’s wouldn’t leave his mind.
Finally, unable to contain his curiosity, he leaned forward.
“Hagrid... today, while I was buying my wand… I found out who killed my parents—You-Know-Who—who is he?” he asked hesitantly.
The giant wizard nearly choked on his drink, surprised by the bluntness of the question. He cleared his throat.
Well... he was a dark wizard, Harry. One o' the worst there ever was. Cruel, ruthless... an' powerful. No one likes t' talk 'bout it, but his name was...” Hagrid hesitated, lowering his voice even further. “Voldemort.”
Harry blinked.
“Voldemort?” he repeated, frowning.
What kind of name was that? It sounded like something out of a bad band.
“Shhh!” Hagrid shot a nervous glance around, as if expecting Voldemort himself to leap out of the shadows. “That name isn’t said out loud, Harry. Plenty o' people died jus' fer sayin' it. Even now, years later, most wizards are still scared o' him—and fer good reason.”
Harry swallowed hard. “But he’s dead, right?”
Hagrid scratched his shaggy beard, his face somber.
“Some say he is,” he murmured thoughtfully. “But I reckon he lost his powers that night... the night yeh defeated him. Became too weak t' carry on. But dead?”
Hagrid shook his head slowly.
“I don’t think he’d go down that easy.” He said.
A shiver ran down Harry’s spine.
“And I—I defeated him? How? And why did he kill my parents?”
Hagrid let out a long sigh. The kind of sigh someone gives when they know that question is coming... but would give anything not to have to answer it.
“Yer parents... they were extraordinary people. Very brave, yeh know? They fought against evil—against You-Know-Who fer a while. He hated anyone who stood up t' him. No one knows exactly why he chose yeh, but... he wanted t' wipe out yer whole family. Tried t' kill yeh too, but he couldn’t. No one understands why he wanted t' do it, or what happened t' him after—I mean, they found his robes in yer room an' his wand too, but nothin' else.”
“So that’s why everyone looks at me so strangely?” Harry asked, his voice quieter now, as he noticed some wizards around them casting curious glances his way. “Because they think I... I defeated him?”
Hagrid nodded slowly, his small, bright eyes showing a mix of pride and sadness.
“Yeah. When the wizardin' world found out he’d been defeated, it was like a huge weight had been lifted off everyone. Celebrations everywhere, fireworks, pubs givin' out free drinks an' the like. An' then, when they found out it was you who did it an'... well, they started seein' yeh as a sort o' symbol o' hope.”
“Is that why I have this scar? Because he tried to kill me?” Harry pointed to it.
Hagrid nodded slowly.
“Yeh didn’t have it before, but after everythin' that happened, it appeared,” Hagrid confirmed. “So yeah, I reckon it’s got somethin' t' do with it.”
Harry fell silent, trying to process what he’d just heard. It was a lot to take in all at once. He was just Harry, the boy who lived in the cupboard under the stairs... how could he be all that Hagrid said? His thoughts tangled with questions and confused memories.
For a moment, he thought he might be dreaming—this was too much information for one day. He pinched his arm, and it hurt a little.
“It’s not a dream... this really happened,” he thought, still somewhat in shock.
After a few minutes of silence, while Harry now ate his dessert cake—which was incredibly good, despite its destroyed appearance—Hagrid decided to strike up conversation again, lighter this time.
“Yeh know, I can jus' picture yeh lovin' Hogwarts, Harry. There’s not a witch or wizard who doesn’t fall fer that place. It’s magical—literally!” He let out a booming laugh.
Harry smiled, still a little shy.
“Professor McGonagall mentioned there are four houses, but she didn’t really explain how they work. She said it’s about personality... how does that work, exactly?”
Hagrid made a face that conveyed experience on the subject, given how simple it was to explain.
“Ah, that’s easy. Each house has its qualities, see?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“Let me tell yeh about the Ravenclaws. They’re the clever ones, always with their noses in a book. Dedicated, love learnin'... but”—Hagrid gave a conspiratorial look—”Between yeh an' me, some can be a bit stuck-up. Yeh know the type who looks at yeh like they’re the king or queen o' wisdom? Yeah, that’s them.”
Harry laughed.
“I don’t think I’d fit in that house. I’m not clever at all.”
“Nonsense, Harry!” Hagrid retorted, waving one of his massive hands. “Yer clever in yer own way, yeh just need to figure it out. But anyway, if that one doesn’t suit yeh, there are others. Hufflepuff’s another house. Most people think they’re a bunch o' duffers, but—”
“I think I’d fit in there, then,” Harry joked, laughing.
“Nah, yeh’re not a Hufflepuff, yeh’re no duffer! I’d know if yeh were!” Hagrid said with conviction. “They’re good folk, always on the right side, but not as sharp as the Ravenclaws or as brave as the Gryffindors. Still, they’re the kind o' people yeh’d want as friends, for sure... unlike the Slytherins.”
Harry straightened in his chair.
“So Slytherins aren’t nice?”
Hagrid drummed his fingers on the table, his face growing more serious.
“Well, not all Slytherins are bad, but I’ll be honest: the house has a reputation. They value ambition and know how to get what they want, but sometimes... well, sometimes that means steppin' on others. An' that’s why so many dark wizards came from there. It’s like a magnet for trouble, that house.”
Harry swallowed hard. He was sure he didn’t want to end up in Slytherin.
“What about Gryffindor?” he asked eagerly. “Professor McGonagall said she was part of it. What’s special about them?”
Hagrid’s face lit up with a proud smile.
“Ah, Gryffindor. Good people, Harry. Brave, loyal, always ready to help. Fun, too.” He paused, his gaze softening. “Yer parents were Gryffindors, yeh know? Both of 'em. An' they were amazin' wizards.”
Harry felt a comforting warmth spread through his chest. If he hadn’t already known which house he wanted, now there was no doubt.
“And how do I get into it?”
“That’s the Sortin' Hat’s job,” Hagrid explained. “On the first day, yeh put on the hat, an' it takes a look at who yeh are—inside, I mean. What yeh value, what’s in yer heart. It knows where yeh fit best. But, if yeh want me opinion, Harry, I bet yeh’ll be a Gryffindor. It’s in yer blood.”
Hagrid gave him a proud smile, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a little more confident. If his parents had been Gryffindors, he’d do everything to follow in their footsteps.
They continued talking about the castle, the towers, the dungeons, the ghosts... until Hagrid started talking about what lay beyond Hogwarts’ walls.
“I’ve always found the Forbidden Forest quite fascinatin', if yeh know how to handle it, o' course.”
“Forbidden Forest?” Harry repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Ah, yes,” Hagrid replied, his eyes gleaming. “I’m there to keep students from gettin' into trouble. But there are incredible creatures in there. Just never go in without permission!”
“If it’s called forbidden,” Harry thought, “why on earth would I have a reason to go in, and I really wouldn’t go without permission?”
As they talked, the thought of facing the Dursleys still weighed on Harry, but he was so absorbed in the conversation with Hagrid that, for a few moments, he managed to push that dark cloud away.
“But, Hagrid, dragons... aren’t they dangerous? I mean, they breathe fire, have sharp teeth, and are huge, right?”
“Ah, yes, huge they are!” Hagrid said with a grin from ear to ear, his eyes shining as if he were talking about old friends. “Breathe fire, have sharp teeth... all true. But, Harry, dragons are misunderstood creatures! They’re fascinatin', fantastic, I tell yeh! Yeh just need to know how to handle 'em. Now, of course, if yeh don’t know what yer doin'... well, that can be a problem.”
Hagrid shook his head, as if recalling some personal experience.
“I’ve always wanted a dragon. In fact, when I was little, I dreamed o' havin' one to take care o'. Who knows, maybe one day, eh?” He winked at Harry conspiratorially.
“Have you ever—have you ever seen a dragon up close?” Harry asked, surprised.
“Back in my school days, I saw a baby dragon once. Beautiful thing, with scales shinin' like silver. Of course, it grew too fast, the little blighter. Got too big to keep around, so they sent it back to a reserve.”
“I don’t think I’d have the courage to get close to one,” Harry admitted honestly.
“I reckon yeh would,” Hagrid replied confidently. “Yeh’ve got plenty o’ courage, Harry. Yeh just need t’ learn how t’ talk t’ ’em, how t’ understand their needs. They can be fierce, but they can also be loyal when yeh earn their trust. A bit like some people, I suppose.”
“Are there people who talk to dragons?”
Hagrid shook his head.
“Not in the way yer thinkin'. Yeh can talk to one jus' like yeh would a cat, an' it'll understand yeh, but tha's 'bout it.”
“And has anyone ever tamed one?”
“Oh no,” Hagrid said, shaking his head and taking another sip from his tankard. “Definitely not. They're creatures that can't be tamed like others. They're wild by nature, yeh see? They don' bow to any wizard willingly.”
How Hagrid intended to have a dragon if they couldn’t be tamed, Harry had no idea, but he didn’t press the matter.
The conversation went back and forth, with Hagrid alternating between funny and fascinating stories about what he’d seen in the forest, each one more extraordinary than the last.
“Ah, and the unicorns,” Hagrid began, his eyes gleaming.
“Unicorns?” Harry repeated, incredulous and surprised. “So they really exist?”
“Oh, yeah, majestic creatures, white as snow, with a sorta silvery glow. They're so pure, Harry, that jus' bein' near 'em makes ya feel... different. Lighter, in a way.”
“Are there unicorns at Hogwarts? Will we get to see them?” Harry adjusted in his chair with anticipation.
“I doubt yeh’ll see one normally, ‘less they wanna be seen,” Hagrid replied, dampening his excitement. “They live deep in the heart o’ the Forbidden Forest, an’ they’re right shy. I’ve only seen 'em up close once, when I was helpin’ heal one that got itself hurt in a thornbush. Poor thing was limpin’, but it accepted me help. Luckily, I had some dittany with me an’ helped the poor bloke.”
Hagrid also talked about the centaurs, protectors of the forest who don’t like mixing with wizards, hippogriffs that are incredibly friendly if you treat them with respect, and so on.
Despite everything, Harry’s mind kept returning to one specific thought:
“What if the Dursleys don’t let me keep Hedwig?”
Finally, McGonagall reappeared, her expression stern, but her eyes showed a slight softness as she saw Harry chatting animatedly with Hagrid.
“Sorry for the delay,” she said, giving Hagrid a brief glance, who simply smiled as if he knew he’d distracted the boy enough. “I believe it’s time for you to return to your aunt and uncle.”
The mention of going back made Harry’s stomach clench, and he visibly deflated.
“I—I can take Hedwig with me, right?” he asked hesitantly, looking at the cage as if it were his only safe haven.
McGonagall was silent for a moment, considering.
“Technically, you must follow the rules of your aunt and uncle’s house, Harry,” she said practically. “But Hedwig is your companion now. She’s not just an owl; she’s a link to your new world. I’m sure if we explain things properly to them, she’ll be able to stay with you.”
Hagrid nodded. “If that Dursley makes too much of a fuss, send me an owl. I’ll come over an’ have a word with ’im meself. Then we’ll see what ’e’s got to say!”
Hagrid laughed, but there was a touch of seriousness in his voice.
McGonagall didn’t laugh at the joke, but she didn’t make any disapproving comments either.
The Apparition was more bearable this time, but Harry still felt that slight numbness as his feet touched the ground. He stumbled slightly but managed to stay upright, blinking to adjust to the familiar scene before him. They were back on Privet Drive, almost in front of number 4, the Dursleys’ house. The weight of reality crashed over him like a cold wave.
Since Harry had eaten lunch, he felt a slight urge to vomit upon being teleported, but he managed to hold it in.
His stomach churned with nerves. His heart beat faster as his eyes fixed on the front door of the house. What awaited him inside? Dark thoughts filled his mind. He wondered if he’d eaten enough to endure the time he’d likely spend being punished for the events of that morning.
And Hedwig? At least she had the food he’d saved in his pocket.
But the worst-case scenario wasn’t just hunger. Harry knew the consequences could be much more severe. He’d thrown his uncle Vernon against the wall, and now the man certainly wouldn’t let him off lightly.
McGonagall, noticing the fear in his eyes, spoke up.
“Don’t worry, Mr Potter, I was delayed for a reason,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I want you to know, if they harm you in any way—even the slightest bit, anything that bothers or threatens you—don’t hesitate to call for me.”
Harry looked at her, uncertain. “But how do I do that?”
McGonagall pulled a small bronze coin from her pocket, resembling a Galleon.
“Hold this coin and say my name: Minerva McGonagall. I’ll come to you without delay. Understood?”
Harry nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. And remember, this is a secret. Don’t tell anyone; keep it to yourself, all right?”
“Understood.” He tucked the object into his pocket, feeling the slight weight of the coin against the fabric of his trousers. Somehow, it gave him a small sense of security.
McGonagall knocked on the door. It didn’t take long for it to open, revealing the petrified faces of Petunia and Vernon.
The terror in their eyes was evident.
Vernon, in particular, looked paler than usual, his eyes wide as he saw McGonagall and Hagrid standing beside Harry.
“Hello again,” said McGonagall, her voice cold and sharp. “I’ve brought your nephew, as agreed.”
“O-of course...” stammered Vernon, his voice almost disappearing.
Harry noticed the tremor in his uncle’s voice and wondered if McGonagall had said something to them earlier when she’d returned alone to handle her business.
Whatever it was, it had worked.
McGonagall then turned to Harry, her expression softening as she looked at the boy. But she maintained a professional demeanour.
“This is where Hagrid and I bid you farewell, Mr. Potter.”
Harry’s heart sank. The magical day he’d just experienced was coming to an end, and the grim reality of the Dursleys awaited him once more. He knew it wouldn’t be for long, but the return was still bitter.
“Don’ be sad, Harry, we’ll see each other again soon, won’ we?” Hagrid gave a friendly wink.
Harry smiled, despite the lump in his throat.
“Yes, Hagrid.”
“Good. Then we’ll see yeh at Hogwarts. Happy birthday again!” said Hagrid with a broad smile.
“It was lovely to see you, Mr Potter. Don’t forget to study a bit of the Transfiguration book, all right?” McGonagall added, already saying her goodbyes.
Harry nodded. “Definitely, Professor. And thank you... for everything.”
McGonagall turned back to the Dursleys, her expression now stern and imposing once more.
“Harry, you may go to your new room. All right?” Her voice carried a strange satisfaction, almost as if she wanted to give the boy a small victory.
“I have a room? Not—not the cupboard?”
She pressed her lips together, remembering that detail.
“No, Mr Potter. From what I understand, your new room is ready.” She said with a pointed look at Petunia, staring her down. “It’s your cousin’s second bedroom. I need to have a final word with your aunt and uncle before I leave. So this is where we part ways.”
Harry’s heart leapt with relief.
“All right. It was nice meeting you. See you later!” He said goodbye with more cheer in his voice.
As he climbed the stairs, Harry noticed Vernon’s hard expression as he saw Hedwig, but the man didn’t say a word. Harry guessed that fear still outweighed his uncle’s hatred for animals.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he heard, even if muffled, the conversation happening at the front door. Hedwig, who had been softly hooting, also fell silent, as if wanting to listen.
“I hope I don’t have to come back here,” said McGonagall, her voice cutting. “If Harry feels even the slightest bit bothered by any barbaric behaviour on your part, I will return. And next time, I won’t be so polite. I’m being courteous out of respect for your sister, Mrs Dursley, something you seem to lack. Am I clear?”
“Y-yes,” Petunia replied, her voice trembling.
“Good. Remember to take him to King’s Cross Station, Platform 9¾, before 11:00 in the morning. And don’t be late. Goodbye.”
And then he heard the door close, signalling his cue to inspect his new room.
Harry allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps, for the first time, he felt that things might change after all.
Harry’s new room, formerly Dudley’s second bedroom, was small and modest. A simple bed against the wall, a worn wardrobe, and an old desk. In the corner, a dusty trunk held broken toys and books that clearly had never been touched by his cousin.
It wasn’t much, but compared to the old cupboard under the stairs, it felt like a palace.
Harry let out a relieved sigh. It was a big step forward, even if temporary. It was only a month until Hogwarts, and this room would be his refuge until then. He knelt beside his trunk and pulled out his wand—the most precious thing he owned now. Though he couldn’t use it yet, just holding the polished handle and feeling the subtle energy it emitted made him feel safer. Without a second thought, he searched for a place to hide it and found a spot carefully behind the wardrobe, where Vernon would never find it.
Books, cauldrons, and uniforms could be replaced, but his wand was unique, and he wouldn’t take any risks.
Hedwig, in her cage, hooted softly, shifting from side to side, clearly impatient at being confined.
“Easy, girl. I’ll let you out in a moment,” Harry said gently, walking over to the window.
He opened the window and the cage, allowing the cool night breeze to fill the room. Hedwig hopped onto Harry’s arm with a light flutter of wings, and he felt the unexpected weight of the owl. She was heavier than he’d imagined, but he didn’t comment—he didn’t want to offend her.
With a smile, he offered her a treat, which she promptly accepted. As he stroked her soft feathers, Hedwig responded with gentle nibbles on his fingers and even his ear, drawing soft laughter from Harry.
“I know what it’s like to be locked up,” he said quietly. “I won’t leave you like that.”
With a gentle motion, he extended his arm toward the window. Hedwig hesitated for a moment, feeling the evening breeze, and then gracefully flew off into the horizon.
He’d barely had time to settle in when he heard the faint creak of the door. His aunt, Petunia, entered the room. Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and he turned slowly, feeling a chill down his spine. Petunia looked nervous, her face tense and unable to meet her nephew’s eyes.
She cleared her throat before speaking.
“I just came to inform you,” she began in a distant tone, “that, starting today, until your... departure for school,” she said with disdain, “you no longer need to clean the house or worry about breakfast. I’ll call you when meals are ready.”
Harry nodded, surprised by the sudden change in tone.
“All right,” he replied calmly.
Petunia didn’t wait any longer. With one last nervous glance, she closed the door, leaving Harry alone again in the silence of the room.
“Could’ve been worse,” he murmured to himself, turning his attention to the trunk with his new books. He picked up the Transfiguration book, flipping through its pages for the first time.
The following days at the Dursleys’ house were, to Harry’s surprise, strangely peaceful. Not that his life there was a bed of roses, but there was something different in the air—and this time, it wasn’t a bad omen.
Except for the occasion when Dudley, upon spotting Hedwig for the first time, decided it would be a brilliant idea to throw his pet turtle out the window as a form of protest. Harry, without saying a word, picked up the poor creature and discreetly took it to a hole in the fence that led to the park near the house. There, he carefully placed it, hoping that—far from Dudley’s clutches—it would at least have a chance to survive.
Each morning, he was woken by soft knocks on the door. When he went downstairs for breakfast, a plate of scrambled eggs awaited him, which was a feast compared to the bread and water he was used to.
Meals still unfolded with an air of indifference, as if Harry were a ghostly figure no one dared to confront. The elephant in the room—the supernatural events and veiled threats—was never mentioned, and Harry, for his part, took advantage of the temporary peace.
He knew it wouldn’t last forever, but for now, he was content.
His only true friend—Hedwig—also seemed to enjoy the calm. Harry let her fly freely through the bedroom window, caring for her with dedication.
When he wasn’t secluded in his refuge, Harry ventured into the garden, enjoying the fresh air. It was a modest space, with neatly trimmed grass and a small shed where gardening tools were stored.
Sitting on a wooden bench, Harry lost himself in his new books, absorbing everything he could.
Charms was, without a doubt, the subject that intrigued him the most. It seemed to be one of the most straightforward disciplines—simple, yet no less difficult and incredibly useful. After all, it was the foundation for almost everything in the wizarding world, from making objects levitate to conjuring fire with a simple flick of a wand.
“Even though I nearly set Ollivander’s shop on fire...” Harry thought gloomily.
Potions, on the other hand, seemed like a distant cousin of cooking—mixing ingredients, following precise instructions, waiting for reactions. But unlike the Dursleys’ kitchen, where the slightest mistake resulted in grumbles and critical looks from his aunt and uncle, here no one would scold him if a potion went slightly wrong... or so he hoped.
“Nothing could be worse than Uncle Vernon complaining about the lunch steak...” he muttered, glancing through the window into the living room, where his uncle was watching a football match, his mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust.
But not everything was so exciting.
Transfiguration, which Professor McGonagall had presented with such enthusiasm, seemed like an indecipherable enigma. The book was full of complex explanations, formulas, and rules that confused him more than they helped. After a few frustrating attempts to understand the concepts, Harry ended up pushing the volume to the corner of his desk, promising himself he’d try again... later.
History of Magic was a complete disappointment. At first, Harry thought he’d learn about thrilling wizarding wars and legendary figures like Uric the Oddball. But after a few pages filled with lifeless dates and facts, he realised the book was practically a bound sleeping potion. With a yawn, he closed the volume and decided he’d only open it again in case of extreme necessity.
The same happened with Herbology and Astronomy. Though he was curious about what the classes would be like, the tedious and technical descriptions made him feel as if he were watching grass grow... or staring at stars, waiting uselessly for something exciting to happen.
The days passed quickly. Between reading and frustrating attempts to practice his handwriting with a quill and ink—a suggestion from McGonagall that turned out to be much harder than he’d imagined—Harry kept himself busy.
His first attempts were disastrous, with ink smudges all over the parchment and fingers stained black. But little by little, he got the hang of it, managing to write without turning the paper into a chaotic blot. With luck, he wouldn’t embarrass himself when it came time to actually use a quill for note-taking.
And so, the days of strange tranquillity dragged on.
Then, that morning, there were three loud knocks on his bedroom door, making it shake.
It wasn’t Aunt Petunia.
Chapter Text
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three loud knocks echoed through the small bedroom on the morning of September 1st. Harry woke with a start, his heart racing, nearly tumbling out of bed.
The door burst open with a crash, and standing in the doorway was the enormous figure of his uncle Vernon, his face so purple and scowling that he looked ready to explode.
“Get up now, boy!” he bellowed, his voice thick with irritation.
“Y-yes, sir!” Harry stammered, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
Vernon turned on his heel and stomped away, muttering something about “stupid nonsense” and “unnecessary petrol expenses.”
Harry sighed. Why couldn’t it be Aunt Petunia who woke him up? Lately, she at least limited herself to quick taps on the door before walking away without a word.
He got up and dressed hurriedly, still wondering how Professor McGonagall had managed to shrink his clothes on his birthday. None of the books he’d consulted had any explanation for it.
“Something to figure out another year... I suppose,” he muttered to himself.
The clothes had returned to their original size after a few days, which meant he was once again doomed to wear Dudley’s oversized hand-me-downs. He picked the best of the available options—which wasn’t exactly a compliment—and tucked the coin McGonagall had given him carefully into his pocket before heading downstairs for breakfast.
The scene in the kitchen was exactly as he’d expected. Vernon was buried in the newspaper, his expression sourer than usual—and it probably had nothing to do with the headline about the speculation on when the dissolution of the Soviet Union would happen, which dominated the front page. Dudley, as usual, was shovelling food into his mouth with no semblance of manners, and Petunia, silent, was finishing up the rest of the breakfast.
Harry sat down at the table, offering a faint smile, which seemed completely out of place among the glum faces of the Dursleys. Since no one seemed inclined to acknowledge him, he simply ate in silence.
“I’ll take you after breakfast,” Vernon announced, not even looking up from the paper. The distaste in his voice was palpable.
“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, without enthusiasm but trying to sound respectful.
Once the meal was over, he went upstairs to fetch his trunk, which had been packed and ready since the night before. Hedwig, in her cage, was especially lively, as if she knew she’d soon be back in the magical world.
As he came down the stairs, he heard a noise coming from Dudley’s room. His cousin had gotten a new parrot, a belated gift after throwing a tantrum about Harry having an owl and his turtle mysteriously disappearing from the garden.
Harry didn’t mind. Hedwig was the best companion he could ask for, and he took care of her with all the affection he could muster—regardless of Dudley’s tantrums.
The drive to King’s Cross Station was marked by a heavy silence. Vernon, from time to time, shot him disdainful glances through the rearview mirror, but Harry didn’t care. He knew that if anything went wrong, he could count on McGonagall or Hagrid.
When they arrived, Vernon barely waited for the car to stop properly before unlocking the doors.
“Let’s get on with it, boy. I want this over with.”
Harry jumped out of the car and pulled his trunk out, ignoring the curious looks from some of the passengers arriving at the station.
Vernon strode ahead, muttering “stupid school” and “stupid magic” under his breath.
They stopped between platforms 9 and 10. Harry looked around, searching for any sign of platform 9¾, but there was nothing but ordinary trains and hurried passengers.
“Where’s the platform?” he asked, his nervousness growing as he scanned the area.
There was no sign indicating where the platform might be.
Vernon shrugged, a cruel smile forming on his lips.
“looks like there isn’t one”
“What do you mean? They said it would be right here!” Harry retorted, sweat breaking out on his palms as he looked around desperately.
Vernon let out a harsh laugh.
“Well, well, who would’ve thought... Seems they don’t care much about you after all.”
Harry felt a lump form in his throat. Hedwig hooted softly, restless inside her cage.
“I’ve done my part,” Vernon grumbled, adjusting his coat and giving Harry one last look of disdain. “See you in a year. And, if possible, don’t come back for Christmas. I’d like a bit of peace this time.”
And without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.
“Wait!” Harry shouted.
Vernon ignored him completely, vanishing into the bustling crowd of the station.
The feeling of abandonment hit him like a ton of bricks.
As terrible as living with the Dursleys was, it was still the only home he knew, and seeing Vernon walk away without a backward glance was more painful than he’d imagined. But he couldn’t afford to wallow in self-pity. He needed to find the platform, needed to make sure that all of this—Hogwarts, magic, his new life—hadn’t just been a dream.
With his heart pounding faster, he looked around, searching for any sign of help. He spotted a station worker sweeping the floor, whistling a cheerful tune, and hurried over.
“Excuse me, sir, can you help me?” he asked urgently.
The man, a fellow with a thick moustache and a blue overall, stopped sweeping and looked at him curiously, eyeing Hedwig in her cage but not paying her much mind.
“Depends, lad. What’s the trouble?”
“Where’s platform nine and three-quarters?”
The worker frowned. “What?”
“Platform nine and three-quarters, you know—do you know where it is, sir?” Harry repeated, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice.
The man let out a short laugh.
“Look, we’ve got platform nine, which goes to York, and platform ten, which goes to Newcastle.” He pointed to a sign listing the day’s destinations. “But I’ve never heard of a nine and three-quarters. Is this some kind of prank? I wouldn’t be mad if it was.”
“Er... no, sir, it’s not a prank. But thanks anyway... I—I mean—have a good day.”
“Sure, you too!” the worker said, resuming his whistling.
Swallowing hard, Harry walked away and tried asking others. But each person reacted the same way—suspicious looks, raised eyebrows, some even ignoring him completely. After several attempts, a doubt began to gnaw at his mind. Had they come to the wrong station? Had all of this—wands, owls, magic—just been some elaborate, cruel joke? A well-planned hoax?
No, of course not.
He’d been to Diagon Alley, seen it all with his own eyes! He’d even pinched himself at the time to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
After searching everywhere, feeling exhaustion and frustration mounting, Harry sat down on the cold station floor, his trunk beside him and Hedwig’s cage resting on his knees. He let out a long sigh and looked at his snowy owl, who gazed back at him with bright, intelligent eyes.
“What now, Hedwig?” he murmured, not really expecting an answer.
The weight of uncertainty pressed on his chest, and for a moment, he felt the familiar sting in his eyes. But no. He wouldn’t cry. Not here, not now. Crying would mean admitting he was lost, and that was something he simply couldn’t allow.
Hedwig tilted her head and let out a soft hoot, before gently nipping his hand, as if to say everything would be alright.
Harry curled up tighter on the floor, sniffling as he felt his throat scratch.
“Need some help?”
Harry looked up immediately.
A girl was crouching in front of him.
The first thing Harry noticed was her hair—brown, thick, and slightly unruly, framing her pale face in a rebellious halo. Her eyes, also brown, sparkled with an intense curiosity, almost scholarly, as if they were trying to analyze him, to understand him.
Behind her, a couple watched the scene—the woman, elegant, had a welcoming expression, while the tall man adjusted his glasses with a distracted gesture.
Harry felt a strange shiver as he met the girl’s eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was oddly comforting, in a way he couldn’t explain. As if something inside him had just recognized something important.
He’d never felt that before.
“Are you looking for the platform too?” she asked.
“Er... yeah, I am,” Harry replied, his voice slightly hoarse. “But... I can’t find it.”
“Oh, it’s quite simple, actually,” she said, animated. “I read about it in Hogwarts: A History.”
Harry blinked. “You know how to get there?”
“Of course! You just have to walk through the barrier between platforms 9 and 10.”
Harry stared at her, uncertain. “Walk through a barrier? What do you mean?”
She smiled, as if she’d been expecting the question.
“I know, it sounds odd. But, according to the book, you just walk straight at the barrier and go right through it.”
Harry jumped to his feet, his hope reignited.
“Can you show me?” he asked eagerly.
“Of course! Oh, I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.” She extended her hand in a decidedly formal manner.
“Harry Potter,” he replied, shaking it.
Hermione’s eyes widened, and a glimmer of recognition crossed her face.
“Really? You’re in A History of Modern British Magic and Greatest Achievements Against the Dark Arts, among others!” she said quickly. “I mean, I’ve read about you in several books, but there might be more records I haven’t checked yet.”
Harry blinked, surprised. “You’ve read about me? There are books about me?”
“Of course there are! Didn’t you know?” she asked, looking confused. “I’d read everything about myself if I were you.”
Before he could respond, the man behind Hermione cleared his throat.
“Oh! These are my parents,” she said, as if only just remembering them. “My dad, John, and my mum, Emma.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Harry,” Mr. and Mrs. Granger greeted him with friendly smiles.
“Nice to meet you too,” Harry replied, feeling a little less lost.
Hermione looked at him and, with the confidence of someone who always seemed to know what to do, nodded.
“Come on. I’ll take you there. Follow me.”
She turned on her heel and headed toward the platform, positioning herself in front of the brick wall between platforms nine and ten.
Harry looked around. Passengers hurried by, some casting curious glances at his owl, but no one seemed to notice anything unusual.
“Well,” Hermione said with a touch of seriousness, “as I said, you need to run straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. That way, you’ll end up on platform nine and three-quarters.”
“Uh... well—I mean—are you sure that’ll work?” Harry asked hesitantly.
“It’s a hidden magical world, what did you expect?” Hermione rolled her eyes, as if it were obvious.
“Hermione!” her mother called, a note of reprimand in her voice.
“But it’s true!” Hermione protested, looking at her mother with an innocent expression.
“We’ve talked about this,” Emma said, giving her a stern look.
Hermione sighed and looked down, as if accepting the non-verbal correction from her mother.
“Fine...” Hermione replied without enthusiasm.
“Right... Can you show me?” Harry asked.
Hermione, with determination in her eyes, grabbed her trunk and got ready. Her parents watched with interest.
She ran at the wall and, with surprising confidence, passed right through it as if it were made of air. Harry watched, dumbfounded, as the girl disappeared on the other side.
“Well, I’ll be,” John commented, raising his eyebrows slightly in surprise.
“And you doubted her, dear?” Emma asked with an amused look.
John shook his head. “No. I just didn’t expect it to be so... simple.”
Harry was still a bit nervous.
“What if I don’t run fast enough? Will I just smash my face into the wall?” he thought, feeling his hands sweat.
Emma, sensing his nervousness, gave him a calming smile.
“Go on, Harry,” she said. “We’ll be here if you need anything.”
Harry nodded.
“Thank you,” he said.
Taking a deep breath and squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for the worst, he ran at the wall and passed through the barrier. He felt the air shift, and the environment brighten, just as he thought he’d crash.
Harry’s eyes widened in astonishment.
Before him stretched a charming and vibrant sight. The golden rays of the sun bathed the entire scene in warm light.
The station was a setting that seemed to have sprung straight out of a fairy tale, a stark contrast to the cold, monotonous non-magical world he knew.
In front of him, a majestic red locomotive gleamed under the morning sun.
Hogwarts Express
The name was proudly emblazoned on the front of the engine, and a thick cloud of steam rose and curled into the air. The sound of the train’s whistle danced with the vibrant energy of the station, a melody that left everyone eager for departure. The scent of steam mixed with the smell of burning coal and old wood, creating an aroma Harry knew he’d never forget.
The platform was bustling with activity and color. Trunks and belongings were piled in corners. Groups of people clustered together, chatting animatedly about their summer holidays and preparations for the new school year.
Children and teenagers, with bright eyes and radiant faces, exchanged stories and laughter, the excitement in the air palpable. Parents bid farewell to their children with a mix of pride and melancholy, their voices echoing between the seemingly endless train carriages.
The environment created its own cacophony.
The sharp hoots of several owls mingled with the clatter of their swinging cages, while cats meowed and darted between people’s legs, searching for something of interest. Some students held toads and rats as their faithful travel companions, placing them on their shoulders, heads, or simply holding them while laughing with friends.
Harry felt a shiver of excitement and a warmth in his chest, a sense of belonging and wonder.
Hermione beamed at him as he approached.
Harry noticed her large front teeth, her eyes shining with excitement. Her parents followed close behind, also visibly impressed by the peculiar environment.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Hermione exclaimed, gesturing enthusiastically. “It’s exactly as described in the books!”
“Wow,” Harry interjected, still absorbing the magic around him.
The locomotive gleamed in vibrant red, releasing clouds of steam that curled into the air, mingling with the laughter and excited voices on the platform.
“It’s truly spectacular,” Emma commented, admiring the scene while holding her husband’s hand.
John seemed more enchanted than anyone there, his eyes fixed on the train as if trying to memorize every detail. However, he quickly snapped back to reality, checking his watch with a concerned expression.
“Well, we don’t have much time,” he said practically. “You two need to find a compartment before the train gets crowded.”
Hermione agreed, adjusting the strap of her trunk on her shoulder. She looked at Harry with determination.
“Want to look for a spot together?”
“Sure,” Harry replied, already walking toward the train.
As they walked, Hermione began talking rapidly, as if she couldn’t contain the flood of information.
“Did you know this train started running in 1850? Wizards needed a safe way to transport students to Hogwarts without attracting Muggle attention, so they stole the locomotive.”
“Stole it?” Harry repeated, frowning. “How do you steal a train this big without anyone noticing?”
Hermione bit her lip, shrugging.
“Well, clearly it was wrong, but it was the only way they could manage at the time,” she replied matter-of-factly. “They used the largest concealment charm ever recorded to move the train to a pre-built station. No one knows exactly how they did it, only that the locals in Hogsmeade woke up and the train was just... there.”
“That’s... pretty impressive,” Harry admitted, still processing the idea of wizards stealing a train that size.
Before boarding the carriage, Hermione said goodbye to her parents. Emma enveloped her in a tight hug, whispering softly, likely offering maternal advice. Hermione nodded, a shy smile on her lips.
“Don’t forget to write, okay?” John asked.
“Yes, Dad, don’t worry,” Hermione replied.
“I trust you,” John smiled, giving her one last farewell hug.
But before she could walk away, he called out.
“And I don’t care that you’re a witch,” he said with a grin. “You’ll always be my little princess.”
“Dad!” Hermione blushed with embarrassment.
“We love you, dear. Have a safe trip, you too, Harry,” Emma said while John affectionately placed a hand on her waist.
“Thank you,” Harry replied, feeling grateful for their help.
He had to agree—those were cool parents. Hermione was a lucky girl.
Once they boarded, Harry and Hermione began searching for an empty compartment.
The interior of the Hogwarts Express was a long corridor connecting various carriages—naturally, since it was a train—but to Harry, it felt like a maze of doors and small spaces occupied by students.
The air carried a sweet aroma of popcorn and caramel sweets, mixed with the faint woody scent of the dark, polished wood lining the walls. The train exuded a certain old-fashioned charm, elegant but far from quiet.
Despite the hustle and bustle at the station, the movement inside the train had its own rhythm. Students of all ages wandered up and down the narrow corridors, peeking into already occupied compartments in search of a seat. Some, already settled, chatted animatedly, while others, wearing “Prefect” badges, patrolled the area with attentive expressions, dispersing noisy groups blocking the way and urging them to find seats.
The sound of laughter and conversation filled the air, and Harry noticed that some students wore coloured ties—red and gold, blue and bronze, yellow and black, green and silver—hinting at their respective houses. It didn’t take long for him to notice the looks and grimaces exchanged between some, especially those wearing red-and-gold and green-and-silver.
Harry recalled a brief comment from Professor McGonagall about the houses. The rivalry between them was evident, but from what he understood, the fiercest competition was between Gryffindor and Slytherin. From the hostile glances exchanged by students of the two colours, he suspected this feud went far beyond a simple desire to prove who was best.
And, somehow, he was sure he’d find out exactly why.
Hedwig began to shift nervously in her cage due to the excess of people and noise around her, chirping and flapping her wings.
“Calm down, girl, we’ll find a spot soon,” Harry whispered, trying to soothe her.
“Harry, over here!” Harry heard Hermione calling him from further down the corridor.
He followed her to an empty compartment.
The compartment was simple but cosy. The deep wine-red upholstered seats invited comfort, and the open curtains allowed soft natural light to filter through. The two settled facing each other, and Harry placed Hedwig beside him, relieved to finally find a quiet space.
He watched the bustling activity on the platform through the window.
A group of redheads caught his attention.
Two of them, identical, were laughing loudly, while an older boy rolled his eyes in resignation. Another boy—who seemed to be about Harry’s age—looked nervous, and the youngest, with a sad expression, watched her brothers depart while her parents comforted her with hands on her slumped shoulders.
“Big family...” Harry reflected.
Inside the compartment, as they were forced to look at each other, the silence between him and Hermione grew uncomfortable.
She fidgeted restlessly, glancing around as if searching for something to break the tension.
“You know,” she finally began, “you’re quite famous, at least that’s what the books say, so I know all about your story. How you defeated the Dark Lord after your—”
She frowned, clearly bothered by the direction the conversation had taken, and then cleared her throat.
“Sorry—really sorry,” she said quickly, almost tripping over her words. “I... I didn’t mean to bring that up like that, it was rude of me.”
Harry smiled, trying to reassure her.
“No need to apologise,” he replied softly. “I... just haven’t gotten used to all this yet. I only found out I was famous a month ago, to be honest. It’s all very strange.”
Hermione bit her lip, curious.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve lived with my aunt and uncle my whole life—they’re what you call Muggles here—they didn’t tell me much about my parents or my past.”
Hermione nodded, clearly more at ease now.
“It must be very strange, suddenly being in the spotlight like that... so you don’t know much about the wizarding world? There haven’t been any records of you since what happened.”
“No, I don’t know much at all. The most I’ve learned is what I discovered in Diagon Alley last month.” Harry shrugged.
“It’s all new to me too—my parents are Muggles as well,” she agreed, though she didn’t seem intimidated. “I read everything I could about this world when I found out I was a witch. It’s all quite impressive, to say the least.”
Before they could continue, the train’s final whistle echoed through the station, and the sound of the brakes releasing indicated they were on their way. Outside, Harry saw the hands of family members waving animated goodbyes—some crying, others smiling. His heart ached for a moment.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have anyone who cared enough to wish him farewell.
Hermione, eager to keep the conversation going, pulled him out of his melancholy thoughts.
“Have you read any of the books for the subjects we’ll be taking?”
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question.
He briefly thought about his summer—aside from the endless chores the Dursleys gave him, he didn’t have much else to do. He didn’t have fun because he had no friends. He didn’t play because he had no toys. So, with what he had available, he simply read and studied.
“I’ve read them all, but I only finished the one for Charms and Fantastic Beasts—that was my bedtime book,” Harry admitted.
Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm.
“I’ve read them all too!” Hermione said, visibly excited. “In fact, I did some extra reading. The Standard Book of Spells is fascinating, don’t you think? I made notes on all the spells, ranking them by importance. The Alohomora charm is undoubtedly very useful—being able to open locked doors has many advantages. There’s also Incendio, which creates fire, but by far the best—”
Hermione continued her animated monologue, and Harry was impressed as he listened. She was clearly very prepared, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he should have studied more.
When she paused for breath after about three minutes, Harry seized the moment to speak.
“Which subject did you like the most?” he asked, curious.
“Charms, definitely,” Hermione replied, biting her lip slightly as she thought. “I wish I could’ve learned more spells while I was at home...”
“You did spells? But we’re not allowed to, right? Outside of school, I mean.”
“I didn’t know that; no one told me before,” she said, frowning in clear frustration. “So I kept practising at home until I got a letter from the Ministry of Magic threatening me. If I didn’t stop... I’d be expelled and my wand would be taken away!” she finished, trying to hide the tremble in her voice as if that were the worst thing that could happen to her.
“Not telling you was, at the very least... annoying—I’d be upset too if no one told me.”
“They assumed I was supposed to know,” she continued, “but I come from your world. No one thought it was important to tell me, so how could I?”
Harry noticed this might be a sensitive topic and changed the subject to something lighter, thinking about what he’d read in the previous weeks.
“You know, I liked Charms too. Defence Against the Dark Arts also seems interesting... But Transfiguration—I tried reading it, but it’s hard. I didn’t understand much.”
“It’s really complex,” Hermione agreed. “It’s about conjuring and changing the form of objects and living beings, after all. But I started making summaries on Transfiguration in January. Once you master the basics and concepts of transforming simple objects, the first book becomes easier to read. If you want, we can study together.”
“That’d be nice,” Harry replied, smiling.
He really didn’t want to disappoint his future professor, and maybe having someone to study with would make him feel less alone.
The conversation between the two flowed more naturally from there, discussing spells and magical creatures, speculating what it would be like to see these beings in real life. Harry realised Hermione knew practically everything they talked about, almost quoting information directly from the books.
For the first time, Harry felt like he might have a friend.
She was the only person his age he’d managed to have a normal, lengthy conversation with about interesting topics. But at the same time, there was a small fear inside him that maybe she was just being polite because there was no better option. After all, who would want to be around him? There were plenty of better choices out there.
“I thought the Diffindo spell was a bit dangerous. If you use too much force, it could cut like a knife or a sword,” Harry commented.
“It has its risks if used incorrectly,” Hermione pondered. “But imagine never needing scissors or knives again?”
Harry had to agree.
“You said you read Hogwarts: A History, didn’t you?” he asked, curious.
“Yes! My favourite book, by far,” Hermione replied immediately. “Why?”
“What’s it about?” Harry asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
Hermione blinked, as if the question were unnecessary.
“Well, it’s about Hogwarts,” she said, as if it were obvious. “It summarises a lot about the school and the castle—talks about the structure, famous Professors, exceptional students, ancient stories and traditions... and, of course, the workings of the four houses.”
“Which house do you think you’ll be in? Or which would you like?”
Hermione bit her lower lip, thoughtful.
“Well... the Sorting Hat decides,” Hermione began, frowning slightly. “But, statistically speaking, maybe Ravenclaw. I like learning and have always prioritised my studies.”
She adjusted her posture, as if about to present an irrefutable argument.
“Actually, I did some research—I didn’t just pull this out of thin air—and made a colour-coded list of the pros and cons of each house. I analysed what each one values and the criteria the Hat considers when selecting a student. Based on that, I think it would probably put me in Ravenclaw. But, if I could choose... it’d be Gryffindor. It seems like the right fit.”
“Gryffindor is the house of the brave, right?”
“Yes, courage and determination,” Hermione confirmed. “I believe those are important qualities. But what about you? Which house do you think you’ll be in?”
“Gryffindor, definitely,” Harry replied without hesitation.
If his parents had been in it, that’s where he wanted to be too.
After a while, an elderly lady with a warm smile pushed a trolley piled with sweets and gently opened the compartment door.
“Good afternoon, dears. Would you like to buy anything?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” Hermione replied with a polite smile.
Harry, curious and a bit overwhelmed by the variety, leaned forward in his seat.
“Well, ma’am, I don’t know most of these sweets,” he said, looking at the various oddly shaped and brightly coloured boxes.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she replied with an understanding look. “Point to what interests you, and I’ll explain what it is.”
With her help, Harry learned about the magical sweets—there were sweets that could make smoke come out of your ears and were quite spicy, and even caramels that made animal sounds when you talked. Finally, he opted for the ones that seemed the simplest: Chocolate Frogs and a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.
“You can’t go wrong with these two. Enjoy!” the friendly lady said before leaving with a warm smile.
As Harry and Hermione resumed their conversation about spells and potion concepts, Harry tried the Every Flavour Beans, quickly discovering that not all of them were pleasant. He offered some to Hermione, who accepted the kindness and, luckily, only got fruit flavours.
“I think this isn’t fair,” he joked. “I just got another one that tastes like dirt. You’re really lucky.”
“Or you’re just really unlucky,” she laughed.
When Harry opened a Chocolate Frog, he was astonished to see the sweet jump and hide in the compartment as if it were alive. He couldn’t catch it but was fascinated to discover that the frogs came with collectible cards.
Each one had a picture of some wizard, and his was an old, bearded man with half-moon spectacles. He, however, seemed almost alive.
“He winked at me!” Harry exclaimed, holding the card as he examined it.
“I read that, in the wizarding world, paintings, photographs, and images can move and even have a degree of consciousness,” Hermione commented academically. “What’s the wizard’s name on the card?”
“Albus Dumbledore,” Harry said, shrugging, not knowing who he was. “He looks like Father Christmas in pyjamas.”
“Dumbledore!” Hermione said with a tone of astonishment. “You really don’t know who he is?”
“Uh... should I?”
Hermione frowned. “Didn’t you read your Hogwarts acceptance letter?”
“I did... why?” he asked, confused, not sure where she was going with this.
Hermione rolled her eyes and, with a decisive gesture, pointed to the card.
“Turn it over and read it out loud,” she instructed.
“Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts—Oh.” He raised his eyebrows, visibly impressed. “I didn’t remember the headmaster’s name.”
“Well, he’s not just the headmaster of Hogwarts but also an extremely powerful wizard,” Hermione explained with a touch of reverence and respect. “Read the rest.”
“Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, his discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work in alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and ten-pin bowling.”
“Wow,” Harry said, impressed. “Seems like he’s really important.”
“Yes, definitely. I feel honoured to have someone like him as headmaster.” Then she sighed. “It’s a shame he doesn’t teach anymore. He used to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts and is a master of Transfiguration too. Imagine everything he could teach?”
“True,” Harry replied, sharing the sense of admiration. “But, to be honest, with that résumé, it’d certainly be amazing to learn bowling from a true master.”
The two laughed at the joke as the train continued its journey.
The train began to slow down, the high-pitched screech of its brakes echoing through the carriages, until it finally came to a halt. Harry and Hermione leaned toward the window of their compartment, where the darkness of the night made it difficult to see what lay outside. A few lights flickered in the distance, illuminating a station that was visibly simpler than the grand King’s Cross.
The train filled with noise as compartment doors slid open and lively, chattering voices began to spill into the corridors. Hermione and Harry stood up, already dressed in their uniforms—long black robes over white button-up shirts, black ties, and grey jumpers, with Harry in trousers and Hermione in a knee-length skirt. Both were visibly nervous but brimming with palpable excitement.
When Harry had changed into his uniform, he remembered the coin in his pocket that could summon Professor McGonagall if needed. He was glad he’d found Hermione earlier—at least he hadn’t bothered the professor with it.
Suddenly, the compartment door opened. It was one of the red-haired boys from the large family Harry had seen boarding the train, now also in uniform and sporting a prefect badge on his chest.
“You lot need to get off the train and head straight to Hagrid—the big bloke waiting outside,” he said, barely glancing at them as he looked into the other compartments.
Harry looked a bit puzzled, glancing at his trunk and Hedwig still in her cage.
“Should we take our things?” he asked.
The prefect rolled his eyes as if the answer were obvious.
“’Course not, your things’ll be taken to your dormitory later—now, hurry up and stop wasting time,” he said impatiently.
Harry frowned. The prefect seemed dismissive and rude, and he noticed Hermione was also uncomfortable with his attitude.
“Well, let’s go then,” Hermione said, trying to stay calm as she stood and left the compartment.
“Wait!” Harry called, making Hermione pause.
He crouched down to speak to his owl, Hedwig, who was rustling in her cage.
“It’s going to be alright, girl. We’ll be together again soon, yeah?” he murmured affectionately to her.
Hedwig gently nipped his hand in response, as if understanding, which made Harry chuckle.
Hermione gave a small smile that Harry didn’t see before they stepped out into the corridor.
Outside the train, the biting cold of the Scottish night hit them immediately, cutting through their uniforms and robes like an icy wind blowing from the surrounding mountains. The station was simple and rustic, with cast-iron lanterns casting flickering shadows over the stone platform. Harry noticed a slightly tilted sign, its letters worn and faded.
Hogsmeade Station
He watched as the older students drifted off in another direction, following a well-kept cobblestone path. Several carriages waited for them, swaying gently under the lantern light, but what caught Harry’s attention was the fact that there were no horses pulling any of them.
He frowned. That was... odd. But considering everything he’d already seen in the wizarding world, he decided not to question it.
Ahead, a towering figure awaited them—Hagrid, waving a large lantern and dressed in a thick coat, his wild beard catching the trembling glow of the light.
“Did you know Mr. Hagrid is the gamekeeper at Hogwarts?” Hermione said excitedly as they walked.
“I know, I’ve met him already,” Harry replied, feeling a comforting familiarity at the sight of the giant man among the students.
Hagrid’s face lit up as he recognized Harry in the crowd.
“Harry! Good ter see yeh!” he exclaimed, his deep voice reverberating across the platform. “Enjoy the ride?”
“Hi, Hagrid! Loved it,” Harry said, smiling. He then gestured to the girl beside him. “This is Hermione, by the way.”
“Hermione Granger, sir,” she introduced herself formally, straightening up a bit.
“Pleasure ter meet yeh, miss,” Hagrid said with a warm smile. “Looks like yeh’ve made a new friend, eh, Harry? Tha’s great!”
“Hermione’s really nice. And clever, too,” Harry added, noticing her blush slightly and look away for a moment.
Hagrid glanced around, making sure no one was paying too much attention to them, then leaned down slightly and muttered to Harry:
“They... didn’t give yeh any trouble after we left, did they?”
Harry immediately understood who he meant.
“No, actually, it was surprisingly quiet,” he replied, remembering the unusually subdued behavior of the Dursleys after his departure.
“Good...” Hagrid grumbled, narrowing his eyes at a distant point. “’Cause if they had, I’d...”
He clenched his massive fist and shook it in the air, as if swatting away a mosquito the size of a wardrobe.
Harry couldn’t help but laugh.
Hermione, who had been watching the exchange with a furrowed brow, tilted her head slightly, intrigued, as if trying to decipher exactly what they were talking about.
Soon, all the first-years gathered near Hagrid, chatting excitedly about this new experience.
“Anyone missin’? Everyone here? Right, form a line an’ follow me,” Hagrid instructed in a firm but friendly tone. “Watch yer step an’ stick close ter me.”
The first-years followed a winding path made of ancient, worn flagstones that cut through the small station and extended into a low, sparse forest. The trail, though dark, didn’t feel threatening. As they walked, Harry recognized two faces in the crowd. The red-haired boy he’d seen with his family on the train was a little ahead, and the arrogant blond he’d seen in the robe shop when buying his uniform was also further up the line.
Suddenly, a hesitant, slightly trembling voice sounded behind them.
“Excuse me... has anyone seen a toad? His name’s Trevor. I... I lost him on the train.”
Harry and Hermione turned to face the owner of the voice—still panting, as if he’d just run a long way. He was a short, stocky boy with a round face and slightly protruding teeth. His dark brown hair was a bit disheveled, and he had the expression of someone who had already given up hope. His slumped shoulders and anxious look made it seem like he almost regretted bothering them.
“No... haven’t seen a toad,” Harry said, shaking his head.
“I haven’t either, sorry,” Hermione added sympathetically.
The boy let out a disappointed sigh.
“Oh... alright. Thanks anyway,” he murmured, turning to continue his search.
But before he could walk away, Hermione called after him.
“Where did you last see him?”
“He was on the seat next to me in the compartment,” the boy replied. “But he disappeared halfway through the trip, and... I couldn’t find him after that.”
Hermione pursed her lips, thoughtful.
“Well, don’t worry,” she said practically. “I’ve read that wizarding pets never get completely lost from their owners. He knows where you are, so sooner or later, he’ll turn up.”
The boy sighed again, not sounding very hopeful.
“I hope you’re right... Well, thanks again.”
At one point, they reached the edge of a large, dark lake, where an old, weathered wooden dock awaited them. The creak of the planks under their feet echoed through the night air as the students approached.
Hagrid opened a heavy door on the dock and gestured for the students to enter.
“As tradition goes, yeh’ll be takin’ the boats with me ter the castle. Each boat holds up ter four people. Step in slowly—mind the step!” Hagrid instructed, walking toward a large canoe that looked almost too small for his massive frame.
Harry watched, a bit apprehensively, as Hagrid climbed into the boat. All the students seemed to hold their breath, wondering how the boat wouldn’t sink under the giant’s weight. To everyone’s surprise, the boat sank quite a bit but not enough to submerge, and Hagrid seemed perfectly at ease, with no water splashing into the small canoe.
Harry and Hermione climbed into one of the boats.
“Mind if I join you?” the boy who’d been looking for his toad asked timidly.
Harry and Hermione nodded, letting him in. Behind him, looking a bit lost, was the red-haired boy, who hesitated before asking, “Er... can I come with you too?”
“Sure, hop in,” Harry said with a smile.
Once everyone was settled, the boats began to glide silently across the calm, serene surface of the lake, moving on their own as if obeying an invisible command.
“I didn’t introduce myself, did I?” the red-haired boy said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, I’m Ronald Weasley, but you can call me Ron.”
He had pale skin, which made the freckles on his face stand out even more, and his blue eyes seemed to shine in the soft light of the lantern at the front of the boat. His nose was slightly longer than average, and his slightly clumsy demeanor made him seem all the more genuine.
“Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself earlier either... I’m Neville—Neville Longbottom,” the other boy said quickly, his tone a bit nervous, as if he were still trying to fit in.
“Hermione Granger,” Hermione said, smiling politely and giving a slight nod.
“Harry Potter,” Harry added.
As soon as Harry’s name was spoken, the two boys in front of him exchanged quick glances, both surprised. Ron’s eyes widened, and he tried to hide his shock, but his voice betrayed his excitement.
“Harry Potter? So you’re really in our year?” Ron exclaimed, his voice full of enthusiasm.
Harry gave a half-smile, uncomfortable with the attention.
“Well... I guess so,” he replied, sounding a bit uncertain. “I’m here in the boat with you, aren’t I?”
Ron let out a muffled laugh, clearly trying to relax.
“Yeah, that was a bit of a daft question, sorry,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed. But his curiosity quickly took over again. “But, er, the scar... is it true?”
Harry nodded, brushing his hair aside to reveal the lightning-shaped scar. All three of them stared at it.
“Blimey, it really is shaped like a lightning bolt,” Ron said aloud, clearly impressed.
Before they could continue talking, an exclamation from another boat caught everyone’s attention.
“Hey, look!”
“Wow...” several students murmured in unison, turning their heads in the direction pointed.
And there it was. Hogwarts.
Harry’s eyes widened in awe. He had never seen anything so grand.
The castle rising before him was something out of a dream—or a magical fairy tale. Atop a steep hill, surrounded by the black lake, stood the magnificent stone fortress, its countless towers and turrets proudly reaching toward the sky. The windows glowed like jewels under the soft moonlight, each one casting a golden light against the dark backdrop of the night.
The castle seemed infinitely ancient, as if it had stood there for millennia. Its massive stone walls bore moss and the wear of centuries, but nothing about the castle seemed decayed—on the contrary, Hogwarts radiated an aura of wisdom and power. The tallest towers disappeared into the darkness of the starry sky, as if reaching for the stars, while the battlements and parapets gave it an air of invincibility.
It was a fortress that no time or force could ever bring down.
Harry remembered staying with Mrs. Figg when he was about six, while the Dursleys went to Disney in the States. He’d only seen the castles in the park through photos hanging on her wall, and now, seeing Hogwarts before him, he understood that those fantasy castles were nothing compared to the grandeur and majesty of the real castle before him.
This was definitely better than any trip to an enchanted park. After all, the magic here was real.
As they reached the docks, Hagrid led them once more.
“I’ll take yeh up ter the doors of the Great Hall. C’mon, up the steps!” he said, striding up the imposing stone staircase that led to the entrance of Hogwarts.
Inside, the corridors of Hogwarts were a maze of cold, ancient stone walls, illuminated by torches that cast dancing shadows along the way. Portraits of witches and wizards from times past watched them with curious eyes, moving subtly within their frames.
They arrived in front of a grand, thick wooden door, intricately carved. Harry guessed it was about seven or eight times his height. Hagrid organized them into two lines.
“Wait here, I’ll fetch Professor McGonagall,” he said before disappearing through the door.
At that moment, the arrogant blond boy, accompanied by two burly boys, approached the group.
“Pleasure, I’m Draco Malfoy,” he said in a forcedly friendly tone. “And these are Crabbe and Goyle. You must be Harry Potter, right?”
The way he introduced himself seemed extremely artificial, almost as if he were trying to recruit Harry for a business venture that was clearly a bad idea.
Ron noticed this and let out a stifled laugh.
Draco shot him a sharp look.
“What’s so funny? Is my name amusing?” He looked the redhead up and down, his expression turning disdainful. “Second-hand robes, red hair, pale and freckly... must be a Weasley, aren’t you? Well, at least I have something to be proud of in my name.”
The red-haired boy shrunk back, clearly uncomfortable with the derogatory comment.
Draco, ignoring this, extended his hand to Harry.
“You should align yourself with the right sort, Potter,” he said, trying to sound friendly again. “I can help you with that.”
Harry glanced at Ron, who still looked uneasy. Draco reminded him of Dudley more quickly than he could think—he was probably the type who liked to intimidate others.
Then he looked at the outstretched hand and back at Draco’s face, which wore a cold smile.
“I think I can figure out the right sort on my own,” Harry replied simply.
Draco’s expression froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing, and he withdrew his hand, clearly furious.
Before he could say anything, the sound of a throat being discreetly cleared made everyone turn around.
Professor McGonagall stood there, as imposing as Harry remembered, with Hagrid by her side. Her stern eyes scanned the students, but when they landed on Harry, she gave a subtle smile that he noticed.
“Everyone’s here, Professor. No issues,” said Hagrid.
“Excellent,” replied McGonagall.
Before she could say more, Neville’s eyebrows shot up as he spotted a brown toad near the professor.
“Trevor!” he exclaimed, stepping out of line to grab it.
He then noticed McGonagall’s pursed lips and disapproving gaze as she looked down at him. Silently, he scrambled back into line as quickly as he could.
“Very well—welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” she said with warm firmness. “I am Professor McGonagall, and I will now lead you to the Great Hall, where we hold all our meals in the castle. Please follow me.”
With a firm motion, the enormous wooden doors swung open.
Harry entered the Great Hall with the rest of the first-years, and the sight before him was simply breathtaking. He had never seen anything like it.
The vast hall was illuminated by silver chandeliers suspended above the two rows of tables that ran the length of the room, each representing one of the four houses, adorned with flags, colors, and crests that proudly identified them. The place was filled with students, all looking at the newcomers with curiosity and anticipation.
To the left were the Ravenclaws, in blue and bronze, while across from them, yellow and black represented the Hufflepuffs. The Gryffindors in red and gold sat to the right, opposite the green and silver of the Slytherins.
As he walked, Harry looked up and was mesmerized by the high ceiling, which displayed the night sky.
“The ceiling isn’t real, it’s enchanted. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History,” Hermione said casually to a few classmates, who gave her odd looks.
They advanced to the front of the Hall, stopping at the base of a short staircase leading to the staff table. At the center, seated in an ornate chair, was Albus Dumbledore, the wizard from the Chocolate Frog card, easily recognizable by his long white beard and twinkling eyes behind half-moon spectacles. He wore a purple robe, watching the students with serene kindness.
“He really does look like Father Christmas in pyjamas,” Harry thought amusedly, trying to stand still like the rest of the nervous, excited students.
In front of the staff table, a simple wooden stool awaited. Professor McGonagall summoned an old, patched hat, which appeared in her hands.
“We will now begin the Sorting Ceremony,” McGonagall announced. “For those who don’t know, Hogwarts is divided into four houses: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. You will sleep in your house dormitories, attend classes with your housemates, and share important moments together.”
“Throughout the year, each house will earn points for effort, achievements, and good deeds. And, similarly, lose points for rule-breaking and inappropriate behavior.”
Her stern gaze landed on a group of boys whispering at the back. They immediately straightened up.
“At the end of the year,” McGonagall continued, “the house with the most points will be awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope you all do your best to bring pride to your future houses.”
The first-years nodded eagerly.
“When I call your name, sit on the stool, and I will place the Sorting Hat on your head. It will decide which house you belong to,” she explained, unrolling a long scroll.
“Abbott, Hannah,” she called.
A blonde girl walked nervously to the stool. The Sorting Hat took a few seconds before declaring loudly:
“HUFFLEPUFF!”
The Hufflepuff table erupted in applause and cheers, startling Harry with the sudden break in silence.
“Bones, Susan,” McGonagall called. Again, the process repeated, with Susan also being placed in Hufflepuff.
The names continued to be called, each student sitting on the stool and anxiously awaiting the Hat’s decision, which sometimes murmured quietly, as if debating with the student before making its choice.
Terry Boot, Michael Corner, and Anthony Goldstein were among those sorted into Ravenclaw, while Vincent Crabbe and Daphne Greengrass went to Slytherin.
A while later, it was Hermione’s turn. Harry heard her whispering to herself, trying to calm her nerves as she climbed the steps.
The Hat swayed slowly, pondering something. Time passed, and the tension in the Hall grew.
Finally, after more than three long minutes, the Hat shouted:
“GRYFFINDOR!”
Neville was called shortly after, and after a brief internal debate with the Hat—not as long as Hermione’s—it declared:
“GRYFFINDOR!”
Harry, however, was nervous about where he would be placed. He really wanted to be in Gryffindor but feared his wishes wouldn’t matter to the Hat.
“Malfoy, Draco,” McGonagall called.
With an arrogant expression, the blond had barely sat down when the Hat made a sour face and, almost without touching him, exclaimed without hesitation:
“SLYTHERIN!”
The Slytherin table erupted in applause as Draco joined them, still wearing the same air of superiority as before. He didn’t even blink, already knowing he’d be chosen for that house.
Now Harry was certain: if Slytherin hadn’t been his preference before, it was completely out of the question now.
Just the thought of having to deal with that pit of arrogance made his stomach churn. He already had a Dudley Dursley on Privet Drive; he didn’t need another one at Hogwarts.
More names were called, and with each one, Harry felt his heart beat faster.
After Pansy Parkinson was sorted into Slytherin, the twins—Padma Patil to Ravenclaw and Parvati Patil to Gryffindor—were chosen. Finally, Professor McGonagall called:
“Potter, Harry.”
An immediate murmur swept through the Great Hall. Whispers and murmurs echoed from all directions.
“Is that him?”
“Harry Potter?”
“Where’s the scar?”
“I thought he’d be taller.”
Whispers and hushed conversations spread throughout the hall. The weight of over 250 curious eyes on him made Harry swallow hard.
Harry climbed the steps to the stool with his heart pounding in his chest. He felt almost shrunk into the chair.
He felt the weight of hundreds of gazes on him, each step increasing the pressure. He shot a quick glance at Professor McGonagall, who, with a small nod and an encouraging smile, seemed to say everything would be fine.
It didn’t help much—Harry’s hands were still sweaty, and his stomach felt like it was doing somersaults.
When McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head, something different happened.
The Hat let out a sound akin to a gasp of pure surprise.
“BY MERLIN’S BEARD!” the Hat exclaimed loudly, making Harry flinch.
The entire hall fell silent for a moment, and then whispers began to echo from all sides. Harry could hear the curious murmurs, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, his face burning with embarrassment.
He wanted to shrink, to disappear into the stool, but there was nowhere to hide.
“What went wrong?” he thought, half-desperate.
McGonagall seemed genuinely surprised. She adjusted her glasses and stepped closer, cautious. Dumbledore, meanwhile, watched with his bright, piercing eyes behind his half-moon spectacles as the Professors exchanged glances.
Suddenly, the Hat, which had seemed surprised, let out a soft chuckle. The sound reverberated gently through the silent, expectant hall.
“Ah... this is going to be interesting,” murmured the Sorting Hat, but it was as if it were speaking only to Harry. “I recognize this aura, Potter. It’s yours... obviously, only yours... but it’s been so long since I’ve felt something like this. So familiar... so similar…”
Harry swallowed hard, a chill running down his spine.
“What do you mean?” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
“But I didn’t expect to feel it again,” the Hat continued, ignoring Harry’s question, as if lost in its own thoughts. “This power, this inner strength... Ah, yes, I remember someone similar. Years ago... many years... when I sorted someone with a presence as striking as yours. He, too, was a shy young man, but older than you when he went to his house. The resemblance is striking.”
Harry frowned, now completely intrigued.
“Who are you talking about?” he couldn’t help but ask, curiosity overcoming his shyness.
The Hat hummed to itself, completely oblivious to Harry’s question.
“Now, let’s see... Yes, very difficult... very, very difficult. You have a lot of courage, that’s undeniable—too much, I’d say. But also... a need, almost desperate, to prove your worth, to show you belong in this world. That quiet ambition, almost... it’s strong in you, isn’t it?” The Hat paused, as if reflecting on what it had just said. “It’s not a bad thing, of course... And the talent, ah, the talent…”
Harry shifted uncomfortably on the stool. He had always thought being praised for his talent would feel good, but the idea of being ambitious, especially when thinking of Slytherin, made him uneasy.
“Slytherin...” the Hat said, as if reading his thoughts. “You’d do very well there, you know? The potential. The greatness you could achieve... The paths that would open for you. The house of snakes would be the ideal place—”
“NO!” Harry exclaimed, louder than he intended.
His voice echoed through the hall, making all eyes turn to him. He shrank back, blushing with embarrassment, wishing he could disappear into the stool.
“Please, anything but Slytherin,” he whispered, now almost desperate.
The Hat chuckled again, and the sound, once more, only Harry could hear.
“Ah, of course. You don’t want Slytherin... But why not?” The Hat seemed genuinely curious.
Harry clenched his eyes shut, as if that would push away the uncomfortable thoughts. He just wanted this to be over.
“I just... don’t want to go there... there are better people in other houses, and... and I feel like Slytherin isn’t my place.”
The Hat fell silent for a moment, as if pondering.
“It’s about who you’re tied to, isn’t it?” the Hat asked. “With that determination you carry?”
“My parents,” Harry murmured with a sigh. “I wanted to be in the same house they were in. I want to make them proud.”
“Well, well... you have strong convictions,” the Hat said, almost thoughtfully. “That’s admirable. A conviction like that could take you down other paths, too. Even if I think Slytherin would suit you best...”
Harry had never been a religious person, but at that moment, he began to pray silently, asking every god and prophet he knew not to be sent to that house.
“Not Slytherin... not Slytherin...” he repeated like a mantra, his eyes tightly shut.
“But... if you really don’t want Slytherin,” the Hat said, “then it can only be... GRYFFINDOR!”
The lions erupted in applause, the cheers of the Gryffindors echoing through the hall, but Harry barely heard them.
When the Hat was lifted from his head, his heart was still racing, and his mind was spinning.
Harry hurried to his new table, relieved, greeting several classmates who quickly introduced themselves. He sat down with the other first-years, next to the red-haired twins Fred and George.
He saw McGonagall give him a discreet smile, which he returned. Dumbledore, who had been watching him with twinkling eyes, gave him a wink and raised his goblet in a silent toast from afar.
Harry acknowledged it with a nod.
Hermione and Neville welcomed him with wide smiles.
Ron’s brothers, all red-haired and scattered along the table, looked at him while whispering amusedly about the Sorting.
“I bet 5 Galleons he’ll be in Hufflepuff,” said Fred, his tone confident.
“You’ve always been a terrible gambler, brother,” teased George with a mischievous smile. “I’ll bet 7 he’ll be in Gryffindor, like any other Weasley.”
“Deal! Easiest Galleons of my life,” replied Fred, puffing out his chest proudly.
“Galleons are always heavy bets,” commented Lee Jordan, their friend, with a skeptical look. “You sure about this, Fred?”
“I’m not betting Sickles or Knuts on my brother’s Sorting,” Fred explained with a playful grin. “These are once-in-a-lifetime moments.”
“Well, I think you should’ve... because you’re about to lose it all,” murmured George, a sly smile on his lips.
“Your overconfidence always gets you, Gred,” Fred shot back with a teasing tone.
At that moment, McGonagall’s voice cut through the air.
“Weasley, Ronald!”
Ron stood up, his nerves on edge, and climbed the steps to the stool. The Sorting Hat made a grimace as he approached.
“Another Weasley? By Merlin’s beard...” the Hat muttered under its breath, as if lamenting internally.
After a moment of silence, the Hat shouted with surprising intensity:
“GRYFFINDOR!”
“Bloody hell!” Fred exploded, his voice lost in the loud celebration of their house.
“The Hat must’ve heard your big mouth!” George laughed, while Fred, with a victorious smile, handed over a few golden coins.
Ron, now grinning from ear to ear, walked over to the Gryffindor table, where he was greeted with a ruffle of his hair by the twins. Fred, not satisfied, deliberately messed up his hair, leaving it sticking up in a hilarious way.
“I love you, little brother, but you just cost me 7 Galleons by not being a Hufflepuff!” Fred complained, his smile irrepressible.
“Ugh!” Ron made a disgusted face. “Good thing you’re the twin who always bets wrong.”
“Let him chew his nails, Ronnikins, come on, sit here!” George said, making space beside him with a welcoming gesture.
Percy, the other red-haired brother, also greeted his sibling at the table, giving him a proud pat on the shoulder. He was the same prefect who had been curt with Harry and Hermione at the station earlier, but now seemed more relaxed, though he still maintained his formal demeanor.
When the last first-year, Blaise Zabini, was sorted into Slytherin, McGonagall rolled up the scroll and put away the Hat as the Headmaster stood up, his arms open and a warm smile on his face.
“Ah, what a splendid evening!” he said cheerfully. “First, I would like to extend a warm welcome to our new students this year. May your learning and lessons, both within and beyond these walls, be the fruitful foundation for your bright futures.”
“I also extend my best wishes to the returning students and my dear colleagues,” he said, gesturing to the hall and then to the staff table.
“I know you must all be famished, but before we begin the feast, I must give a few announcements—as most of you are well aware.”
Dumbledore smiled slightly, but his eyes behind the half-moon spectacles were serious as they swept across the Great Hall.
“Firstly, I would like to remind our younger students and reiterate to our older ones: entering the Forbidden Forest remains, as the name suggests, strictly forbidden to all students. Pranks and tasteless jokes are also unacceptable and will be met with appropriate measures if repeated.”
His eyes landed specifically on Fred and George, who swallowed hard.
“Additionally, our dear caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to reinforce the general rules: it is expressly forbidden to cast aggressive spells in the school corridors. Only the most harmless spells, which do not compromise the safety or freedom of other students, are encouraged for you to practice and learn as much as you can. Tryouts for the house Quidditch teams will be held in the second week of term. Those wishing to participate should seek out Madam Hooch or their house captain for more information.”
“Finally, this year, the entrance to the right-hand corridor on the third floor is off-limits and out of bounds, unless you wish to die a very painful and unfortunate death,” he concluded grimly, as the silence grew uncomfortable with this macabre warning.
Everyone swallowed hard and nodded quickly, seeing the seriousness on the old Headmaster’s face. Harry, on the other hand, seemed amused, as did a few other first-years.
Where in a school would there be a risk of death? It could almost be seen as a bad joke.
“He can’t be serious, can he?” Harry whispered to Fred beside him.
“More serious than the most serious man could ever be,” Fred affirmed.
Harry stopped smiling immediately.
“He might be a bit off his rocker sometimes, but he knows what he’s talking about,” Fred continued. “You don’t mess with what he says—take it from me.”
Dumbledore smiled again, raising his hands once more.
“Now, before we begin the festivities, I would like to say: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!... Thank you!”
And as soon as he said those words, as if by magic—redundant as that may sound—plates of food appeared before everyone, along with dishes and cutlery.
“Wow!” Harry looked at the amount of food, shocked.
He had never seen so much food in one place, and everything looked so delicious that he didn’t even know where to start.
“Can I take as much as I want?” he asked the twins.
“As much as your heart desires, Harry,” said Fred, pouring himself some pumpkin juice.
“Fancy some roast?” George offered him a slice of venison.
It felt like Christmas had come early. One dish was better than the next—the potatoes were soft and buttery, the various meats all cooked to perfection. Harry, when it came to beef, preferred it rare, a habit he’d developed after not having much time to finish his meals before they were snatched away by his cousin, who always finished eating before Harry even sat down at the table.
But everything was simply delicious. The rice paired perfectly with the meat and the creamy cheese sauce, the colorful sautéed vegetables with green, red, and yellow peppers added an extra touch to the experience, and the pumpkin juice—which seemed to be the wizarding substitute for orange juice—was refreshing and delightful.
As he ate, Harry overheard the first-years at his table talking about blood purity, a topic that seemed to be on everyone’s lips that evening.
“I’m half-and-half,” Seamus said, his strong Irish accent evident as he took a bite of his baked potato. “Dad’s a Muggle, and when he found out Mum was a witch, he was so shocked he nearly fell over!” He laughed, making the other boys around him chuckle.
“What about you, Dean?” asked Neville, still sipping his pumpkin juice.
“Muggle-born,” Dean replied with a smile. “Found out I was a wizard four months ago. My mum’s been supportive the whole time. Had to explain why a glass exploded in the living room after West Ham lost to Arsenal. I was furious during that match.”
“West Ham? What’s that?” Ron asked, looking confused.
“It’s a football team,” Dean explained patiently. “It’s kind of like Quidditch, but for Muggles. I’ve been supporting them since I was four.”
The others nodded. Those who hadn’t had much contact with the Muggle world exchanged confused glances. Perhaps they were trying to imagine something similar to Quidditch but without magic or brooms.
Harry knew his Uncle Vernon and Dudley were fanatical about Arsenal. When their team won, he felt relieved to be left alone in his cupboard or wandering the garden. But when they lost... Well, that was another story.
The thought made Harry shudder, recalling some uncomfortable episodes.
“What about you, Harry?” Lavender asked, her voice drawing attention.
All the first-years turned to him, waiting for an answer.
“Huh?” Harry groaned, snapping out of his thoughts.
“What’s your blood status?” Lavender pressed.
He frowned, trying to understand the question.
“A-negative,” he replied, confused.
There was a moment of silence, and Harry noticed the students who had grown up in the wizarding world exchanging confused looks. The silence was broken by Dean’s muffled laughter and Hermione, who sighed and rolled her eyes.
“No, Harry,” she said patiently, “not your Muggle blood type. We’re talking about blood purity. You know, pure-blood, half-blood, or Muggle-born.”
“Oh, he’s not Muggle-born,” Seamus commented, shaking his head. “Everyone knows the story.”
Harry felt slightly uncomfortable with that. Being known for a tragedy that killed his parents wasn’t easy to handle. And knowing that everyone knew something about his life that he had only recently discovered himself only added to the discomfort.
“Uh... I... don’t know, to be honest,” Harry replied, his voice a bit quieter. “I just know my parents were wizards.”
The conversation continued, splitting into smaller groups, but Harry noticed he couldn’t shake the curious stares from some of the other students.
Then, out of nowhere, as he was cutting a piece of chicken pie, Harry was startled to notice a head silently observing him from across the table.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to startle you, young man!” said the man, floating gracefully above the table.
He had a magnificent mustache and goatee, his clothes were very dated, possibly from centuries ago, but what was most striking was that, aside from floating, he seemed somewhat translucent.
“Are you a ghost?” Harry asked cautiously.
“Of course, what else would I be, floating through this table? Alive, I could not be,” he said playfully. “But tell me, is the food good?” he asked, examining Harry’s plate with interest.
“Hey, Nick! How’s it going?” asked Fred.
“Peeves hasn’t been bothering you, I hope,” George raised an eyebrow.
“It’d be rude of him to start the year without us,” Fred added.
“Oh, I’m quite well, I no longer have a life to worry about,” the ghost commented casually. “And no, Peeves hasn’t bothered us yet. I spoke with the Baron, and we didn’t invite him to celebrate with us this year—he doesn’t know how to behave like a proper gentleman. I’ve always looked after Gryffindor, and having your first dinner here ruined by him would be a disgrace!”
“Wait, you’re Nearly Headless Nick!” Hermione pointed out. “I’ve read about you!”
“Ah, that nickname, Miss...” Nearly Headless Nick said, pursing his lips with a hint of disdain. “You may call me Nick, or Sir Nicholas, if you prefer. That’s more... comfortable.”
“If I may ask, how can someone be nearly headless?” Hermione asked, curiosity shining in her eyes.
Nick gave a somewhat macabre smile, as if preparing for a trick.
“Why... like this!”
Suddenly, he pulled his own head to the side with alarming ease.
His neck, visibly mangled and almost completely severed, was revealed in all its horrifying glory. The rotting flesh and jagged cut were still visible, almost as if the neck had been treated in a makeshift manner, and the flesh still stretched grotesquely.
Hermione let out a high-pitched squeak of surprise, her hands instinctively flying to her mouth in shock.
Nick, visibly pleased to have fulfilled his ghostly duties effectively, floated away with a certain pride toward the other house members, leaving Hermione slightly dazed and speechless.
“What was that?” Harry asked, his face twisted in disgust at the sight of the exposed neck.
“Well, each house—” began Fred.
“—has a ghost—” said George.
Each finishing the other’s sentence.
“—We’re lucky, as you can see—”
“—Nick’s a cool ghost, you’ll like him—”
“—Just don’t bring up the nearly headless thing—”
“—This is benefit number 43 on the list of perks of not being a Slytherin—”
“—The Bloody Baron scares even Peeves—”
“Bloody Baron?” Harry frowned.
“That bloke over there,” Fred pointed with his thumb to a disturbing ghost staring at Draco from the side as he ate uncomfortably.
He had a haunted face and clothes stained with translucent blood. Harry felt relieved to be sitting at the far end of the Great Hall at that moment.
“You mentioned Peeves—who’s he?” Harry asked, finishing his third and final plate of food after eating his mashed potatoes and peas.
The twins exchanged glances and laughed silently, amused.
“That guy’s special. You’ll meet him soon enough, I’d say,” George replied without going into detail.
“According to Hogwarts: A History,” Hermione began, inserting herself into the conversation, “Peeves is a poltergeist. They say he’s as old as the castle itself. He’s an agent of chaos and only plays pranks and tricks, usually in poor taste. They’ve tried to get rid of him many times, but it’s never worked.”
“She’s right,” the twins said in unison.
While Harry thought he was extremely satisfied after his third plate of food and two large glasses of pumpkin juice, he was surprised when all the nearly empty dishes were quickly replaced with desserts.
Puddings, caramels, and sweet pies appeared before him, and he somehow managed to make room for some of these enchanting treats.
As he enjoyed his chocolate pudding like a delicacy, he found himself silently observing the tables around him. Everyone was cheerful, enjoying the end of the feast, and it was comforting—being part of this place, wearing the “team” colors, and being able to proudly say he belonged somewhere.
As he smiled, feeling his heart warm and strangely comfortable on the hard wooden bench, he glanced at the staff table and noticed one of the professors watching him with a somewhat cold and indecipherable expression.
The man had long, greasy black hair that fell down the sides of his head. Beside him, with his back to Harry, Professor Quirrell—wearing his purple turban, whom Harry had met at the Leaky Cauldron—was speaking to him in private.
“Ow!” Harry let out a small, sharp cry as he felt his scar burn, instinctively bringing his hand to his forehead to rub it, trying to soothe the pain.
The strange professor saw him touch his forehead and gave Quirrell a penetrating, analytical look for a few seconds. He stared so intently that Quirrell turned around to see if something was there, giving a nervous smile.
“What’s wrong?” asked George beside him, eating a slice of chocolate and strawberry pie.
“Nothing—it’s nothing,” Harry replied. “Who’s that professor dressed in black?”
“Snape,” Fred answered for his brother.
“Professor Snape,” Hermione interjected, correcting the redhead.
“Professor Snape,” Fred said exaggeratedly, “is the Potions Master and has been aspiring to be the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor for years.”
“He’s been trying and failing,” George commented.
“Something smells fishy, brother,” Fred added.
“Could it be that he just can’t get the job because he’s incompetent?” George asked rhetorically.
“We theorize yes,” the two replied in unison, amused.
“Besides, he’s the head of Slytherin House—”
“—obviously, it couldn’t be otherwise—”
“—After all, a house with a sinister ghost—”
“—Naturally has to have a sinister head—”
“—He’s a bloke who... well, how do we sum him up in a few words, brother?”
“Basically, don’t bother him, and you’ll still do poorly. That’s the best advice we can give.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asked. “If I don’t bother him, I’ll still have trouble?”
The two nodded in unison.
“It’s just that if you do bother him, it’ll be worse,” they said together.
Harry stared at the professor, who averted his gaze and didn’t look at him again. Quirrell had also left the feast while Harry was talking to the twins.
His scar also stopped burning, which was a relief.
After everyone had finished eating, the Headmaster stood up once more from his chair.
He gave three loud claps, and all the dishes and leftover desserts were cleared away, leaving those who were still occasionally grabbing a few treats visibly disappointed, murmuring their discontent.
“Nothing better than eating in such good company,” he said dreamily. “Now that we’ve all eaten and chatted a bit, I’d like to ask our dear prefects to escort the students to their respective common rooms. It’s getting late, and it’s almost bedtime, so off to bed!”
As soon as he finished his announcement, many students stood up and began organizing themselves to leave the Hall.
The prefects shouted a few orders and asked everyone to follow them. Percy instructed the Gryffindors to follow him.
“Come on, Gryffindors! Everyone with me, the common room is far, and we can’t dawdle!” he said in a commanding tone, puffing out his chest as if trying to make his badge shine.
After the older students had left for their common rooms without needing the prefects’ help, the groups of first-years waited to leave in sequence, with Gryffindor being last due to the table arrangement.
They passed through the castle’s decorated corridors. The previously excited students, looking around in awe, were once again amazed by the grandeur of the halls and spaces, though not with the same intensity—most were already tired, and everyone had eaten very well.
Harry felt the weight of what he’d eaten as they climbed the fifth set of stairs.
“Be careful with these stairs; they sometimes move without warning,” Percy warned, pointing to the stairs as they ascended.
“Which floor is the common room on, Percy?” Ron asked, panting heavily—he’d also eaten more than he should have.
“Seventh floor. Didn’t I already tell you?”
“Seventh floor?” Neville asked incredulously. “Is it going to be like this every night?”
“Yes, you’d better get used to it. As they say: Practice makes the wizard,” Percy advised.
Before anyone could protest as they climbed the stairs, a bowling pin hit Neville on the forehead, almost causing the others behind him to fall as they saw him stagger backward, clutching his head.
“Ow! What was that?” he asked, only to be hit again, this time by a cane.
“Peeves,” Percy growled through his teeth. “Show yourself, Peeves!”
Laughing loudly, a little man dressed in garish, colorful orange clothes appeared, wearing a crooked top hat. Unlike the pearly, translucent ghosts, Peeves was fully visible, floating in the air with his fingers pointed at Neville while having fun.
“Firsties, little firsties! So sweet and tiny!” he sang.
He stretched his arms and legs as he twirled in the air, examining the first-years.
“What do we have here? A little balloon!” he pointed.
Neville turned red to the tips of his ears.
“And look at this one,” Peeves continued, pointing at Harry with a thin, mocking finger. “Four-eyes! A very curious specimen!”
Harry narrowed his eyes, displeased.
“Peeves!” Percy shouted, his face already as red as his hair. “Get out of here now!”
Peeves just laughed, putting his thumbs on his cheeks and pulling the corners of his mouth outward while sticking out his tongue.
“Oh, look at him, the little red pepper!” he mocked. “Became a prefect today and already thinks he’s in charge of me?”
Then, in a theatrical exaggeration, he widened his eyes and brought his hands to his face as if he’d been attacked.
“My eyes! That shiny badge! So polished, so gleaming! It burns, it burns!” He pretended to stagger in the air. “Red pepper! Have mercy!”
Ron let out a laugh but quickly quieted when Percy shot him a withering look.
Hermione, beside him, crossed her arms and frowned—laughing at a prefect while he was trying to assert authority was, at the very least, rude.
“Last warning, Peeves!” Percy threatened, his tone grave. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the Bloody Baron!”
Peeves stopped twirling and rested his chin on his hand, pretending to consider.
“Oh, alright, little pepper, I’ll make an effort, but only because you asked,” he said in a fake sweet voice before putting his hands on his hips. “But threatening to call the Bloody Baron is low! So, I hope you have a bad night too!”
And with one last shrill laugh, he disappeared into thin air.
Percy sighed before continuing up the stairs.
“That’s Peeves—and no, there’s no easy way to get rid of that thing. Either get used to his antics or threaten to call the Baron. That usually works to make him scram.”
The first-years continued climbing in silence, stopping in front of a large portrait at the end of a corridor. The woman in the painting was pale and wore a pink dress... as they’d been told, she was indeed the Fat Lady.
“Password?” she asked without looking at the prefect, casually filing her nails.
“Caput Draconis.”
And with that, the portrait swung open, and everyone entered.
The common room had a cozy and welcoming feel. The floor was dark wood, and the décor was dominated by red and gold. A large fireplace crackled, casting an orange glow, surrounded by a large sofa and inviting armchairs. On the walls, portraits of famous Gryffindors adorned the space, while the windows offered a view of the Scottish night.
Near the exit, a noticeboard displayed the school rules in golden letters for all to see.
Several students were still awake, chatting among themselves, though the expressions on their faces showed the weariness of the day’s journey. Some lounged on the comfortable armchairs, while others sat on the floor near the fireplace. One couple, particularly enamored, was kissing intensely in the corner of the room, making some first-years grimace in discomfort.
Harry couldn’t understand why teenagers felt the need to behave so desperately.
“The boys’ dormitory is to the right, and the girls’ is to the left,” Percy said, pointing with his hand. “Each of you has private bathrooms and shared rooms with your classmates. But there are also bathrooms through those doors over there if you need them.”
He shot a disdainful look at the amorous couple, as if preparing to enforce the rules of proper conduct soon.
Everyone glanced at the scene, but the couple seemed oblivious, lost in their own world, kissing as if nothing else mattered.
“I hope the interest in whatever those two are doing hasn’t arisen in any of you at this age,” Percy continued sternly. “But for your information, boys are not allowed in the girls’ dormitory. If you try, the stairs will turn into a very long slide, and you’ll be in trouble. Am I clear?”
All the first-years nodded silently. That definitely wasn’t something anyone there had thought about.
Harry wondered what exactly Percy meant by that. He couldn’t think of anything remotely fun or useful to do there.
After all, what could possibly be fun about it? Read their diaries? Steal a hairbrush? Listen to gossip about fashion and celebrities? Harry could think of more reasons not to go than to go.
It was also curious that Percy specifically warned the boys about not entering the girls’ dormitory, while the reverse didn’t seem to apply. He thought it might be a good idea to lock their dormitory door, just in case... what if a girl tried to get in?
Soon, all the students went upstairs to their rooms, passing through the spiral staircases.
Harry, Neville, Ron, Seamus, and Dean would share the same room, one of the seven in the boys’ tower—one room for each year. When they entered, all their belongings were already on their beds. Harry quickly found his—the one farthest from the door. Hedwig was still in her cage, chirping happily to see him.
The room was circular, with all five four-poster beds in red pushed against the walls, surrounding a wood-burning heater in the center for colder days.
Harry unlocked Hedwig’s cage, and she thanked him by gently nipping his finger before perching on the back of a chair beside his bed.
Besides him and Neville—who was relieved to have found Trevor—only Ron also had a pet: his loyal rat, Scabbers.
The boys wished each other goodnight before closing their bed curtains, plunging the dormitory into silent dimness. The only sound was the occasional rustle of sheets as they settled in to sleep.
But sleep eluded Harry. He tossed and turned, his mind still buzzing with everything that had happened that day—a true rollercoaster of emotions.
Finally, he gave up on trying to sleep and got up, going to the window. He leaned on the wide stone sill, gently stroking the soft feathers of his faithful friend, who chirped softly in response. The moon cast its silvery light over the landscape outside, giving the black lake an ethereal glow. In the distance, the mountains stood still and silent under the starry night.
Then, something broke the tranquility of the lake’s surface: a lazy tentacle rose from the darkness and slapped back down with a dull thud, sending ripples across the water. Harry swallowed hard, remembering that just a few hours ago, he’d been there—on that same lake, crossing it by boat.
For a long time, he stood there, letting his mind wander, absorbing every detail of what he’d experienced so far. And for the first time he could remember, he felt truly happy. He had a place. A place where he wouldn’t be treated like an intruder, where he wouldn’t have to shrink away from insults or disdainful looks.
He belonged at Hogwarts.
When sleep finally came, Harry opened the window a crack for Hedwig to fly out—knowing she’d find a place to stay until morning—and returned to his bed. He sank into the soft mattress, feeling the weight of the cozy duvet.
The silence of the dormitory was so different from the shouts and bangs that usually echoed at 4 Privet Drive. For the first time, he fell asleep without fear of what the next day would bring.
But the next morning, he would remember one small, subtle detail that his mornings with the Dursleys had poorly prepared him for.
For better or worse, he’d never had to wake up on his own—whether it was Dudley stomping up the stairs above his head, Aunt Petunia banging on his cupboard door, or Uncle Vernon grumbling early in the morning. Even in his room, his aunt would wake him by knocking on his door.
Unfortunately, at Hogwarts, there was no one to knock on the dormitory door—and alarm clocks, as Harry knew them, didn’t exist there. When he finally opened his eyes, he’d discover that even peace comes with a price.
Notes:
Yes, I know... Neville has blond hair in the books, but honestly, I’ve tried everything and I just can’t picture him as blond! Damn the movies and their adaptations! I even wrote him as blond in my "beta" version of the story, but I changed it based on personal preference. So, for those who like the original description... just imagine him that way and be happy!
Chapter 4: New Routine, Old Problems
Chapter Text
On the morning of September 2nd, Hogwarts awoke serenely in the Scottish hills, preparing for another school year with the vibrant energy of the start of term.
In the Great Hall, the students had already enjoyed a hearty breakfast, laughing and swapping jokes about their summer holidays while checking their bags to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything essential for the day.
And not long after breakfast, everyone was in their respective classrooms for the first lesson of the semester.
Everyone, except Harry Potter.
He felt the rays of sunlight breaking through the canopy and brushing his face with a warm glow. He stretched lazily, still yawning. Then, a troubling thought struck him.
“Wait... sunlight? Now?”
He frowned. The dormitory was strangely silent.
Where were Ron’s and Seamus’s snores? Why wasn’t anyone moving yet?
He pushed aside the canopy curtains and felt a chill run down his spine.
The dormitory was empty.
The other canopies were open, their curtains tied back or thrown aside. Some clothes, cloaks, and jumpers were carelessly scattered in the corners, signs of the beginnings of a massive mess in progress.
Harry looked out the window. The sun was already high in the sky.
His stomach dropped.
“Oh, no...”
He jumped out of bed in a panic.
“Bloody hell! Blimey! What time is it?!”
The panic finally took hold. He opened his trunk with trembling hands and began dressing at lightning speed.
“Brilliant, just brilliant! Oversleeping on the very first day? Of course, I’d do that!” he muttered to himself, trying to shove his head through the wrong hole in his shirt. “And to make it worse, the first lesson is with McGonagall! Fantastic!”
His heart pounded in his chest. It wasn’t his dormmates’ responsibility to wake him up, but couldn’t someone have at least kicked his mattress?
“Would I have woken anyone up?” he thought, pulling on his trousers while hopping awkwardly on one foot. “Well... probably not. I don’t really know them that well yet... Blimey!”
Mid-thought, as he pulled up his trousers, he lost his balance and fell to the floor with a dull thud.
“Ow!”
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain in his knee. Trevor, Neville’s toad, seemed completely indifferent to the scene, while Scabbers snored loudly on Ron’s pillow.
He tried to button his cuffs, but the tiny buttons were a challenge. Hermione had helped him with this on the train, and he’d nearly died of embarrassment asking a girl to do it, especially since, as a boy, he should’ve known how to do this sort of thing, right? Even though Vernon had never needed Aunt Petunia’s help with this, and Dudley was just too big to reach his own cuffs.
“Ah, sod it! Leave it like this,” he grumbled, giving up on the right cuff, which wouldn’t button properly since he couldn’t coordinate his left hand.
The tie was another disaster. He’d undone the knot the night before — another thing Hermione had kindly helped him with, determined to learn how to retie it the next morning.
Terrible idea.
Now, it hung loosely around his neck like a useless ribbon.
In the end, he was saved by his black robe and jumper, both bearing the Gryffindor crest, which hid the crooked collar, the undone buttons, and the awkward tie. His hair, well... that was a lost cause, and he didn’t even try to fix it.
He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder without ceremony, and bolted down the stairs.
He raced through the empty common room, comfortably warmed by the morning sun, like a whirlwind. He pushed the portrait of the Fat Lady open so hastily he nearly tore it off the wall.
“Hey! A bit of respect, boy!” she protested indignantly.
“Sorry!” Harry shouted over his shoulder, already sprinting down the corridor.
His feet hammered against the stone stairs and corridors as he ran as if his life depended on it. And, in a way, it did. Being caught by McGonagall for being late on the first day wasn’t part of his plans—and if it had been, it would’ve been a terrible plan.
“Congratulations, Potter,” he muttered to himself, dodging a group of bewildered students. “Making a fool of yourself on the very first day. Excellent!”
Descending to the first floor, he followed the vague directions Percy had given him the night before.
“When you reach the first floor, turn right at the statue of the knight with the sword and shield, then left at the portrait of the dancing wizard,” he’d explained. “The first door on the left is the Transfiguration classroom.”
It sounded simple, but in the midst of his sprint, Harry lost control before turning at the portrait of the dancing wizard.
The floor suddenly became as slippery as soap, and before he could react, he was thrown against the wall, nearly hitting the portrait in the process.
The impact sent him sprawling onto his back, and he let out a groan of pain. It was just his luck to fall twice in one day.
The blasted portrait started laughing at the stupid scene while continuing to dance.
“Who had the brilliant idea of pulling a prank here?” he thought.
His question was quickly answered when a familiar laugh echoed down the corridor.
“If it isn’t Four-Eyes! Not watching where you’re going?” Peeves said, barely containing his laughter.
Harry put his hand to his tingling face and felt no blood, at least he hadn’t broken his nose from the force of the impact, but when he opened his eyes, the left lens of his glasses was completely cracked.
“You broke my glasses!” Harry growled, getting up as quickly as he could. Now the floor wasn’t slippery anymore.
He glared at the poltergeist, who laughed even harder.
“So now it’s Three-Eyes! Can’t believe I’ve created a variant!” he replied as if it were the joke of the century before disappearing through the walls.
Harry huffed. He’d have time to be angry later. Grabbing his bag from the floor, he continued at a brisk pace to the classroom, wondering what he could possibly say to the professor, but there really was no valid excuse.
Harry opened the door as delicately as possible, but the loud, dragging creak echoed through the room like thunder. Every student turned to stare at him.
Today was definitely not his day.
The Slytherins, along with some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, covered their mouths to stifle laughter. The Gryffindors looked at him with expressions ranging from pity to embarrassment. Some of the girls just rolled their eyes before returning to their notes.
To his relief, Professor McGonagall wasn’t present. In her place, a tabby cat rested on the front desk, watching him with a stern gaze. The strangest detail, however, was that the feline was wearing glasses.
“Since when do cats wear glasses?” he thought, frowning.
Letting out a resigned sigh, Harry lowered his head and walked to the only empty seat in the front row, next to Hermione. When she saw him, she frowned and pursed her lips, clearly displeased.
Sitting down as quietly as possible, Harry pulled out his book, a roll of parchment, ink, and a quill from his bag, trying to ignore the sound of quills scratching hastily on paper.
Glancing at Hermione’s desk, he swallowed hard.
Her essay was already at least two hand spans long. How was it possible he’d missed so much in just twenty minutes?
“You look awful — and very late,” Hermione scrutinised him with a critical eye.
“No kidding,” he replied dryly.
She frowned, about to retort, but before she could, the cat on the desk leapt gracefully to the floor and, in an instant, transformed into Professor McGonagall.
Harry’s stomach sank.
“Shite...” he thought bitterly.
“Mr. Potter!” The sharp voice of the professor cut through the silence, making him flinch. “Could you tell me what time my lessons begin?”
“Yes, Professor...” he murmured, avoiding her gaze.
“And do you have a valid excuse for your tardiness?”
Harry hesitated. “No, Professor...”
A wave of giggles spread through the students sitting at the back of the room, but McGonagall shot them a stern look, and silence returned instantly.
“Five points from Gryffindor.”
The Gryffindors murmured in discontent, and Harry sank even further into his chair, cursing himself for not waking up earlier. However, when he looked up at McGonagall, he noticed a brief flicker of understanding in her expression before she sighed and, with a wave of her wand, fixed the lens of his glasses.
“Miss Granger, please explain to Mr. Potter what he needs to do.”
“Of course, Professor,” Hermione replied automatically before turning to him.
The exercise was relatively simple: write an explanation about the Transfiguration alphabet and the introductory concepts of the subject. It was all in the book — a book he’d already read but, to his dismay, hadn’t understood much of.
In short? He’d probably missed the fundamental explanation that would’ve made the essay even remotely comprehensible. To make matters worse, his time was now far too limited to learn anything before having to hand in the parchment.
He picked up the quill and spent a good while just staring at the blank parchment.
“Well, at least I know how to write my name correctly,” he thought, scribbling it slowly. “I’ll figure out the rest later.”
Already terribly behind, Harry began writing the essay, but even with effort, he couldn’t fill even half of what Hermione had already produced. Truth be told, he’d never copied from anyone before, but his need outweighed his ethics.
He leaned subtly and peeked at her essay.
Hermione’s handwriting was impeccable, and her text read more like an academic paper than a school assignment. Anyone reading it could easily assume it was an article written by the professor himself.
Hermione noticed and immediately frowned, huffing before turning her head and tossing her hair over the parchment, blocking his view.
Harry sighed.
“Brilliant... just brilliant...” he muttered in his thoughts.
The time for the exercise ended before he could even organise his thoughts, and he handed in a piece of work that even he struggled to read. McGonagall resumed explaining the basic concepts of Transfiguration, and Harry quickly realised her explanation was far clearer than the book’s.
“Now, I want you to practise the Transfiguration spell I just explained,” McGonagall instructed. “Try turning your matchsticks into needles. Take your time. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to perfect this.”
Harry picked up his wand, looked at the matchstick, and made the motion with precision, murmuring the incantation.
To his surprise — and everyone else’s — the matchstick transformed perfectly into a needle on the first try.
There was a brief silence.
Hermione raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed.
McGonagall, meanwhile, allowed a small smile of approval.
“Very well, Mr. Potter. Ten points to Gryffindor — a perfect needle.”
Harry couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction. At least he’d regained the points he’d lost... and, perhaps, even impressed the professor.
Hermione narrowed her eyes, determined, and with a firm flick of her wand, transfigured her matchstick into a needle right after.
“Excellent, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor.”
Harry shot an amused look at Hermione, who crossed her arms and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
The day hadn’t started well, but at least it ended with a small triumph.
Leaving the Transfiguration classroom, Harry and Hermione made their way through the corridors towards their next lesson, Charms.
The castle buzzed with students moving to and fro, chatting animatedly or hurrying to avoid being late.
“Don’t try to copy off me, I hate that,” said Hermione, giving him a stern look.
“Sorry, really sorry,” Harry apologised, running a hand through his hair. “But I didn’t know anything about the subject — I told you that before — and you’d written what looked like two floors’ worth of stuff.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t know anything about Transfiguration and yet you managed to turn a matchstick into a needle on your first try?”
“Didn’t know I’d get it right the first time,” he replied, shrugging.
Hermione sighed but reluctantly agreed.
“Yeah, alright... But you were very late,” she said. “Be careful with that. The professors hate tardiness and deduct points — some more than others.”
Harry frowned. He’d only been twenty minutes late, not two weeks.
“How do you know? We’ve only had one lesson.”
“When you didn’t show up, everyone started whispering about it, and the professor made a point of warning us quite firmly.”
“How wonderful. I even thought about jumping through the window — maybe that would’ve drawn less attention — but I didn’t have time,” Harry remarked sarcastically.
They dodged two burly sixth-year Hufflepuffs who passed by laughing at some particularly funny joke.
“There’s a spell that makes you wake up at whatever time you want. That way, you won’t risk being late again,” Hermione suggested, giving him a quick glance. “I can teach you, if you like.”
“Well, considering the day I’ve had, I might need to know it,” he said with a light laugh.
Hermione nodded but then frowned.
“Seriously, you’re still a mess,” she commented, giving him an appraising look from head to toe. “Fix your tie.”
Harry looked down and realised his tie was just draped around his neck, completely crooked.
“Erm... to be honest, I don’t know how to tie it properly,” he admitted, a little embarrassed.
Hermione stopped walking and held out her hand.
“What?” he asked, confused.
“Give it here,” she said impatiently.
Harry hesitated for a second but eventually took off his tie and handed it to her. With quick, precise movements, Hermione tied the perfect knot, as if she’d done it a thousand times before. He could barely keep up with her nimble fingers.
“There,” she said, handing the tie back. “Now just fix your collar.”
“Thanks,” said Harry, smiling genuinely as he adjusted the tie around his neck.
Hermione smiled back, looking satisfied.
“You’re welcome. Now let’s go before we’re late,” she replied, already walking again. “And while you’re at it, finish buttoning your cuff — I can see it’s undone. No use hiding it,” she said authoritatively.
When they arrived at the Charms classroom, they were greeted by Professor Flitwick, a man of diminutive stature but with a vibrant presence and a contagious smile.
Harry immediately felt a connection with the professor — there was something comforting about him, as if he were genuinely eager to see his students learn.
Professor Flitwick explained the concepts of spellcasting clearly and engagingly. He demonstrated basic wand movements and the fundamentals of channelling magic, but said that this first lesson was just an introduction to the subject, and they’d practise more in the coming lessons.
“Now, I’ll explain the theory of the simple vertical movement! — pay close attention!”
Hermione, beside him, would raise her hand to answer before the professor even finished formulating the question. Harry, too focused on his notes, managed to answer only two, but it earned Gryffindor a few points.
Other students also answered, but none came close to Hermione’s intensity.
They had a great lunch, and the food was simply marvellous. Harry had to admit it was much better than Aunt Petunia’s cooking, whoever the chef was, they deserved praise.
Harry noticed that none of the students at his table seemed to want to talk much to him except Hermione. In fact, the only one who even gave him looks was Neville, but he was far away and seemed too shy, barely speaking to anyone.
She spoke animatedly about the library and said she wanted to go there before the afternoon lessons.
Harry asked if he could join, and she accepted his company with a smile. Upon entering, he was awestruck by the size of the library.
It was simply enormous. The hall was vast, with high ceilings. The dark wooden shelves, polished and ornate, lined up in rows from floor to ceiling.
Floating candle chandeliers illuminated the place with a warm, yellowish light. On some tables, crystal globes projected a soft glow, ideal for reading. There was even a second floor, accessible by two spiral staircases leading to more private study tables.
Hermione, beside Harry, seemed in ecstasy, as if she’d entered a hidden treasure room. Her eyes sparkled as she ran her fingers along the spines of the books, many of which were so old that the golden letters of the titles were worn away. Harry, on the other hand, felt small in the face of all that vast knowledge.
He’d never seen so many books in one place.
“It’s a library, what did you expect, Potter?” He thought, laughing at himself.
Few students were in the library — Harry counted those he saw on one hand — and they weren’t nearly enough to fill the space. He wondered, feeling the irony, who in their right mind would be in the school library on the first day of lessons?
“Three books at once?” Harry asked, laughing as he watched her pick up heavy tomes and stack them on her chest.
“It’s just to get ahead with my studies,” Hermione replied, her eyes shining.
“And what did you get?” Harry asked.
Hermione carried the books and dropped them heavily on the table, as if she’d been carrying sacks of cement, sighing, exhausted from the effort it took to bring them.
“Actually, it’s just supplementary reading,” she shrugged, proudly showing the thick volumes that looked older than the headmaster himself. “Theory of Charms: Volume One, Fundamental Magical Concepts, by Lidian Markal, and The Basics of Transfiguration, by Galvin Vitrion.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, amused.
“If that’s supplementary reading, what are your required readings?”
She sat down without losing her posture, opening the hefty volume of The Basics of Transfiguration with care, which creaked as if it hadn’t been opened in a long time.
“Just so you know, I have a whole list of what I want to read,” she said firmly. “Besides, I just couldn’t buy all the books I wanted before because it wouldn’t have been possible to bring them.”
“If on the first day you’ve already picked three... well,” he paused and gestured to the enormous, heavy tomes. “By my calculations, you’ll finish this library by fifth year, probably.”
Hermione bit her lip, thoughtful.
“No, probably not... the restricted section is only accessible in fifth year. There wouldn’t be enough time to see everything,” she replied honestly.
“She didn’t get the joke...” he thought, simply nodding at her explanation.
Harry was more reserved in his choice, opting for a Potions book that caught his eye, mainly because of the animated illustrations that moved smoothly across the pages, showing practical demonstrations of the preparations.
Although he’d never been an avid reader, it wasn’t for lack of interest but rather lack of opportunity. Growing up at the Dursleys’, he rarely had access to books, except for the old, battered ones he inherited from Dudley, who, in turn, hated reading. The few times Harry had truly immersed himself in a book were due to the required readings at his Muggle school, and even then, never with much enthusiasm.
While casually flipping through the Potions book like one would a comic, Harry glanced at the other sections of the library from his table, until his eyes landed on that forbidden area, the restricted section.
A sign placed on a stand by the entrance to that special section — which was fenced off, explicitly stated that students from first to fourth year were prohibited from entering and reading any of the tomes inside. He felt a pang of curiosity about what exactly the school didn’t want to reveal to them until later. Harry even thought it might be due to the complexity of the subjects but quickly dismissed that idea when, on the same shelf that contained basic spellbooks, there were also massive tomes of advanced concepts whose titles alone Harry couldn’t understand.
He sighed and pushed that thought aside. He was in the library and still hadn’t read a single word of his chosen book. Harry focused on the small Potions book, thinking it might be better not to overwhelm himself with too much work right away.
He wasn’t Hermione, who seemed to devour books as if they were a feast.
The two settled at a quiet table in the centre of the library and immersed themselves in reading. There was something comforting about the shared silence, and for a few moments, Harry managed to forget the worries of the day. But then, his mind wandered to the previous night — the intense pain he’d felt in his scar when he saw Professor Snape.
He couldn’t stop wondering if it meant something, or if it was just a coincidence, as it had happened before on the darkest nights and most terrible nightmares — his scar tingling slightly, though he had to admit it had never been as strong, as if someone had plunged a hot knife into the mark.
He tried to focus more on his book, but it was in vain. That thought stayed with him until the next lesson: Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell.
Entering the classroom, Harry immediately noticed the exotic atmosphere.
All the curtains were drawn, leaving the space almost in darkness, illuminated by candles and the faint rays of light that still seeped through the fabric of the curtains. The strong smell of garlic permeated the air. It was uncomfortable and stinky, to say the least.
When everyone had sat down, Quirrell entered nervously a while later, with short, hesitant steps, and began introducing himself.
“I-I know you might be feeling a s-strange smell,” the stuttering professor said. “It’s g-garlic... after I met v-v-vampires in Albania, it’s better to be safe, right?” he laughed alone.
Harry had overheard in one of the twins’ conversations at dinner the previous night that Quirrell had spent a year travelling the world to “gain first-hand experience,” as he himself had put it.
Before that, he’d been the Muggle Studies professor — an elective third-year subject, and when he returned to Hogwarts that same year, the older students whispered among themselves that he seemed to have gone a bit mad, the stutter, the turban, and the fear of his own shadow being some of the traits he’d brought back as a result of that trip.
The lesson was... peculiar.
The professor stuttered so much it was almost impossible to understand what he was saying. To make matters worse, Quirrell chose to make the first lesson a long lecture about how many dark wizards were misunderstood.
Harry frowned.
“Misunderstood? What does that even mean?” he thought quickly.
He noted down what he could, but something about that lesson just felt... wrong.
When he looked at Hermione beside him, he saw the same confusion he felt at certain moments, but she still maintained a determined look as she wrote everything down.
It felt like an eternity had passed when the lesson finally ended. He stood up only to see many drowsy and confused faces.
The last lesson of the day promised to be a true test of patience: a double Potions lesson with Professor Snape, deep in the dungeons. Harry hoped, with a sliver of optimism, that they might brew a potion right away, but considering how the first lessons of Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts had gone, he had serious doubts.
“Just don’t let it be another lecture, please,” he muttered to himself as they descended the stone stairs.
For some reason that defied all logic, someone had decided that a common room — and, of course, it had to be Slytherin’s, because what other house would choose a place like that? — should be down there, in the dark dungeons of the castle.
As if that weren’t enough, they’d also thrown a few classrooms into that cold, cavernous environment, where the air was thick and the light seemed sucked away by the stone walls. Another excellent reason, Harry thought, to be thankful he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin.
Harry, feeling the temperature drop, hugged his school robe in an attempt to retain some warmth, failing miserably and watching other students having the same problem. Hermione shivered slightly from the cold and hugged the book she was carrying to her chest even tighter, hoping it would bring more comfort.
He didn’t even want to think about studying in that place during the coldest depths of Scottish winter in mid-January.
Upon entering the classroom, it seemed to have gotten worse. The cold remained the same, but now all the students were faced with endless shelves containing various animals and things Harry couldn’t identify in preservation jars. A brain, various eyes of different sizes, tongues, and frog feet were some of the many oddities floating in a dirty green, viscous liquid.
Everyone settled at their desks, waiting for the professor to arrive. Gradually, the students began to chat, laugh, and crack jokes.
The relaxed atmosphere took over the room, with small groups forming naturally. Harry sat next to Hermione, while they whispered quietly.
BANG!
The classroom door burst open with a sudden crash, as if a strong wind had blown it open.
It was Professor Snape, who entered the room with a flick of his wand, silencing the class instantly.
Snape was a tall man with sallow skin and black eyes that seemed to pierce each student like sharp blades. His face was expressionless, bored. He had a large, hooked nose, yellowed and uneven teeth that he never displayed in a genuine smile, according to the twins. His long black robes billowed behind him as he walked, giving him the impression of a living shadow gliding through the room, always lurking.
“I do not tolerate jokes, pranks, or side conversations in my classroom,” his low, hissing voice filled the room. “If you have questions, raise your hand.”
He approached the blackboard slowly, and with a precise turn on his heels, faced the class with a cold, calculating gaze.
His black eyes swept the room, and he looked at each of them with an unreadable expression.
“I will be teaching you Potions, as you well know,” he spoke slowly. “I do not expect you to understand the subtle beauty... and the art of observing a simmering cauldron. Nor the infinite possibilities that a skilful mixture can provide.”
Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Snape seemed to have a knack for creating an unbearable tension, but it was impossible to look away or relax in the chair.
“I can even teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory... even stopper death,” Snape continued, emphasising each of these impossible promises with a more penetrating gaze. “If... and only if... you are not like the other incompetent dunderheads I am forced to teach.”
He let the last words escape like venom, while his expression remained unchanged, cold as stone.
Hermione, beside Harry, was visibly uneasy.
Her fingers drummed on her knee while her eyes scanned every word Snape spoke, absorbing everything, as if preparing for a chance to prove she wasn’t one of those “incompetents” he mentioned. She seemed torn between anxiety and the determination to show the professor she was different.
Harry, on the other hand, felt a mix of curiosity and discomfort.
He did know a bit about potions — at least what his textbook said, but the way Snape spoke of the possibilities intrigued him.
“Surely this must be a marketing strategy to get us interested,” thought Harry. “Like those ads Aunt Petunia believes make cleaning products do everything, but when she uses them, they don’t.”
He continued taking notes, however, jotting down all the possibilities potions could offer. While Snape was still speaking.
“... and another thing I do not tolerate is people not paying attention while I am speaking!” Snape said in a louder, firmer tone.
Harry didn’t realise he was looking at him, while his scribbles on the parchment echoed in the silent room.
Harry frowned.
“How on earth do you bottle fame? That doesn’t make sense,” he reflected, reading his notes.
He felt a sharp elbow jab from Hermione on his shoulder.
Looking up, he found himself face-to-face with the professor staring at him like a viper about to strike.
He swallowed hard.
“Potter,” Snape said suddenly, and the silence that already filled the room seemed to deepen. “Our newest... celebrity.”
The students held their breath, as if the tension in the room had become palpable, while Draco Malfoy and his two goons, Crabbe and Goyle, stifled laughter behind their hands.
Harry felt the weight of Snape’s cold, penetrating gaze on him like a sharp blade.
“Tell me, since you’re so clever that you don’t want to pay attention to what I’m saying, you must be an expert on the subject.”
Snape leaned forward slightly, crossing his arms and maintaining a look of superiority, keeping control.
“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” The professor pronounced the words with glacial precision.
Harry cleared his throat, feeling a lump form. He had read the Potions book, not completely but remembered several details.
He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Hermione jump with her hand raised, but Snape completely ignored her, his eyes fixed on Harry, challenging him to answer.
“You’d get... the Draught of Living Death, sir,” he replied in a low voice.
Snape raised an eyebrow, but his expression remained cold and hard.
“Correct,” he said slowly, as if it were against his will to acknowledge the right answer. “Though it was with an unacceptable hesitation.”
He stepped back a little, as if his interest in Harry had diminished, but his cutting voice continued.
“Now, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”
Hermione nearly leapt out of her seat, her hand once again in the air and her lips pressed together, seeming to hold back the words she wanted to say. She bit her lower lip so hard it looked like she might hurt herself, but Snape didn’t look at her for a second.
He was entirely focused on Harry, waiting impassively, his face expressionless, but his eyes gleaming with a faint cruel satisfaction.
“A... bezoar...” Harry began, feeling the heat rise to his face.
He knew he’d read about it, but the pressure from Snape and the oppressive silence of the room left him confused.
“In a goat?” he replied, but his voice sounded more like an uncertain question.
Snape pursed his thin lips into a sneer.
“Where in a goat, Potter?” His voice now held a slight irony, as if he were enjoying himself.
“I... I don’t know, sir,” Harry murmured, feeling his stomach sink.
Snape stepped back once more, shaking his head with disdain.
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk,” he said in a low tone, but it echoed through the room.
“You would find it in the stomach of a goat or a ram,” he slowly replied, glaring at the class, who swallowed hard, all except the Slytherins. “If you barely know where to find it, I won’t ask what it’s used for, you probably don’t know that either.”
Hermione waved her hand up again and, like the other times, was ignored.
Snape then turned back to Harry.
“And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
Harry remembered a passage from the book.
“I think... they’re the same thing,” he said, his voice gaining a bit more firmness. “They’re different names for aconite.”
The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Snape, waiting for his reaction. Snape stood still for a moment, staring at Harry as if assessing the depth of his knowledge. For a second, Harry thought he would explode with more criticism, but Snape’s face remained expressionless.
“At least you’re not completely ignorant.” He turned on his heel with an abrupt movement, his black robes swishing, and walked back to the front of the room.
Hermione, still with her hand raised, now looked anxious, almost trembling with the desire to answer something.
Snape turned to face the class again, arms crossed, his hard gaze fixed on her.
“Those who have the foolishness to believe they know more than their books,” he began, his cutting voice filling the room, “will not last in this class.”
He shot a icy look at Hermione.
“Lower your hand, Granger. This is not a competition of who raises their hand the fastest,” he said with sarcasm dripping from his voice.
Hermione slowly lowered her hand, her face slightly flushed, causing more stifled laughter to break out from the back of the room, this time from some Gryffindors as well.
“Now, open your books to page 23 and start taking notes. You will later brew the Cure for Boils potion. This will be your first practical attempt in this room.”
He turned to the blackboard, where the instructions were already magically appearing with a flick of his wand.
As Harry opened his book, he noticed the room remained suffocatingly silent, except for the sound of quills scratching parchment as the students began copying the instructions.
He wondered if Snape would, at some point, explain the concepts written on the board. However, to his disappointment, the lesson was simply a series of silent note-taking. He copied what was written, while occasionally feeling the professor’s icy gaze land on him. Snape said nothing, but his eyes seemed to assess him coldly.
Despite the discomfort, Harry noticed with relief that his scar didn’t burn like it had the night before. Perhaps it had just been a coincidence, he thought, as he jotted down something about the properties of porcupine quills for the potion.
Later, the Potions classroom was stifling, with the smell of bubbling mixtures hanging in the air like a thick, nauseating blanket.
The stone walls made the environment even more oppressive, and the silence was broken only by the sound of quills scratching parchment and the bubbling of cauldrons. Snape circled the room like a silent shadow, his dark, penetrating eyes watching each student with almost palpable disdain.
Harry was struggling. The first lesson had introduced the theory of the potion, its ingredients and processes, but it all seemed like an unsolved riddle. Without bothering to explain the concepts, Snape made the fancy words written on the board seem like an alien language.
He found himself lost, his eyes running over his notes while trying, in vain, to understand something. Fortunately, Hermione, his cauldron partner, seemed to master every detail, her eyes focused and her hands working with almost obsessive precision.
When they began brewing the Cure for Boils potion, Harry barely had a chance to touch the ingredients.
Hermione, determined, looked at him with an encouraging smile.
“Harry, first, stir the cauldron,” she said, her voice clear and confident. “That will help mix the ingredients evenly.”
He obeyed, swirling the wooden spoon in the thick mixture.
“Don’t you think we should—” he began to ask, but she quickly interjected.
“It’s important to crush the snake fangs before adding them,” Hermione explained, pointing to the mortar. “That way, they release their healing properties.”
“Right, that makes sense,” Harry replied, trying to focus as he did what she suggested.
“Great! And remember, add the fangs slowly to avoid the potion bubbling over,” she continued, not taking her eyes off the cauldron. “We’re doing well, aren’t we?”
But before he could agree, Snape’s sharp voice echoed through the room.
“Please, avoid unnecessary chatter, Miss Granger,” he snarled, making both of them jump. “The potion is not a word game; if you spent less time thinking about whether you’re doing everything right and more time practising, perhaps you wouldn’t have to worry about giving so many orders.”
After the professor left, she continued to instruct, but in a whisper.
It was frustrating.
Harry had to agree a little with Snape; he felt like an assistant, almost useless, and Hermione’s meticulousness was starting to make him tense. Her nervousness didn’t help... perhaps it was just her way of dealing with the first day of lessons, but she clearly wanted to show she was capable of doing all that and more, just being anxious to demonstrate it.
When the potion was finally ready, after several instructions and corrections, Harry felt sweat dripping down his forehead. The room was unbearably hot, and even the floor seemed slippery.
Relieved they’d finished, his satisfaction didn’t last long.
SPLASH!
“AAH!”
A crash and a scream echoed through the dungeon, interrupting the sound of quills scratching parchment and the bubbling of cauldrons.
“You idiot!” Snape’s icy voice cut through the air like a blade.
Everyone turned, eyes wide.
Neville, pale as parchment and sweating profusely, stood next to Ron, who was staring in horror at his own cauldron—or what was left of it. The bottom had completely melted, leaving a thick, putrid liquid oozing over the stone table. A sour, unbearable smell filled the room. Neville let out a groan of pain, raising his hand covered in huge, red boils.
Snape swept forward like a black shadow, his robes billowing and dispersing the smoke still rising from the disaster.
“Never add porcupine quills before removing the cauldron from the fire! Do you want to kill yourself and take your classmate with you?” he snarled, his cold gaze piercing Neville.
Neville opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words came out. He just shrunk back, his expression twisted in pain.
“Ten points from Gryffindor for your absurd carelessness!” Snape declared, disdain dripping from every syllable.
Neville blinked rapidly, clearly holding back tears. His hands were trembling so much he could barely hold them to his chest.
Ron, beside him, seemed torn between comforting Neville and shooting a furious look at Snape. His face was so pale his freckles seemed even more pronounced.
Snape shot one last cutting look at the two before raising his chin and saying coldly:
“I will take him to the hospital wing myself.”
He pointed to the door, already turning to leave, but not before barking:
“Class dismissed!”
The students exchanged apprehensive glances.
Ron gave Neville a hesitant pat on the back as he walked away.
“Don’t worry, mate... I don’t think your hand will necrotise.”
Neville shot him a look of terror.
“Saying that doesn’t reassure me,” he murmured.
The students began to rise and leave, looking at Neville with some pity. Harry glanced at Hermione, who was frowning, clearly shaken by the disaster in class.
When they finally left the cold, damp dungeons, Harry felt immediate relief, as if he could breathe again. The fresh air of the corridors seemed to free him from the oppressive weight of that horrible lesson.
“If I can help it, I’ll never go back there,” he thought.
Harry had to admit, that thought didn’t seem very good, especially for the first lesson of many, and the first year of many years in that dungeon with Snape.
Hermione glanced at him sideways, her forehead slightly furrowed in concentration.
“What did you think of the lesson?” she asked almost casually, but there was genuine curiosity in her brown eyes.
Harry sighed, rubbing his face as if it could erase the memory of the Potions class.
“I don’t know... I thought it’d be cooler, to be honest,” he replied, frustration marking his words. “I mean, the subject is interesting, but Snape—”
“Professor Snape,” Hermione corrected quickly.
“Anyway... he didn’t really teach us anything. Just left us to figure it out on our own.” He shrugged, making a face and sniffing slightly, noticing a strange smell, bringing his robe to his nose and realising it reeked of whatever was in that room.
Probably Neville and Ron’s ruined mixture had stunk up everyone’s clothes.
Hermione let out a sad sigh, her gaze falling to the floor.
“I felt sorry for Neville,” she said softly, fidgeting with her fingers as if she were nervous. “He looked so scared, and the professor... well, he just pressured him more instead of helping. I saw he was hovering around their table more than the others.”
Harry nodded. He always considered himself shy, but Neville seemed to be on another level.
“Neville seems nice, too bad he doesn’t seem to talk much,” Harry shrugged.
Hermione agreed. “I’ll tell him later that if he needs help with Potions, I can help him.”
“Right, and what do you want to do now? I was thinking of resting a bit... maybe going outside, what do you think?”
Hermione stopped abruptly and looked at him with an expression of astonishment, her eyebrows raised almost comically.
“Rest? You’re not going to do your homework?” she asked, incredulous. “We already have Transfiguration, Charms, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. If you let it pile up, you’ll get in a mess.”
Harry gave a crooked smile, half amused, half tired.
“Well, I would, but it’s the first day of lessons, isn’t it? Can’t we enjoy the place a bit first? I don’t know, we’ve barely explored the castle yet.” He looked outside, at the lawn bathed in the late afternoon sun. “I was thinking of exploring a bit... maybe read outside, on the grass.”
Hermione shook her head.
“No, I prefer the library,” she said. “I want to finish my homework today.”
Harry just sighed and shrugged.
“Alright, I’ll take a walk, see you later?”
“Sure, that’s fine,” she said.
As Hermione climbed the stairs towards the third floor, Harry headed outside. The Potions lesson had left a bitter taste, but he hoped the fresh air would clear his mind a bit.
The wind outside began to blow with unexpected force, making the trees sway and releasing orange leaves that danced through the air before gracefully falling to the ground. The scene was beautiful, with the neatly trimmed grass and the ancient castle's decorations, its moss-covered stones, but the late afternoon chill began to bite at his skin, making his muscles stiffen.
He was sitting on the grass with a book in his hands. After a few minutes of trying to ignore the discomfort, he closed the book, thinking it would be better to go back inside and try to find Hermione.
“Well, well, what do we have here, lads?”
Harry turned, coming face-to-face with Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle, all wearing smug grins of superiority.
He had already noticed how Snape treated the Slytherins differently; Crabbe and Goyle didn’t seem to be the brightest, and Harry wondered if someone hadn’t been helping them, they’d probably be in the hospital wing instead of Neville.
“You thought you’d find the right people on your own,” Draco continued, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Looks like you’re alone, just as I expected. No one ‘right’ around, eh?”
Harry’s blood boiled, but he remembered the Dursleys’ taunts and decided silence might be his best defence. So, he looked at Draco with an expressionless face, trying to stay calm.
Draco frowned, displeased with the lack of reaction.
“What’s the matter? Have you gone so stupid you’ve forgotten how to speak?” he taunted.
“Excuse me, Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice tense, trying to step past the three.
Before he could take a step, Goyle moved in front of him, crossing his arms, clearly trying to block him. Harry’s heart raced; this wasn’t a good sign, it never was.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Potter!” Draco stepped closer, his face twisted in anger. “Do you know who I am? Who do you think you are to ignore me?”
“I don’t want to fight. Just let me pass!” Harry replied, trying to control the rising tension.
Draco smiled venomously.
“I don’t care what you want,” he said coldly. “Your insufferable friend managed to annoy everyone in this school on the first day, so I’m doing everyone a favour. I’m just showing them who you really are.”
Who he really was? What the hell was this guy on about?
Harry frowned, confusion mixing with indignation at being denied his chance to leave.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Draco huffed, impatient, running a hand over his face.
“Who would’ve thought you’re as thick as a door, Potter,” he said acidly. “Wouldn’t surprise me if that scar made you lose part of your brain.”
Crabbe and Goyle began to slowly close in, positioning themselves on either side of him.
Harry’s stomach sank, and panic set in.
He was completely surrounded and knew running wouldn’t solve anything. Any attempt to reach his wand seemed futile, and he didn’t want to end up with a black eye on the first day of lessons.
Normally, with Dudley and his gang, he could sometimes escape and hide, but he didn’t know Hogwarts well enough to even think of that.
Draco took a step forward, his lips twisted into a sneer.
“You disrespected me when you ignored me yesterday, Potter, and worse, you did it in front of everyone,” he growled, his voice low and threatening. “And now you want to act clever? I’ll show everyone you’re not as threatening as they think.”
“Threatening?” Harry tried to argue.
With a subtle nod, Draco gave the order to Crabbe and Goyle.
Before Harry could react, the two brutes grabbed his arms.
His books and bag fell heavily to the ground as he struggled uselessly to break free.
Their grip was firm and almost painful.
“Let me go!” Harry shouted, his voice a mix of panic and anger. He thrashed, but it only made Crabbe and Goyle tighten their hold.
“Go on, Draco!” Goyle laughed, egging him on.
“Yeah, just don’t hit me!” Crabbe warned.
“Stay still, and I won’t hit you, Vincent!” Draco shot back.
Harry saw there was no way out; the best thing to do in this situation was to find an opening, but looking around, there was no one nearby to help him.
Draco smiled with satisfaction.
“Let’s see what happens, then.” He drew his wand with a slow, deliberate motion. “I read it’s quite simple to do.”
He cleared his throat and pointed his wand at Harry, who felt his heart stop for a moment.
He wasn’t going to get beaten or humiliated the Muggle way, as he was used to, but the wizard way. In that department, he had no experience whatsoever.
Draco made a motion with his wand and said:
“Locomotor Mortis!”
Immediately, a purple light hit Harry’s legs, and they stiffened, as if glued together.
When Crabbe and Goyle let him go, he fell to the ground with a dull thud, the air knocked out of his lungs as pain radiated through his back.
The sky above was darkening, painted in orange and yellow, but he barely registered the scenery around him. What mattered were the cruel laughs of Draco and his cronies.
“It worked!” Crabbe exclaimed, surprised. “I can’t believe it! You’ll have to teach me that later!”
“I’ll show you how I did it later,” Draco replied, a smug smile on his face. “I think some people don’t know their place, and I need to show them where it is, don’t I?”
He crouched down, leaning closer to Harry, who was now struggling against the paralysis.
Harry fought to maintain his composure, even as the helplessness intensified. His blood boiled, the desire to fight back growing, but he felt incapable of moving.
“Let this be a lesson, Potter,” Draco spat with disdain. “Never disrespect me again.”
With one last cruel laugh, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle walked away, leaving Harry lying on the ground. The loneliness and silence weighed heavily around him now that his aggressors were gone.
Harry bit his lip, trying to hold back the tears threatening to escape.
He came to the conclusion that Malfoy was a Dudley in wizard form—spoiled, manipulative, and arrogant, but skinny and posh.
He took a deep breath, fighting against the frustration and embarrassment. Why did this have to happen to him? What had he done to deserve it?
He thought he’d never have to go through something like this again!
And what the hell did Malfoy mean by “threatening”? Was he dangerous and didn’t know it?
Sure, he’d had a particularly stressful incident at his aunt and uncle’s house before Professor McGonagall and Hagrid came to his rescue, but that only happened once. Could it be related to that?
“No one would know about that, right?” he thought.
There were too many questions, and his mind was racing, his body stiff with shame.
With effort, Harry began to drag himself across the ground, trying to reach his bag. He used his arms to grab his belongings and then managed to pull himself up enough to sit on a nearby stone bench. His legs were still completely immobile, and the feeling of helplessness was unbearable.
Desperate to get back to the castle, Harry tried to move in another way.
“Maybe if I hop...”
He pushed himself up and tried to take small hops, but it didn’t work; something about the spell prevented it.
He fell face-first onto the ground again, which only increased his frustration, making him pound his fists into the grass and groan in anger.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally felt his legs return to normal, though they were still shaky—likely from the adrenaline of the situation.
Relieved, he gathered his things from the ground and walked towards the castle, his empty stomach reminding him he was missing dinner.
As he entered the Great Hall, curious and malicious glances from other students followed him. He noticed the first-year Slytherins laughing among themselves and looking at him, probably amused by his misfortune. The only one not laughing was Daphne Greengrass.
Harry pressed his lips together and averted his gaze, trying to ignore them.
As he approached the Gryffindor table, he noticed several glances subtly turning in his direction. They seemed to weigh on him, making him feel exposed, as if he were being judged without understanding why.
Hermione was sitting slightly apart from the others, eating in silence.
Harry wouldn’t mention what had happened. He feared that if he told her about Malfoy and his insinuations that he was “threatening,” she might distance herself too. Still, Hermione seemed to be the only person who had given him any support today, even if she had irritated him a bit with her bossy and authoritarian attitude in Potions.
As he sat down, he felt a momentary silence, as if the conversations around him had paused for a few seconds just so people could observe his movements.
Some students tried to disguise it, quickly looking away when he glanced back. Others kept their eyes fixed on him, their expressions ranging from curiosity to something that seemed like... fear?
Sitting there, Harry tried to pretend he wasn’t bothered.
He poked at his food with his fork—a pasta in white sauce—without really focusing on what was on his plate, feeling the weight of those stares.
Was there something wrong with him? Was it because of his scar, like Malfoy had mocked?
That blond wouldn’t be the first to make that kind of comment; he’d suffered plenty during his time at school before Hogwarts because of the lightning bolt on his forehead.
The Sorting Hat had also acted strangely during his sorting. Who was the boy it had compared him to? Did that happen to the others too?
Now that he thought about it, the only ones who seemed to act normally, or at least behave as if nothing had happened, were the older Gryffindors and the twins. They’d greeted him from afar when they saw him and seemed oblivious to his presence, unlike the others.
At one point, he noticed a group of first-years—Ravenclaws—whispering and subtly pointing in his direction.
Harry tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help noticing that some of them had expressions that mixed something he could only describe as fear. It was as if he were some kind of enigma or exotic animal in a zoo, something they didn’t fully understand.
He felt a knot in his stomach.
“Why are they looking at me like that?” he thought, feeling sadness and melancholy fill his chest.
He’d lost his appetite the moment he noticed the stares and whispers, but he knew from experience that if he didn’t eat, he’d have problems later.
After they finished eating and declined dessert, Hermione insisted on helping him with his homework as they walked back to the common room together.
“Want me to help? I finished mine earlier in the library,” she offered.
Her voice was filled with the nervous excitement of that first day as they climbed the stairs from the sixth to the seventh floor.
“Sure...” Harry accepted.
Hermione was helpful, pointing out mistakes and suggesting improvements in his Transfiguration assignment. She seemed calmer as she corrected his answers, happy to help, which somehow made Harry feel a little more at ease.
While Hermione chatted about her studies with her usual enthusiasm, Harry glanced at his classmates in the corner of the common room, laughing and playing an explosive card game.
Seamus had invited Dean and Ron to play.
He felt a pang of envy. Why didn’t they include him?
Maybe it was all in his head, but he could be lying to himself at this point. He knew how this dance started and ended; he’d seen it countless times before.
He was rejected, ignored, humiliated, and left out almost everywhere he went—not necessarily in that order, not necessarily with all those points, but why would it be different now? In fact, it had only gotten worse because now people wouldn’t stop staring at him all the time, whether with curious or hesitant expressions as he walked through the corridors or ate in the Great Hall.
At least he still had Hermione, who seemed happy to have him by her side, for some reason.
“Maybe she’s just mad,” he thought melancholically.
“Thanks for helping with that Transfiguration alphabet. I don’t know what I’d do without your help,” Harry said, sighing tiredly.
He gave Hermione a sincere smile as he packed his parchment and books into his bag.
“Of course!” Hermione replied with a wide smile that made her front teeth stick out and her eyes shine. “Tomorrow we’ll have more free time. If you want, we can study together in the library. What do you think?”
Harry smiled slightly, appreciating her enthusiasm.
“I think that’s a good idea... thanks again.”
He wished her goodnight before heading up the stairs to his dormitory, his body demanding a well-deserved rest after the day’s activities and the humiliating confrontation.
As he put on his pyjama shirt, Harry noticed a change in the dormitory’s atmosphere. His roommates interrupted their laughter and genuine smiles when they entered shortly after him, and the mood became noticeably more tense.
Seamus, with a disconcerted tone, cleared his throat.
“Erm... Hi, Harry,” his Irish accent marking the hesitation in his voice.
“Hi, Seamus. Everything alright?” Harry tried to keep his tone friendly, forcing a smile and trying to ignore the palpable tension in the air.
“Ah, of course... everything’s fine,” Seamus replied, nodding with a nervous expression that barely masked his unease.
Dean coughed, and Ron forced a smile, both heading to their beds without saying anything more.
The atmosphere became awkward and silent, with the boys moving quickly to avoid any unnecessary interaction.
Neville wasn’t among them, and Harry knew he was in the hospital wing due to the earlier accident. At least, the rumours suggested he’d be released the next day, and what had happened in Potions hadn’t been as serious as it initially seemed.
As he lay down, Hedwig watched Harry with her expressive, caring eyes.
She hooted softly, as if asking how his day had been. Harry sighed, feeling the weight of frustration, but a small smile formed on his face as he petted the owl. She nuzzled closer to him, nibbling his finger tenderly and rubbing her head against his chest, offering silent comfort.
Harry appreciated the quiet that enveloped the room, the other boys having already closed their canopy curtains, the atmosphere becoming calm.
He sat on his bed for a while, enjoying Hedwig’s company. She seemed to understand his mood better than anyone could, without needing words.
As he reflected on the day, Harry pondered his experiences.
It hadn’t been what he’d expected; people were still just people, with their kindness and cruelty, whether wizards or Muggles. Perhaps, he thought, if he lowered his expectations a bit, he might find more satisfaction in his stay here.
After all, Hogwarts had already proven to be much better than the Dursleys had ever been, regardless of today’s experiences.
And he was complaining too much. He was still ahead in this place.
He had Hedwig, whom he loved deeply; Hermione, who had also been kind and helpful.
Not everything was lost, after all.
With these thoughts, Harry placed Hedwig on his arm and carried her to her perch beside his bed, receiving a gentle nibble on his ear as a goodnight sign.
“Goodnight, girl,” he whispered, smiling at her.
Harry finally lay down, feeling a little more at ease.
He closed his eyes, soaking in the feeling that, despite the challenges and discomforts, he had still found something valuable at Hogwarts—a home. The day had been tumultuous, but deep down, he knew he was in the right place and that things could get better. He still had a whole year ahead of him, after all.
“At least tomorrow’s the first flying lesson,” he thought, trying to cheer himself up.
Pulling the blanket over his shoulders and turning onto his side, Harry extinguished his magical lantern, allowing sleep to finally envelop him.
Chapter 5: The Youngest Seeker of the Century
Chapter Text
Harry was fast asleep, snug under the soft blankets, his body sinking into the absurdly comfortable mattress. It was almost a luxury compared to the thin, lumpy mattress in the cupboard under the stairs or the musty one in the room the Dursleys had begrudgingly given him later. Who would have thought a goose-feather pillow could be so soft? It was like resting his head on a cloud.
But he wouldn’t make the same mistake as the day before.
Hermione, ever practical, had taught him an alarm charm, but to Harry’s taste, it felt more like a method of torture. If he didn’t wake up, his own pillow would yank itself out from under his head and start smacking him until he finally got up. From what he’d heard from other students, most preferred subtler charms, like a gentle nudge that shook the blankets softly, like a mother waking you, or a violin playing a soothing melody.
He suspected Hermione, annoyed by his tardiness the previous day, had chosen to teach him the most... efficient version to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.
He thanked her for the kindness but promised himself he’d never use it.
So, he decided to resort to the good old natural way of waking up. And his alarm, so to speak, soon sprang into action.
Still lying on his stomach, Harry felt a weight on his back, something large and heavy that began to move—no, dance on him.
Harry mumbled something unintelligible and turned over, trying to ignore it. But then, a light peck hit his arm.
He shoved his arm under the covers. The response was a peck on his ear.
“Alright, I’m up... give me five more minutes and I’ll get out of here—”
His alarm wasn’t interested in negotiations.
In an instant, it started flying, flapping its wings furiously right above his head, the wind whipping his face.
“Ow! Alright! Alright! I’m awake, Hedwig! Blimey... no need to attack me!”
Satisfied, the white owl let out a triumphant hoot and glided back to her perch, adjusting her feathers with an air of duty accomplished.
Harry rubbed his face and yawned, pulling back the canopy of his bed and peeking out the window. The sky outside was still dark.
“Owls wake up way too early...” he muttered, dragging himself out of bed and starting to get dressed.
Leaving the dormitory, he crossed the corridor of the boys’ tower, where a few other boys were also waking up. Some were sleepily heading to the bathroom, scratching their eyes, while others stretched and yawned loudly. One, more uninhibited, scratched his backside without a care, while his mate scratched... other parts.
For a moment, Harry wondered what the girls’ tower was like.
He highly doubted the witches in the girls’ tower started their day by stretching lazily or scratching themselves without a care, like the boys did. It was more likely their dormitory was impeccably decorated, filled with pink ribbons, pictures of ridiculously cute animals, and posters of shirtless wizarding heartthrobs flashing charming smiles. And, of course, the air was probably thick with an overly sweet perfume, the kind that made your eyes water.
He shuddered at the thought.
That was definitely hostile territory he’d never venture into, even if they paid him.
Alone, he descended the castle floors to the Great Hall, where breakfast awaited him.
The second day of classes began with a mix of excitement and nerves for the first-years. Harry was eager. That afternoon, they’d have their first flying lesson with Madam Hooch, and the Great Hall was abuzz with excited whispers during breakfast.
The noise was so much that Professor Flitwick, usually patient, had to deduct points from a few Hufflepuffs who simply couldn’t stop talking about brooms in the middle of Charms class.
Hermione, who was trying to focus on the basics of levitation, clicked her tongue impatiently, her face scrunching up in frustration by the time class ended.
“It’s unacceptable!” she huffed as they walked through the corridors, her bushy brown hair swaying behind her. “It’s like I’m surrounded by a bunch of children!”
Harry had to hold back a laugh.
“Hermione... we are children. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Fine, maybe we are, but that doesn’t mean we have to act like a bunch of savages. Interrupting the professor like that is just plain rude! And all because of a lesson on... brooms.”
She pursed her lips as if the idea of flying was a waste of time, which made Harry wonder if she had some specific issue with the subject. For him, honestly, it seemed like the best part of the day.
In the next class, they had Herbology with Professor Sprout, the head of Hufflepuff.
Though Harry didn’t have an immediate passion for the subject, he found the professor friendly and the greenhouse environment quite pleasant. The sun filtered through the greenish glass, casting luminous reflections on the dew-covered plants outside. The smell of damp earth and fresh leaves hung in the air.
It was a practical lesson—pruning dead leaves and removing weeds from the Spiky Bushes.
“If Professor Flitwick doesn’t have time to teach you the Incendio Charm by the end of the term, I can teach it to you myself. I’ll need to discuss it with him later,” Professor Sprout explained as she moved among the students. “But for now, keep your gloves on and don’t even think about taking off your apron! If you notice the bushes retracting, which means they feel threatened and are about to show their thorns, back away immediately!”
Harry and Hermione worked together, and, as expected, she insisted on narrating every step of the process, giving him orders on the best way to do things. Harry, for his part, decided to just murmur occasional agreements without really paying attention.
He noticed she didn’t know everything either but kept quiet.
The way she held the shears and pulled out the weeds showed she’d never worked in a garden before, but she was putting in triple the effort to get it right and prove she was capable, constantly biting her lip as she worked.
“Did I mention the Incendio Charm is one of the most useful in Herbology?” she commented as she carefully removed a withered leaf. “Over the years, we learn to refine it to create more potent flames, though the basics are enough to handle intermediately sentient predatory plants. I don’t much like how Van Lidich classified the species in his work—I found it too simplistic—but it has its merits, for example...”
Harry sighed.
Hermione was incredibly intelligent company, but sometimes her academic monologues stretched longer than he’d like. He liked her, but he didn’t yet feel confident enough to ask her to stop and just talk normally—without turning everything into an extra lesson.
At least he enjoyed the hands-on work more than the theory. Tending to plants wasn’t so different from helping Aunt Petunia in the garden, though it was much more interesting when it involved plants that could fight back. And here, if he wanted, he could set them on fire without fear of repercussions... unlike those blasted roses...
And, above all, the lesson served as a distraction from the stares and whispers that still followed him wherever he went, as if he were some rare creature to be observed. Which, in the wizarding world, apparently he was.
During classes, Harry began to understand what Draco Malfoy meant when he called Hermione “insufferable.”
She seemed determined to answer every question—and did so with impressive accuracy. The professors clearly adored her enthusiasm, but most of the students didn’t share the sentiment.
With every raised hand came exasperated sighs and eye rolls.
No matter the topic or difficulty, Hermione always had something to add, and her dedication, which bordered on obsession, often came off as obnoxious to her peers. The most curious thing was that she didn’t seem to care. On the contrary, she seemed more concerned with showing she knew the answer than with pleasing anyone.
Harry, however, began to wonder if hanging out with her was influencing how the other students treated him.
As they walked down to the Great Hall together, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Furtive glances from all houses, including Gryffindor, hushed whispers—maybe they were directed at him, as had been the case since he arrived at Hogwarts, but... what if they weren’t?
“Are they avoiding me because I hang out with her?”
The thought caught him off guard, and a strange discomfort settled in him—not exactly in his chest or stomach, but somewhere in between.
But distancing himself from Hermione just to be more accepted by others would be unfair. And cowardly.
She could be a bit intense, yes, but she was also the smartest person he’d ever met. Always willing to help, always eager to learn. And, above all, from the very beginning, she’d never treated him as someone different or strange.
“Maybe she just likes showing off what she knows...” Harry thought as Hermione chattered on about the origin of the witch who inspired a hunchbacked statue displayed on the way to the Great Hall.
With that thought, the unease he’d felt earlier began to dissipate.
At lunchtime, the excitement in the Great Hall was even louder.
The tables buzzed with laughter and chatter about the upcoming flying lesson. Older students gave advice to the first-years, some encouraging, others scaring them with exaggerated stories.
The sun warmed the hall, bringing a bit of comfort to Harry, who still felt the suspicious glances from his Gryffindor classmates.
Ron, sitting a little further away, was chatting with the Weasley twins, while Neville looked even paler than usual, clutching a sphere filled with swirling red smoke—a Remembrall.
The object’s job was to remind you if you’d forgotten something.
“The trouble is, I don’t know what I’ve forgotten,” Harry heard him say.
“Your cloak, mate,” Ron laughed, pointing. “Haven’t noticed you’re the only one without one?”
“Oh… right…”
Shortly after, the twins approached Harry, mischievous grins on their faces.
“Hey, Harry! Ready for your first flying lesson?” One of them asked.
“I don’t know... I reckon it could be a bit dangerous, couldn’t it?” Harry replied hesitantly.
“Dangerous? Nonsense!” The other gestured with his hands as if there were no risk at all.
“What’s the worst that could happen a hundred feet in the air?”
Hermione looked slightly nervous after that comment, glancing at them with evident concern and fidgeting with her hands.
“There’s protection, right? Some kind of rope, maybe?” she asked hopefully.
She looked paler than usual and hadn’t turned the page of the book she’d been reading at the table since she’d opened it.
The twins burst out laughing.
“Rope?!”
“On a broom?!”
“That’s a good one!” Fred said, holding onto his brother’s shoulder as he doubled over laughing.
“She’ll be asking for a saddle next!”
“No! No! Even better! A Muggle parachute!”
“She’ll want a safety manual too, won’t she?” George asked.
Fred stopped laughing instantly and stared at his brother, shaking his head with mock seriousness.
“I set the manual on fire…” he said.
George also stopped laughing and glared at him with a stern face before they both burst into laughter again like a pair of clowns.
Hermione frowned, her cheeks flushing.
“That’s not funny!” she snapped in a high-pitched voice, irritated.
Harry was laughing too and only stopped when Hermione shot him a silencing look.
“Of course it’s funny, isn’t it, Forge?” said George, grinning mischievously.
Fred nodded, picking up an apple from the table and tossing it in the air like a ball.
“Of course, Gred. You know what, Hermione? You just haven’t learned to appreciate the annual spectacle of first-years flying for the first time. A one-of-a-kind event, I assure you.”
“And that’s because you’ll be the one up there terrified,” George added with a wink, quickly snatching the apple from Fred’s hand and taking a bite.
That comment made Hermione choke. She shuddered in her seat, and Harry wasn’t sure whether to laugh again or be just as terrified as she was.
“But relax,” the twins said slowly in unison.
“This is just the first lesson—”
“—If you can’t even hold the broom properly—”
“—Madam Hooch won’t even let you take off.”
Harry tried to reassure himself, but suspicion gnawed at him.
He’d heard about the twins’ reputation as the biggest pranksters the school had seen in 20 years. How much of that was true, and how much was just to scare them?
“But...” George began, raising a finger in the air.
“It’s always fun to watch the first-years take their first high flight!” Fred finished, grabbing his apple back and taking a bite from the other side, making George roll his eyes.
They glanced discreetly at the Ravenclaw table.
Fred leaned in closer to them, speaking in a low voice.
“Last year, Marcus Belby wet himself when he needed to go to the loo but didn’t know how to land his broom yet.”
“They say the smell lingered in their boys’ dormitory for two days,” George said, holding back a laugh.
Harry swallowed hard.
“Blimey, now I feel much calmer,” he said, his voice nervous.
Fred gave him a pat on the shoulder.
“Relax, Harry. Just don’t drink too much before the lesson... if you catch my drift.”
“And try not to listen to too much advice from others before then,” George advised, winking.
“Does that include you two?”
“Nah, we’re trustworthy, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are! How could we not be?”
“Huhum, sure,” Hermione muttered, completely skeptical.
Fred sighed in relief.
“See? At least someone trusts us,” he said.
“And just so you know,” George added, laughing. “That accident only happened because someone found out Belby had a thing for peach juice.”
“And that someone encouraged him to drink more than he should before the lesson started.”
“Maybe they put something in the juice to make him thirstier?”
“Who knows? I guess we’ll never have that answer,” Fred shrugged.
“Who could’ve done that, eh, brother?” George said sarcastically, striking a thoughtful pose.
“No idea, but whoever it was, they must be a genius!”
“Or really good-looking.”
“If it was more than one person who set it all up, one was ridiculously better-looking than the other, that’s for sure.”
“Agreed, but I don’t think we’re thinking of the same person here.”
“Probably not.”
They both came to a consensus and turned their eyes to Harry and Hermione.
“Anyway, enjoy the lesson today,” they said in unison, with wide grins from ear to ear.
“Just let us know later who wet their pants,” George added.
They started walking away, laughing to themselves.
Hermione shot a withering look at the twins as they left.
“Did you hear that? They were the ones who made Marcus embarrass himself; that’s against the student code of conduct!” she exclaimed in a high-pitched, indignant tone.
Harry shrugged.
“Who knows what that Marcus did to deserve it,” he said, trying to be fair. “Those two don’t seem like the type to prank just anyone.”
“By saying we could die today?! I heard, thank you very much,” Hermione retorted.
Harry rolled his eyes.
“They also told us how to avoid embarrassing ourselves, right?” Harry argued. “Come on, calm down.”
“I am calm!” she snapped, her voice sharp and her expression dangerous.
“Never tell her to calm down... noted,” Harry thought.
“Okay... Then just try not to think too much about it,” Harry said, leaning casually on the table. “Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.”
“I hope you’re right,” Hermione sighed without much conviction, taking a sip of her juice.
The weather outside was pleasantly cool. The sun shone brightly, warming Harry’s face, and he could almost feel the lightness of that warmth dispelling the lingering chill.
Still, as a precaution, he adjusted his scarf around his neck, smiling subtly. It now bore the Gryffindor colors, red and gold. One end hung loosely down to his stomach, swaying gently in the occasional breeze.
The day was vibrant, the clear blue sky contrasting with the autumnal colors of the trees around them. It was a much more cheerful scene than the day before, and Harry could almost swear the birds fluttering and perching on the windowsills of the nearby tower were swallows, singing cheerfully as some drank water from the small pots hanging from the windows by chains.
In the distance, Harry spotted students flying on their brooms. Some were doing aerial tricks, while others simply floated calmly over the castle grounds. Some flew in pairs, others in trios, gliding through the sky in search of adrenaline, especially those who shot off at high speeds to show off their skills.
He and Hermione joined the other students, who were lined up on the flying field, each with their broom on the ground beside them. Some shifted their weight from one foot to the other, visibly nervous, while others made nervous jokes, trying to ease the tension.
“Alright, welcome to your first flying lesson,” announced Madam Hooch, her hands firmly on her hips. “Today, since it’s the first lesson, we’ll be learning the basics of flying. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Professor...” the students chorused.
“I didn’t hear that! Where’s your enthusiasm?” Madam Hooch retorted, leaning forward slightly as if challenging them to shout louder.
“Yes, Professor!” they repeated, this time with more vigor, some almost jumping out of their spots.
Harry glanced around, noticing that Hermione looked nervous, almost melting with anxiety, and beside her, Neville was pale and muttering something to himself, almost as if he were praying and pleading to some god. He looked disappointed to have left the hospital wing so soon and to have to face the flying lesson.
“Maybe he’s cursing himself for not brewing a stronger potion yesterday,” Harry thought, laughing to himself.
“Great! Now let’s start with something simple,” said Madam Hooch. “I want you to hold your hand over your broom like this,”
She demonstrated, raising her arm above the broom with her back straight.
“Then, you’ll say ‘UP,’ and the broom should come to your hand. Understood?”
Everyone nodded, some more confidently than others.
“Then repeat after me, ‘UP!’”
The field filled with voices, each trying, with varying levels of enthusiasm, to make their broom obey. Some brooms trembled on the ground but didn’t move. Others barely budged.
Harry said “UP!” just once.
And the broom shot straight into his hand as if it were made for him.
The other students immediately turned to look at him, those familiar stares Harry was used to but still hated.
He sighed, feeling the weight of those eyes on him once again.
Madam Hooch, her eyebrows raised in surprise, gave an encouraging smile.
“Already? On the first try? Well done, boy!” she praised, clapping her hands in satisfaction. “Ten points to Gryffindor, excellent broom control!”
The Gryffindors smiled, pleased, while the Slytherins grumbled, muttering among themselves.
Hermione shot Harry a look he couldn’t decipher—it seemed like a mix of curiosity and, perhaps, something else, like a hint of irritation or frustration?
“Come on, keep trying!” Madam Hooch encouraged, waving her hands at the other students.
The field filled with voices again, demanding their stubborn brooms to rise. Some brooms rose shakily from the ground, while others, like Ron’s, shot up with such force that the handle smacked him in the face, prompting muffled laughter.
After several attempts, Draco was the second to succeed in getting his broom to his hand, followed by Hermione. Gradually, most of the students managed to do the same, with Madam Hooch helping those who still struggled.
“Great! Everyone got one in their hands? Perfect! Remember, you’ll practice this levitation exercise every lesson. I refuse to see students bending down to pick up their brooms, but now, pay attention,” she instructed, mounting her own broom to demonstrate.
“Mount your brooms like this, and lean forward slightly. Use the strength of your thighs,” she said, slapping her own thighs as she demonstrated. “Don’t strain your back, and keep it slightly inclined but straight. All the force should come from your core, so work those abs!”
It felt strange to be in that position on the broom, and Harry felt a slight sense that nothing would happen, as if it were just an ordinary broom. But then, Neville started levitating on his broom, visibly terrified.
“Mr. Longbottom, get off the broom; we’re not taking off yet,” Madam Hooch ordered, pointing firmly to the ground.
“I... I can’t!” Neville replied, his voice trembling as he rose higher and higher.
“Point the broom down!” the professor shouted.
Neville, now shaking with fear, couldn’t control the broom, which seemed to have a mind of its own.
Suddenly, the broom shot upward, making Neville spin out of control.
He screamed in desperation as the broom dragged him toward the walls of the nearest tower.
The students watched in horror as, with a sudden jerk, the broom angled downward, throwing Neville into the air. He flew uncontrollably and hit a statue with two crossed swords, the tips of which caught his cloak before it tore and he fell to the ground with a small cry of pain.
“Stand back!” the professor said.
No one got too close, but they were close enough to see what had happened to Neville.
The professor winced in understanding.
“Broken arm, you’ll be fine, Mr. Longbottom. I’ll take you to the hospital wing,” she said, already helping him up carefully. “The rest of you, stay where you are and don’t dare take off on your brooms! Otherwise, you’ll be expelled before I can say ‘Quidditch,’ understood?”
Everyone nodded as the professor marched back to the castle, with Neville groaning in pain beside her.
Amid the commotion, Harry noticed Neville’s torn cloak and wondered if he’d have to buy a new one. That one seemed completely unusable—but then again, there was probably a spell to fix it. The wizarding world was full of surprises, after all.
It was then that he saw, lying on the ground, the small round object Neville had been holding earlier. The Remembrall. The red mist inside it had vanished, leaving only a faint whitish hue.
“Look at that,” said a drawling voice behind him. “Who would’ve thought Longbottom had a Remembrall?”
Draco Malfoy approached, his grey eyes gleaming with interest as he saw the object glinting on the grass. He picked it up with the tips of his fingers, twirling it with a satisfied smile.
“Though, come to think of it, it’s not that surprising,” he continued, studying the sphere as if it belonged to him. “With that pea-sized brain of his, it makes sense he’d need something to help him remember things.”
Harry frowned. Malfoy might be a bully, but that didn’t give him the right to steal other people’s things—especially not someone like Neville.
“Give that back, Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice firm. “It’s not yours.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow and smiled, amused.
“Potter! Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?” He tilted his head, pretending to reflect. “Do I need to tie your legs again to keep you quiet?”
Harry’s face flushed with anger.
“Give it to me,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll return it to Neville in the hospital wing.”
“Me? Return it?” Malfoy made a mocking face. “If he can’t take care of his own things, that’s not my problem.”
“The Remembrall belongs to Neville, not you!” Hermione retorted. “Hand it over now, or I’ll tell Madam Hooch you stole it!”
The Slytherins around them laughed.
“Oh, please,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes before glaring at Hermione with disdain. “I wasn’t talking to you, you insufferable know-it-all.” He rubbed his face as if exhausted. “Merlin, you’re annoying. Second day of class, and people can’t stand you already. Can you stay quiet for five seconds? Oh, and raise your hand if you want to speak! or you’ll lose house points, of course.”
The Slytherins laughed even louder, some pointing at Hermione as if she were a joke.
She shrunk into herself, her face reddening, and looked around, noticing that many other students averted their eyes, embarrassed. No one seemed willing to stand up for her.
Malfoy turned back to Harry, twirling the Remembrall in his palm.
“You know what, Potter? If you want this so badly, come and get it.”
And before Harry could react, Malfoy mounted his broom and took off, hovering above the other students with a challenging grin.
Harry’s heart raced. He wouldn’t let Malfoy get away with this. Without a second thought, he mounted his own broom.
“Harry, don’t!” Hermione grabbed his shoulder. “You’ll be expelled if you do that! Didn’t you hear the professor?”
Harry hesitated for a moment, glancing around. Everyone was watching expectantly, but no one was close enough to stop him.
“I’m not letting him get away with this, Hermione!”
And before she could protest, he kicked off the ground and soared into the air.
“What an idiot...” Hermione muttered under her breath.
Harry shot upward, the wind whipping through his hair. The cold in his stomach was replaced by a sense of pure freedom. Flying was... unbelievable. It felt like nothing could stop him up there. He didn’t need to dodge walls or doors—there were no limits in the sky.
Malfoy waited for him near one of the castle towers, playing with the Remembrall as if it were a tennis ball.
“You know what’s funny, Potter?” he said, spinning the object between his fingers. “I could just knock you off your broom right now. But I’d probably get in trouble... especially if you end up worse than Longbottom.”
“Shut your mouth, Malfoy!” Harry retorted, furious. “Give it back before I take it from you!”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, where’s the goody-two-shoes Potter now? What’s this? Feeling brave?” He smirked maliciously.
“Without your two idiot cronies to back you up, you’re nothing but a weak, arrogant brat!”
The amusement vanished from Malfoy’s face in an instant. His smirk turned into a scowl of anger.
“You insolent little worm! I’ll show you who’s weak!” he snarled. “But since you want this stupid little ball so badly... here, catch!”
With a sudden motion, Malfoy hurled the Remembrall with all his might.
Harry didn’t think. He gripped the broom handle tightly and shot forward, passing so close to Malfoy that the blond wobbled in the air.
The wind roared in his ears. His hair was pulled back, his cloak flapping violently. But he didn’t care—his focus was entirely on the Remembrall, which arced through the sky toward the tower.
He squinted against the wind, leaned forward, and increased his speed, his heart racing with adrenaline.
In one swift motion, he reached out—and grabbed the ball at the last second, just before it hit the tower window.
He pulled up on the broom with ease, surprised at how natural it felt.
Flying was truly incredible.
And, apparently, it came as easily to him as walking.
To his utter misfortune, the window the Remembrall had nearly hit belonged to an occupied room. And not just anyone’s.
It was Professor McGonagall’s.
She was sitting at her desk, reviewing a scroll when she saw the whole scene.
Harry felt a chill run down his spine.
“Shite…” he muttered, panic rising in his chest.
This was it. He knew he’d be expelled on the spot—just two days into the term.
McGonagall pursed her lips in a way that made Harry’s blood run cold. In one quick, determined motion, she stood up and disappeared from view, likely heading down the tower stairs.
Harry averted his gaze to the horizon as he floated slowly in the air, trying to hold onto something positive before facing the consequences.
The view was breathtaking.
The Black Lake stretched out below him, its calm waters reflecting the blue of the sky. The towering mountains surrounding the castle seemed like ancient guardians of Hogwarts, and the sun, still shining brightly, bathed everything in golden hues. For a brief moment, he allowed that landscape to calm him.
If he were expelled, at least he’d experienced the indescribable feeling of flying. At least he’d seen something so beautiful. Maybe that would make the scolding he was about to receive a little less bitter.
Swallowing hard, Harry forced himself to land.
The Remembrall was still clutched in his hand as his feet touched the ground. Within seconds, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff students approached, smiling and murmuring among themselves, excited by what they’d just witnessed. Hermione let out a sigh of relief to see him in one piece, but before Harry could return the smile, a cold, unmistakable voice cut through the air:
“Mr. Potter, come with me.”
Harry felt his heart sink into his stomach.
McGonagall was there, her expression stern and her lips pressed into a hard line.
Swallowing hard, he lowered his shoulders and followed her in silence.
The sound of their footsteps echoed through the corridors as they zigzagged through doors and staircases, each new turn increasing the tension within him.
With every step, Harry tried to contain the flood of dark thoughts. He knew he’d done the right thing, but that didn’t mean he was free from the consequences.
And at that moment, the consequences seemed very, very bad.
“Will they send me back to the Dursleys?” he thought, desperate.
The idea of returning to that oppressive house, with no chance of escaping to the magical world, made fear and despair wrap around him like a suffocating cloud.
Finally, they stopped in front of a heavy door, from which muffled voices emanated. McGonagall raised her hand, gesturing for him to wait.
“Wait a moment,” she said.
The hinges creaked loudly, and a strong smell of garlic filled the corridor. Immediately, the professor teaching there could be no one else.
“Why did she bring me to Professor Quirrell’s class?” he wondered.
McGonagall also seemed bothered by the smell, wrinkling her nose slightly before entering.
The professor was inside, holding a large snake coiled around his neck. The creature, with black scales and bright, intense purple eyes, was as mysterious as it was beautiful, its skin glistening in the dim light of the room. If it weren’t for that soft glow, Harry thought, it could easily blend into the shadows.
He thought he saw the snake look at him and slightly tilt its head while whispering something, but he wasn’t sure because of the distance.
“Professor Quirrell, could we borrow Mr. Wood for a moment?” McGonagall asked politely, though firmly.
Quirrell smiled nervously, moving with a slight tremor, as he always did.
“O-of course, b-b-be my guest, P-professor,” he stammered, nodding for an older student to leave the room.
The boy who appeared was tall, with broad shoulders and short, neatly cut hair, wearing the black robe with red trim of Gryffindor. Harry vaguely recognized him from breakfast earlier.
“Mr. Wood,” said McGonagall, now with a restrained, animated smile as she closed the door behind him, giving the three of them privacy. “I think I’ve found the perfect Seeker for you!”
Wood looked from Harry to McGonagall with a surprised and intrigued expression.
“Really?” he asked, eyeing Harry more closely.
“I see potential in Mr. Potter for the team; you should have seen how he caught this Remembrall mid-air!” She gestured to the sphere in his hand.
Wood extended his hand with a genuine, enthusiastic smile to Harry.
“Pleasure, Harry. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Oliver Wood, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.” He had a strong Scottish accent, slightly thicker than McGonagall’s.
Still a bit dazed, Harry shook his hand, unsure of what to think.
“I... won’t be… expelled?” he asked in a low voice, confusion written all over his face.
“Expelled? For flying?” McGonagall raised an eyebrow, and her expression softened as she realized the misunderstanding. “Ah, of course. Madam Hooch mentioned you heard you might be expelled if you broke the flying rules, I believe?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, his voice shaky and uncertain.
“Well, don’t worry about that. Let me handle it with her. No one gets expelled from Hogwarts for flying; she just likes to use harsher terms than necessary to avoid trouble.”
Harry felt a wave of relief wash over him. He sighed deeply as the fear of returning to that house was lifted from his shoulders.
“I saw what you did,” McGonagall continued. “And frankly, Mr. Wood, I think it would be a waste not to test him.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“If you think he’s got potential, then who am I to disagree?” He turned to Harry, his eyes assessing the boy with newfound curiosity. “Harry, what do you think? Would you like to try out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team?”
“Quidditch team?... Me?!... What the hell?” Disjointed thoughts raced through his mind.
Harry took a moment to process the invitation, his mind immediately flashing back to his Muggle school, where he was always the last to be picked for any sport in P.E.
Harry frowned, pointing at himself, disbelieving. “Seriously? Me?”
“Yes, why not?” Oliver shrugged. “It’s a serious offer, so I want commitment from anyone trying out. Are you up for it?”
“Of course!” Harry exclaimed, before hesitating slightly.
He shrugged, feeling somewhat insecure.
“The Professor explained a bit about the game to me, but... I’ve never seen a real match...” he said timidly.
How could he, who barely knew the rules, have any chance?
“Ah, that’s not a problem!” Oliver replied with an encouraging smile. “The hard part is finding a good Seeker. The rest, we can teach. We’ll hold tryouts next week with all the candidates. Bring a broom or borrow one from Madam Hooch. Come prepared and ready to give it your all, alright?”
“Alright,” he agreed, a happy smile forming on his face.
McGonagall nodded, satisfied.
“Very well, Mr. Wood. You may return to your class now.” She watched as he went back into the room, more excited than when he’d left.
As they walked back to the flying field, McGonagall spoke almost casually, but there was a glint in her eyes.
“I’ll speak to Madam Hooch. I’m sure she’ll be happy to give you some advanced flying lessons, Mr. Potter.”
“I’d love that, Professor. Thank you so much for giving me this chance,” Harry replied, still a bit shy but with a genuine smile on his face.
Incredibly, she softened slightly, letting out a light laugh, the first he’d heard from her since they’d met.
“Oh, there's no need for thanks,” she said with uncharacteristic warmth. “They say I have a keen eye for Quidditch talent. If you ever meet him, ask Mr. Ronald Weasley’s brother, Charlie, who encouraged him to join the team once. I was the one who recommended Miss Johnson as Chaser last year—you’ll see her at tryouts this year too, mark my words.”
When it came to Quidditch, Professor McGonagall seemed to transform. Her usual sternness gave way to a vibrant competitiveness, and her eyes sparkled. She wanted the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor, and now Harry realized just how much.
“You know, Harry,” McGonagall called to him gently after a few moments of silence as they walked calmly. “Your father would be very proud of you.”
“My father? Why?” he asked, surprised and curious.
She smiled, her gaze distant for a moment. “James was Gryffindor's star Chaser back in his day. Never let the team down when he was on the pitch.”
Something stirred inside Harry. It was as if a flame had been lit in his chest, warming his heart with a new kind of motivation.
Suddenly, this seemed much more than just an opportunity; it was a way to connect with his father, to feel closer to him.
“Then, I’ll join the team,” Harry said, his voice filled with determination. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
“That’s the spirit,” McGonagall replied, smiling before returning to a serious tone. “But I must warn you about an important requirement.”
“What?”
“To remain on the team,” she began, pausing, but Harry noticed she already spoke as if he were officially a member. “You’ll need to maintain a satisfactory average in your classes. We require grades equal to or above Exceeds Expectations, understood?”
Harry nodded. He remembered the grading system they’d learned on the first day: Exceeds Expectations was above Acceptable—the minimum for passing—and below Outstanding, the highest possible grade. He knew he’d need to work hard to achieve that average, but the idea of being part of the team, following in his father’s footsteps, seemed more than enough incentive to study a bit harder.
Eventually, they returned to the field where Madam Hooch was already waiting with a stern expression.
“What did I say about flying, Mr. Potter?” Madam Hooch crossed her arms, her voice firm.
The students watched from a distance, anxious, while the Slytherins smirked slightly maliciously.
“Sorry, Professor,” Harry said, lowering his head, feeling guilty.
Some Slytherins laughed at his misfortune. Malfoy, with another arrogant smile, seemed the most pleased of all.
Madam Hooch shot a deadly glare toward the laughing students, and instant silence spread through the group.
“What Potter did was reckless,” McGonagall agreed. “But I observed that he also showed rare talent, Rolanda.”
Madam Hooch raised an eyebrow as if assessing Harry.
“Is that so? And what would you like to do with that talent?” she asked.
“Quite simple,” McGonagall replied. “Harry is now officially on the list of candidates for Gryffindor’s Seeker position.”
Whispers and murmurs of surprise mixed with envy from several students were immediate. Hermione’s eyes widened, but she remained silent, unlike Draco.
“What? This is a joke, right?” He frowned, his voice full of indignation. “Potter broke the rules!”
“So did you, Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Hooch replied coldly. “For provoking a student, taking an object that wasn’t yours, and, on top of flying—which was already forbidden—you incited another student to do the same. Twenty points from Slytherin and detention with me cleaning the broom shed at the end of the day.”
The Slytherins sighed and muttered among themselves, annoyed, while Draco huffed, visibly frustrated.
“And him?” Draco jerked his head toward Harry. “He’s not getting punished?”
“That’s between me and Mr. Potter,” Hooch said sharply. “Worry about your own detention, Mr. Malfoy. That’ll be quite enough.”
With that, McGonagall placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, signaling the matter was closed.
“He’ll need some advanced flying lessons by next week, Rolanda.”
Madam Hooch put her hands on her hips, pondering before nodding.
“I see... Actually, I was going to suggest that, considering he’s a first-year.”
She then looked at the rest of the students, who were watching the scene with curiosity.
“You’re dismissed,” she declared, with a firm look. “Except you, Mr. Potter. Come, let’s sort out your training schedule.”
She gestured with her head for him to follow.
Harry nodded slowly, watching as the students dispersed, their voices echoing across the flying field as the conversations became distant murmurs.
He noticed Malfoy’s piercing gaze, unable to contain his frustration, glaring at him with a mix of anger and disbelief. His gray eyes burned with rage.
Harry snorted a laugh and shrugged without saying anything to the blond, following the professor.
After glaring at Harry leaving, Draco huffed in dissatisfaction, following the rest of the students, his black and green robe billowing dramatically in the wind.
His hands were damp with sweat, and he tried everything to keep them warm. So far, all he felt was that he needed a pair of gloves for the winter. A slight tremor ran through his body, not just from the biting cold of that morning, but from the anxiety consuming him.
Harry’s breath formed small clouds of vapor as he nervously shifted his broom from one hand to the other, waiting for his Gryffindor teammates on the stands of the Quidditch pitch.
The tryouts were about to begin.
The heavy silence was only broken by the whisper of the wind, which cut through his skin and left his nose red.
Fortunately, he remembered to bundle up with what he had: a long-sleeved shirt under his uniform sweater, a large, worn black hoodie donated by his cousin, and his school robe wrapped around him like a shield against the cold. His warm red-and-yellow striped scarf was snugly wrapped around his neck.
It was the coldest weekend since his arrival at Hogwarts; even the common room’s fireplace had to be lit to withstand the temperatures seeping through the castle’s cold stones. He knew this wasn’t normal for September, not even in Scotland, according to some older students.
“If it’s this cold now, imagine winter...” he thought, hugging himself to ward off the chill.
Oliver had summoned all interested candidates to the pitch at 7 a.m. sharp, and the seriousness in his voice made it clear that even a slight delay would mean immediate disqualification, as he’d said no one truly committed would be late.
Harry knew he couldn’t afford to slip up.
Luckily, he’d had time to train every day after classes, following the rigorous guidance of Madam Hooch and Professor McGonagall, who wanted to ensure he didn’t fall behind in his studies. With the privilege of private lessons and the professor’s focused attention, learning to fly seemed easier. With every successful maneuver, he felt more confident, determined not to let his inexperience keep him from joining the team.
With a deep sigh, Harry set the broom aside and hugged himself tighter, trying to retain warmth, feeling his unruly hair dance in the wind.
The emptiness of the pitch mirrored his restless mind, wandering far, lost in scattered thoughts.
“How did it all come to this?” Harry murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hedwig, perched on the parapet in front of him, turned her head at an almost impossible angle, her bright, attentive eyes fixed on him as if she truly understood.
“I thought I’d finally found a place here,” he continued, not expecting an answer.
On the horizon, the sun began to rise, painting the sky with soft shades of orange and pink, casting a golden light over Hogwarts’ towers.
“But now... everything feels so distant again.”
The memory of the first feast in the Great Hall came to mind. The warmth of the floating candles, the smiling faces around him, the burst of applause when the Sorting Hat announced his house. He remembered the nervous excitement, the animated conversations, the unprecedented feeling of belonging that warmed his chest. That night, he recalled lying in bed, taking a long time to fall asleep.
Then he spent hours staring out the window at the moon reflected on the Black Lake, feeling something he probably hadn’t felt for so long in his life, not with that intensity.
Happiness. Harry felt happy.
Happy as he’d never been before, content, with a silly grin on his face.
But now...
Now, that feeling had been replaced by a cold that didn’t come from the dawn breeze.
Even Hermione, the only person he really talked to, who he thought was a friend, was now distant.
And what was worse, he didn’t understand why.
Did the conversations they’d had meant anything to her? Or had they just been part of a superficial, pleasant interaction? He’d never had real friends before—what was friendship supposed to be like? Should he have asked more about her? Besides studying and reading, what else did Hermione like to do? What was her life like before Hogwarts?
Should he have shown more interest?
Was the problem him? Had she discovered his bad reputation in the castle and decided to distance herself too?
“She doesn’t know anything about me, Hedwig,” he murmured.
The owl tilted her head slightly, as attentive as ever.
“I don’t know anything about her either,” Harry continued, not taking his eyes off the sky.
“We only talked about classes, about books...” He shrugged. “And even so... even so, she pulled away. Was that it?”
He sighed, feeling the weight of loneliness settle over his shoulders like a heavy, suffocating cloak.
Rejection hurt…
It hurt in the furtive glances thrown his way during meals. In the malicious whispers that seemed to follow him wherever he went. In the way the common room, once so welcoming, now felt distant, as if there were an invisible barrier isolating him from the others.
In the dormitory, it wasn’t much different. His roommates avoided even making eye contact, as if he carried something contagious.
Everyone, except Neville.
Neville, shy and awkward, at least still spoke to him occasionally. Never much, never completely comfortably, but without the wary hesitation of the others. It wasn’t fear. It was just... Neville being Neville. As if he didn’t quite know what to say but also didn’t want to ignore him entirely.
And, for now, that was enough.
With the constant harassment from Malfoy and his gang, Harry found himself more cornered than ever, like a frightened hare fleeing wolves. He’d never be a match for a group of bullies alone.
Harry remembered the humiliations he’d endured in silence—usually being cornered by Crabbe and Goyle while Malfoy taunted him with the same nasty spell that left his legs immobile, the Locomotor Mortis that Harry ended up memorizing.
He sighed again, a stronger gust of wind trying to blow him away in vain.
That’s why he’d decided to arrive at the pitch so early, waking up at 4:30 a.m. and having breakfast completely alone in the Great Hall, where the light barely illuminated the room.
He wanted to avoid any interaction with the Slytherins that could ruin his chance at the team. He knew he’d become an “exception to the rule,” and that had bred jealousy and resentment among the other students. Some looked at him with disdain and rolled their eyes at his presence.
“If only they’d treat me like a normal person,” he murmured to his owl, who had perched beside him. “I’m not a hero, or special. Why does everyone think a baby killed a Dark wizard? I didn’t want anything to do with it.”
Hedwig responded with a soft hoot, as if wanting to comfort him.
The days in the library had become a safe haven from the Slytherins—after all, that bunch of brutish idiots didn’t bother to study. There, among shelves crammed with books, Harry found silent companionship in the printed words, an escape from the mocking glances and malicious laughter.
After all, he was always walking alone now, and he knew he'd never stand a chance against bullies who traveled in packs. Alone they were cowards—they'd barely come near him—but let Malfoy have Crabbe or Goyle around, and suddenly he acted tough. Harry could try to be brave, could stand up to them like his house demanded... but that would just mean more beatings, more humiliation than he was already in for.
The time spent studying, especially alongside Hermione, was starting to pay off. Whenever he raised his hand to answer a question in class, he noticed the satisfied looks from the Professors—except one.
“What does Snape have against me?” he murmured one night, absentmindedly stroking Hedwig’s soft feathers. “Why does he hate me so much? He seems happy when I mess up… and that’s been since the first class. I can’t figure it out.”
He shrugged. Hedwig perched on his outstretched arm and gently nibbled his ear, drawing a small smile from him.
It was during one of those lonely afternoons in the library, while reading a book for an assignment, sitting next to Hermione, that she closed the book she was reading with more force than necessary and sighed deeply.
“I need to work on a Potions essay, but I want privacy. I’m going to sit over there,” she said in a neutral tone, pointing to a secluded corner of the library. “I’ll probably stay past curfew today.”
Harry remembered smiling and completely understanding; she wasn’t obligated to stay with him all the time if she didn’t want to. People could like privacy too.
“Of course, take your time,” he said calmly. “I’ll keep reading. If you need me, I’ll be here.”
“Yeah... sure, that’s fine,” she replied.
He noticed her forcing a smile before leaving, but he thought she was just nervous about the essay she was about to write.
And, from that moment on, something changed.
The space between them, once nonexistent, became a chasm.
They never sat together in the library or talked about anything again. They didn’t walk the corridors together anymore. During meals, exchanges became rare and brief—just to ask for something passed down the table. In class, Hermione started sitting far from him, as if wanting to create an invisible barrier between them.
She no longer looked him in the eye. And when she did, it was only to frown and quickly look away, as if irritated.
Every time this happened, Harry felt a strange tightness inside him. Not in his chest, nor in his stomach, but somewhere between the two—as if something inside him were being suffocated, hurt.
He tried to understand what that feeling was, tried to name it somehow, but gave up when he realized it wouldn’t lead anywhere.
Maybe it was just another rejection. And, Merlin knew, he’d had enough of that for a lifetime.
Maybe he’d trusted too much that someone could truly be his friend, and sometimes, something deep down... said the Dursleys were right sometimes, when they said no one really liked him or loved him.
His parents seemed to be the only ones who had, but they weren’t here anymore.
Sighing, he ran his fingers through Hedwig’s soft feathers and whispered:
“I just wish everything would change.”
Hedwig tilted her head, as if understanding him.
“If I make the team...” he murmured, hesitantly. “Maybe... maybe I’ll finally find a place, won’t I?”
The owl blinked slowly but didn’t answer.
Harry wasn’t sure of the answer either.
“Harry?” A familiar voice broke the morning silence.
He turned, surprised to see Angelina Johnson emerging from the entrance to the stands.
She was tall and very pretty, with dark skin and long, black hair that seemed to shine in the soft dawn light.
“Erm... hi,” Harry replied, his shyness evident.
He’d never spoken to her before, and her presence made him a bit nervous.
Angelina smiled amusedly.
“How long have you been here?” she asked, sitting beside him. “And I thought I’d arrived early!”
“Ah... I’ve been here for a while, actually. I woke up at 5 today,” he shrugged.
“Five in the morning? On a Sunday?” She raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “Merlin, Harry! With dedication like that, if you don’t make the team, I’ll give Oliver a thrashing myself!”
She laughed, making Harry laugh too, feeling a lightness in his chest he hadn’t felt in days.
He watched a flock of birds flying in the distance before speaking again.
“I didn’t want to risk being late. Thought it was better to be safe.” He commented.
“I bet Oliver isn’t even awake yet, and look how obsessed he is with Quidditch... I heard you trained with Madam Hooch every day, is that true?”
“Ah... erm... yes,” he replied hesitantly, thinking she might get angry.
But Angelina just nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“Professor McGonagall said I had to train to not fall so far behind the others.”
She snorted, nodding in agreement.
“She knows what she’s doing. Of all the professors, she’s by far the most passionate about Quidditch.” She said with a smile, before her face darkened. “But, in recent years, we... well, we haven’t won any cups yet... but she hasn’t been disappointed in us.”
“We can change that,” Harry said, a spark of confidence growing within him. “The year’s just started. It’s our chance to prove ourselves, right?”
Angelina smiled and let out a muffled laugh that made Harry shrink back timidly.
“No, no,” she said, trying to reassure him. “I’m not laughing at you, don’t worry.”
Her gaze drifted to the horizon, her expression becoming more serious.
“We always lose, mostly because of Slytherin. They play dirty, Harry. Every game, against every house.”
“What do you mean? Doesn’t anyone do anything about it?” he asked, frowning.
“Simply put? No,” she sighed, clearly frustrated. “We’ve had the misfortune of facing a generation of their players who are a bunch of idiots. And no one does anything.”
“Oh... that’s... annoying,” Harry said, searching for the right word but failing to find anything better.
“Annoying is an understatement,” Angelina huffed. “They’re proper gits, both on and off the broom. Oliver said he wants to plan something different this year, be more offensive... but I’m not sure that’ll work, honestly. They’re already offensive enough; trying to beat them at their own game but within the rules is asking to lose.”
“I see,” Harry nodded, looking at the gray horizon stretching before him.
Silence settled again as the two watched the sky slowly brighten. Harry shivered in his clothes, a gust of icy wind hitting them and making Hedwig lose some stability on her perch.
Angelina shivered and huffed, exasperated.
“I’m going to kill Oliver for picking this time!” she grumbled. “Seriously, was there no better time than 7 a.m. on a Sunday?”
“I agree with you,” Harry nodded, his teeth chattering slightly.
“That’s what you get with a Quidditch-obsessed Scottish captain,” she joked. “Random, early training times, no concern for the cold. To him, this calls for a short-sleeved uniform, and the git will still sweat and say we’re exaggerating in this heat...”
The conversation between Harry and Angelina flowed surprisingly naturally. She was funny and had a light way of speaking, and when he asked more about Quidditch, she was kind in explaining simply.
He even knew the rules, having studied them in the library in his free time, but hearing about tactics and the dynamics of the game from someone who’d actually been on the pitch was something else.
Angelina had a contagious energy, and her jokes about Oliver and the twins’ antics drew a few laughs from Harry.
As the minutes passed, other Gryffindor students began to appear in the stands.
Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet arrived before most, laughing and exchanging friendly banter about who would secure the Chaser spots. Fred and George arrived shortly after.
The atmosphere began to take on a more competitive edge, but there was still a sense of camaraderie among the closer group.
Harry, however, noticed that some older faces were only vaguely familiar. He didn’t know them well but realized many were there not just to try out for the team but also to watch and support their friends.
The cold weather and early hour hadn’t completely deterred the curious, but they also hadn’t filled the stands, which made Harry feel a bit less pressured.
If anyone gave him strange looks, he decided to ignore them. He didn’t want to be distracted by that now. His focus was on securing the Seeker position. With the growing number of people, he whispered to Hedwig that she could go hunt if she wanted. He knew she didn’t like too much movement, and the owl gracefully took flight, disappearing into the horizon in freedom.
Cormac McLaggen, a second-year with an arrogance that annoyed Harry, was also competing for the Seeker position. Cormac avoided him but occasionally shot disdainful glances his way. Harry didn’t like him, but it wasn’t exactly a personal rivalry, just an annoyance on the other boy’s part.
The real threat seemed to be Taller Jackson, a burly sixth-year who caught the girls’ attention as soon as he appeared in the stands. Angelina gave a crooked smile upon seeing him.
Oliver arrived about fifteen minutes before seven, with his usual determined expression. After checking the list of candidates, he began organizing the tryouts, starting with the Beaters.
Fred and George practically destroyed any competition.
Their Bludgers hit the targets with such precision that the older competitors didn’t even have a chance to prove themselves, eliminating most of the spectators who’d come to try out.
Next, the Chasers did their tryouts. Angelina, with undeniable skill, secured her position without much effort, and Katie and Alicia followed closely, rounding out the trio of Chasers.
As the Seeker tryouts approached, Harry’s nervousness grew. Some of the competitors were stronger and faster than he’d ever been, and the age difference was intimidating. Sitting there, watching the tryouts, Harry began to imagine what it would be like to be in the middle of a real game, facing students from other houses.
The idea was, to say the least, terrifying.
Finally, it was time for the Seekers.
The test was simple: whoever caught the Golden Snitch the fastest would secure the spot.
McLaggen went first.
With his broom in hand, he still had time to wink at some girls in the stands, who responded with looks of disdain. Oliver released the Snitch, and Cormac took off, trying to capture the small, agile object. Time dragged on, and Harry watched with a mix of impatience and relief. Katie joked that they could have lunch and come back, and McLaggen would still be searching for the Snitch.
When McLaggen finally caught the Snitch, clumsily and much later than acceptable, it was Taller’s turn.
The girls sighed as soon as he mounted his broom, making Harry roll his eyes.
He smiled upon noticing the twins having the same reaction.
“Girls being girls...” he thought.
Taller was visibly better than McLaggen, catching the Snitch more quickly and precisely. This made Harry’s stomach churn.
The spot was threatened, and he knew that if he wasn’t perfect, he could lose it to someone older, stronger, and more experienced.
Now, it was Harry’s turn.
“Three minutes and fifty-four seconds, not bad, Taller,” Oliver praised the sixth-year, who gave a confident smile.
Harry was already at the base of the pitch, his heart racing. Nervousness consumed him, his stomach churned, and he barely processed what Oliver was saying as Taller approached.
“Good luck, Harry.” Taller gave a friendly wink before heading to the stands, but that only made Harry’s nervousness grow.
Oliver noticed his apprehension and approached with a reassuring smile.
“Hey, no need to be so nervous,” he laughed, as if it were easy. “I know what you’re thinking, but relax. You don’t need strength or power. A Seeker needs to be quick, agile. And, Harry, you’ve got that in spades. Cormac was a disaster, and as for Taller, he’s heavier, uses the same broom as you. That gives you an advantage. Trust your instincts, okay?”
“Right.” Harry nodded, swallowing dryly.
Oliver patted his shoulder lightly.
“Now go on. When you mount the broom, I’ll release the Snitch. Alright?”
“Uh-huh,” Harry murmured, trying to stay calm.
He took a deep breath, closed his hands tightly around the broom handle, trying to channel confidence. When Oliver released the Snitch, the tension dissipated, and the chase began.
Harry shot upward as fast as he could, gaining altitude and scanning the pitch with his eyes.
He saw no sign of the Snitch.
His frantic gaze darted from side to side, but the golden ball seemed to have disappeared. With each passing second, his nervousness grew, and sweat began to bead on his forehead, mixing with the cold wind hitting his face.
The Snitch had truly vanished from sight.
Panic clouded his thoughts, and the pressure of all those eyes made him feel the weight of the moment.
The pitch was silent, only the sound of his ragged breathing and the erratic beating of his heart accompanying him. He needed to calm down, needed to let go of the tension, controlling his breathing and observing the pitch calmly.
And then, he felt it.
A presence, almost imperceptible. It was far away, diagonally above him. There was no way to explain it; it was as if his instincts had picked up something his eyes hadn’t yet seen.
Suddenly, a golden glint caught his eye.
The Snitch!
He lunged toward the glint, but as he did, the Snitch jerked sharply to the left. Harry curved his broom, following it at high speed.
The Snitch danced in the air, agile and unpredictable, and Harry felt adrenaline ignite his senses. He’d need to be much faster, much smarter, and unfortunately, his broom wasn’t as fast as he’d like.
The Snitch rose in an ascending arc, and Harry followed closely, the wind hitting his face with force, almost obscuring his vision. The Snitch seemed to toy with him, floating in the air just a few meters away but escaping whenever he got too close.
He stretched out his arm, fingers extended toward the small golden sphere, and for a moment, he thought he could catch it. But then, the Snitch dove in a spiraling flight, descending at breakneck speed.
Everyone in the stands stood up, watching with bated breath.
Harry barely had time to react.
He curved his broom to follow the movement, almost feeling his stomach lurch with the abrupt drop.
The Snitch descended, faster and faster, passing over Fred and George, who interrupted their laughter as Harry nearly crashed into them.
“Bloody hell!” one of them exclaimed, arms over his head.
The ground was approaching at a terrifying speed, and Harry gripped the broom handle, leaning as far as he could.
He was now just a few meters above the ground, and the Snitch still refused to stop.
Everyone held their breath, aware that any wrong move could lead to a nasty crash.
He felt it, the small sphere escaping by millimeters, but he refused to give up. In one last effort, Harry stretched a bit further, almost unbalancing himself on the broom, but his fingers closed around the small golden ball.
With a quick pull, Harry braked his broom before colliding with the pitch, raising the Snitch in the air, almost disbelieving he’d caught it. The feeling of holding it in his hand was incredible, as if all the effort of the past two weeks of training had paid off.
At first, he didn’t smile, just stared wide-eyed, trying to show he’d really caught it.
From the stands, everyone erupted in applause and cheers. The entire pitch seemed to vibrate with the energy of victory, even with few spectators.
Harry was panting, his forehead glistening with sweat, his heart pounding, a smile of pure satisfaction spreading across his face as he watched the small golden ball fold its wings in his fingers.
“Merlin, Harry!” Oliver shouted, running to him at the center of the pitch.
His smile was so wide it seemed his face might split in two.
“Two minutes and twenty-three seconds! You’re in!”
Harry could hardly believe it. He stood still for a moment, absorbing Oliver’s words. When reality finally hit him, an incredulous, radiant smile spread across his face.
“Really?” he whispered, almost breathless.
A comforting warmth filled his chest.
He couldn’t remember a time he’d felt so happy, except perhaps when McGonagall asked if he wanted to go to Hogwarts.
“Harry! I knew you could do it!” Angelina shouted, approaching with the rest of the team.
The twins were right behind, with mischievous smiles.
“Thanks,” he said, cheeks red and forehead sweaty.
“Brilliant!” Oliver exclaimed. “We’ve got our team! Now, this morning, I’ll announce it in the common room, and I need to tell Professor McGonagall. Oh, and about that strategy I was thinking of yesterday... Katie and Alicia will be faster on the wings... and with you, Fred, and George leading the English formation with the Bludgers. It’s going to be perfect! We can—”
“Oliver,” Angelina interrupted him with a patient smile.
“—pull off that Bulgarian offensive move I saw last week—” He continued, gesturing animatedly in the air as if he had an imaginary tactics board in front of him.
“Oliver!” she called, louder this time.
“Huh? Yes?” He blinked, his eyes still shining with enthusiasm.
“First, breathe,” Angelina said calmly. “Why don’t we head back to the castle and discuss this later? We’re all exhausted, and, honestly, it’s bloody freezing out here.”
“Ah... right, of course.” Oliver said, a bit deflated but accepting the suggestion.
They began walking back to the castle at a leisurely pace, enjoying the scenery around them. The rest of the spectators were already well ahead.
The wind was still cold. Fred and George chattered nonstop, especially about Harry’s electrifying chase for the Snitch.
“No offense, Harry, but at that moment, I thought you were going to crash right into us. I was already bracing for impact,” Fred said with a mischievous smile, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder.
“None taken,” Harry replied, laughing. “I thought I was going to hit you too.”
His honest response made everyone laugh louder.
“What my brother’s trying to say,” George interjected, giving Fred a teasing look, “is that he’s the bigger coward of the two of us.”
Fred huffed. “But I’m the better-looking one, at least.”
“You’re not,” George retorted, raising his eyebrows at Angelina, who laughed and sighed, exasperated.
“You two are impossible sometimes,” she replied, shaking her head.
Fred pretended to be hurt.
“It’s a shame it’s only sometimes—”
“—Means we still have a majority where we’re not—”
“—Doing the math, that’s a margin of over 50% non-utilization—”
“—Disappointing...” George shook his head.
“Are they always like this?” Katie asked, amused.
“Yes...” Angelina and Oliver sighed but couldn’t hide their smiles.
The light-hearted banter continued as they crossed the pitch toward the castle.
These students were fun. The girls were kind and supportive, and the twins... well, they were the twins, no explanation needed. And Oliver was a Quidditch fanatic.
More importantly, with practices scheduled twice a week, Harry knew he’d have something to look forward to, something to distract and entertain him. The smile he kept as they headed to the common room reflected this new hope, a promise that, finally, he wasn’t alone anymore.
The seven Gryffindor players passed through the Fat Lady’s portrait, and the common room greeted them with a mix of laughter, chatter, and the cozy warmth of the fireplaces, while the October cold remained biting outside.
It was past ten in the morning; the tryouts had stretched an hour longer than planned thanks to McLaggen’s difficulty in finding the Snitch.
As it was a Sunday, the large number of students—dressed casually—relaxing in the comfortable armchairs and sofas was expected. The atmosphere was light, many immersed in board games, animated whispers, or simply enjoying the warmth of the room.
When the players entered together, several heads turned, and Harry felt those familiar looks of suspicion and curiosity.
“Everyone, a moment of your time!” Oliver’s loud, firm voice called for attention, and the room gradually quieted.
“I know some of you are curious about how our team looks this year, but you also want to enjoy your Sunday, so I’ll be brief.”
He pointed to the three Chasers.
“Our new Chasers: Katie and Alicia will be on the wings, and Angelina retains her position in the center.”
“We’ve got the prettiest Chasers in Hogwarts!” Lee Jordan shouted from the back of the room with a mischievous grin.
The comment made the three girls laugh and roll their eyes, but they couldn’t hide their shy smiles.
There was a round of applause from everyone, celebrating the new additions to the team.
Oliver continued, pointing to the twins.
“Fred and George remain our Beaters.”
The room’s enthusiasm immediately grew.
“Knock their teeth out, Fred!” a boy shouted from the back with excitement.
“I’ll pay five Sickles for every Slytherin taken down!” another shouted, holding up five fingers.
“I’ll give eight!” added another, sparking laughter and a chorus of bets.
George raised an eyebrow, pretending to seriously consider it.
“We’ll negotiate the rates, lads. But this year is snake-hunting season!” he exclaimed.
The room erupted in fervent applause and cheers, and Harry, watching the growing excitement, couldn’t help but smile.
“They really take these games seriously…” he reflected.
It crossed his mind if armor was necessary to play, because it seemed like he was heading to war, not a school game.
Finally, Oliver placed a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, drawing his attention back.
“And last but not least, our newest Seeker, Harry.”
The silence that followed was palpable as the younger students’ eyes fell on Harry with curiosity but without the enthusiasm the other team members had received.
Harry, by reflex, almost shrunk in shame, feeling the weight of the doubts surrounding him.
However, to his surprise, the older students—especially the sixth and seventh years—suddenly stood up, applauding and cheering. The sound filled the room, and Harry was taken aback.
He almost wanted to hide in the thick scarf he wore, but a small, albeit shy, smile escaped from behind the wool.
“I saw him chasing that Snitch this morning,” an excited voice echoed from the corner of the room.
It was Taller, who now stood and pointed at Harry with a smile.
“And I was telling them here how it went. I lost, but because he was better.”
“You didn’t just lose, I saw you get thrashed, more like!” a friend of his said, laughing.
Taller punched his shoulder lightly, still laughing.
The other students stared in disbelief.
Taller was known to be an excellent amateur player, at least among his friends.
“How many minutes did I take, Oliver?” he asked, tilting his head toward the captain with casual confidence.
Oliver pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and read aloud.
“Three minutes and fifty-four seconds.”
“And how long did he take?” Taller asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Two minutes and twenty-three seconds.”
The shock in the room was immediate.
The looks turned to Harry, now visibly impressed. Some students even gaped, incredulous at his speed. This was an internal house record, and it had been a long time since anyone had been that fast.
Harry—already uncomfortable with all the attention—now wanted to bury himself in the ground. He shrugged, trying, futilely, to hide his face in his scarf.
“You can apologize to Charlie later,” Taller continued, turning to the twins and Ron, who was in the corner playing wizard's chess with Neville. “But even he’d have to admit he was slower.”
“Go get them, Harry!” a sixth-year shouted, sparking more applause and words of encouragement from the crowd.
Still a bit embarrassed, Harry allowed himself a more sincere smile. He felt grateful for the support of his housemates, even if he wasn’t entirely comfortable with all the attention.
As the celebrations in the common room began to die down, Oliver gave him a final pat on the back before walking away. The girls who had congratulated him moved to another corner of the room, and the Weasley twins disappeared, laughing between themselves, likely planning some mischief.
Now alone, Harry thought about heading up to the dormitory to grab a book. There were some interesting spells he wanted to try—things he’d found in his recent library readings.
Before he could move, something in the corner of the room caught his attention.
Hermione was sitting alone at a distant table, her thick, bushy hair falling around her face, which was barely visible behind a large book. Her gaze was fixed on the pages, her expression intensely focused, as if trying to ignore the noise around her and lose herself in the printed words.
Harry noticed that the commotion in the common room seemed to bother her. The chatter, the occasional laughter, the clatter of wizard chess pieces being moved—too much noise for someone who just wanted to read in peace.
An uncomfortable tightness formed in his chest as he saw her there, so isolated amidst the crowd.
Just like him.
For a brief moment, their eyes met. Hermione frowned, as if seeing a stranger, and quickly looked away, returning to her book without a word.
Harry felt a knot tighten in his stomach. There it was again, that suffocating, unsettling, horrible feeling.
He wanted to tear it out of himself, throw it away, as if it were something physical that could be forcibly removed. But no matter how hard he tried, it remained, writhing painfully inside him.
Was his company really that bad?
He sighed, trying to push the thought away as best he could, and headed toward the dormitory, ignoring the weight of that silent interaction.
But before climbing the first step, he risked one last discreet glance.
Hermione paused almost imperceptibly, as if fighting against something she couldn’t express. Harry noticed her shifting uncomfortably in her chair, her hands trembling slightly, but before he could process what it might mean, she was already immersed in the book again, her face an impenetrable wall.
Harry sighed as he continued up the stairs. He wished he had something more exciting to do—perhaps a game of wizard's chess, or even trying out that Exploding Snap game he'd seen some boys playing earlier. But deep down, he already knew his fate:
Once again, he'd have to make do with his books and studies… alone.
Chapter 6: Everything Has a Limit
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.
Chapter 7: How Not to Hate Halloween?
Chapter Text
Harry walked through the cold, damp corridors of the dungeons, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly off the stone walls as his thoughts wandered.
The flickering torchlight cast uneven shadows across the walls, but he barely noticed his surroundings, lost in his reflections about that morning’s Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson.
His fingers brushed lightly against the scar on his forehead, trying to understand why that persistent pain flared up from time to time.
Quirrell, with his trembling, hesitant voice, could barely hold the class’s attention with his long, tedious lectures.
The professor, when he wasn’t stammering incessantly, occasionally scribbled names of “misunderstood” dark creatures or wizards on the board, as he liked to claim.
Harry, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that something about that class triggered the pain in his scar.
It was as though a hot iron pressed against his forehead whenever the professor paused his monologues, and though the pain was brief, the discomfort lingered. He’d completely dismissed the idea that Snape was behind it—after all, in Potions, his scar never bothered him.
There was something specific about Defence, something he still couldn’t grasp.
He hadn’t told anyone about this strange connection, except Hedwig—because really, who would he tell? Peeves?
Best not.
His faithful owl was the only one Harry trusted with his deepest worries and inner conflicts. She always listened, nipping him gently or hooting in response, as if trying to comfort her young master.
As he entered the dungeon for Potions, Harry was met by the familiar scent of boiling ingredients and mixed herbs. At Snape’s desk, everything was in perfect order—a calm that would be short-lived.
Of the two consecutive Potions lessons he had that day, the first had already been an ordeal.
Snape filled the board with complex notes, full of Latin names, barely bothering to explain. Harry knew the professor understood everything about potions, but teaching was another matter. He didn’t care if the students struggled to keep up, forcing Harry to spend even more time than he’d like in the library just to grasp the concepts.
There was something different about Snape’s expression that afternoon. A sort of icy satisfaction gleamed behind his sarcastic smirk, revealing his yellowish teeth in an almost predatory way.
And that, of course, was never a good sign. A smiling Snape meant someone would leave unhappy—and odds were, that someone would be Harry.
The Potions master walked slowly between the tables, his black robes billowing as if they had a will of their own, his gaze scanning each student with the same cruel scrutiny as a falcon eyeing its prey.
“Today, I shall have the pleasure of choosing your pairs,” he announced, his voice low yet unmistakable, cutting through the thick silence that hung in the air.
He stopped in the centre of the room and turned on his heel to face the class.
“I wish to see who is capable of rising above mediocrity...” he said, dragging out the words with evident disdain, “...and who can barely hold a wooden spoon.”
His cold eyes swept over the students as if he already knew exactly who fit into which category. Then, for some reason, his gaze settled on Harry—and then on Neville.
“Ah, but we shall soon separate the wheat from the chaff...” he murmured, a cruel glint flickering in his eyes. “Or perhaps the entire crop is infested with blight.”
An uneasy murmur rippled through the classroom.
Snape strode over to Neville’s table, and the boy shrank under his piercing stare.
“Longbottom,” he called, his voice dripping with contempt. “You will pair with Potter.”
Neville paled instantly. His eyes widened like a hare cornered by a dangerous wolf.
“Y-Yes, sir,” he stammered, his voice so faint it nearly vanished into the air.
Snape raised an eyebrow at his hesitation.
“Then move.”
Neville startled and, trembling slightly, shuffled over to Harry’s workstation. Meanwhile, Snape continued assigning pairs—grouping the Slytherins together without really changing anything for them.
Once they were settled, Harry gave Neville an encouraging look, but the boy already seemed on the verge of despair.
“You alright, Neville?” he whispered, keeping his voice low.
Neville cleared his throat, rubbing his slightly shaky hands, avoiding eye contact.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“For what?” Harry frowned.
“I’m… a terrible partner. Always mess things up.” Neville attempted a laugh, but it came out more like a hiccup.
Harry gave him a quick smile.
“Rubbish. This potion’s easy, all the ingredients are straightforward, see?” He pointed at the table—valerian, mistletoe, and water from the Lethe were what they’d be using today.
Neville let out a nervous chuckle.
“Straightforward for you, maybe… ‘cause I’ve no clue what this water even is.” He gestured at the slightly bluish bottled liquid. “But I’ve a feeling if I drink it, I’ll be stuck in the loo all night.”
Harry gave a quiet laugh before glancing around, noticing the Slytherins were comfortably grouped together while the rest of the houses were mixed. Strangely, only he and Neville were Gryffindors paired up.
“Notice he mixed everyone… except them?” he whispered.
Neville took a quick look before nodding.
“Yeah, can’t say I’m surprised, honestly.”
Harry sighed, sharing a smile of solidarity with his friend.
“Snape being Snape, I suppose…” he murmured with a shrug.
Neville relaxed slightly, as if the comment had helped. But the calm didn’t last.
“A complete Forgetfulness Potion, by the end of the lesson,” Snape announced, his cutting voice echoing off the dungeon walls. “And we shall see who here is prepared… and who will fail without their usual crutches.”
His gaze swept over the room, cold and disdainful, as if he already predicted half the class would blow up their cauldrons.
“Are you waiting for me to light the fire for you?” he asked rhetorically.
At once, everyone began moving, though at first, most seemed rather lost.
The sound of cauldrons being prepared and vials clinking echoed through the dungeon as students hurried to organise their ingredients, exchanging tense whispers. Snape glided between the rows like a predatory shadow, his sharp gaze alert to any slip-up, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of incompetence.
“Neville, how do you usually brew your potions?” asked Harry, keeping his tone light in hopes of calming him. “We could do it together, at our own pace. What d'you reckon?”
Neville offered a hesitant smile and pulled a scroll of notes from his bag.
Harry's eyes widened at the jumble of scribbles, crossed-out lines, and words crammed so chaotically they might as well have been a secret code.
“Blimey, how does he even read this?” he thought to himself.
Harry scratched his chin, considering how to handle it without discouraging his friend.
“Right,” he said, forcing optimism into his voice. “Think I’ve got something that might help.”
He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a copy of Potion Opuscule, a third-year text he’d nicked from the library.
“This one’s got a more detailed breakdown of the Forgetfulness Potion,” he explained, flipping to the relevant chapter and pointing to a specific passage. “Plus some tips for when it starts changing colour during boiling.”
Neville stared at the book as if Harry had just handed him a treasure map.
“Wow! How’d you find this?”
Harry shrugged, slightly awkward.
“Spend a lot of time in the library,” he said, aiming for casual. “Pick up a trick or two.”
Neville smiled properly for the first time.
“Well... definitely better than my method,” he joked. They both laughed, finally easing up.
It was then that an icy voice cut through the air.
“Have you forgotten how to light fires, or are you awaiting a formal invitation to begin?”
Neville froze mid-motion.
Snape loomed over them like a bad omen, eyes glittering with disdain.
In one swift move, Harry slid Neville’s parchment over the book—he wasn’t sure if using advanced material was allowed.
“We were discussing the best method for the potion, Professor,” he said politely, keeping his tone neutral.
Snape narrowed his eyes, lips twisting into a cruel smile.
“Your time is running out. Fail to submit the potion, and it will be yet another mark against your already mediocre record.” His cold gaze shifted to Neville. “And you, Longbottom… try, just this once, not to sever your own fingers or set your benchmate aflame.”
Neville made an incoherent noise.
Snape leaned closer and, with a fluid motion, yanked the chaotic parchment off the book.
Harry swallowed hard.
“Potion Opuscule...” Snape murmured, his dark eyes narrowing oddly as he examined the cover.
For a moment, Harry knew the professor recognised it—not just as a text, but as if it stirred some memory. But his expression soon smoothed back into its usual unreadable coldness.
“Surprised you managed to read the title, Potter,” he said with razor-thin scorn before turning on his heel, robes billowing behind him.
Harry exhaled, turning to Neville, who looked shell-shocked.
“I’ll light the fire,” he said, giving Neville’s shoulder a light pat. “Want to start crushing the mistletoe berries?”
Neville nodded rapidly, grateful for a concrete task. His hands still trembled slightly, but he focused, gripping the pestle as Harry prepared the cauldron, mentally ticking off their next steps.
The sounds of knives chopping ingredients and spoons stirring potions echoed through the stifling dungeon, while Snape watched like a hawk, deducting house points for absurd reasons and awarding Slytherins for breathing through their noses.
“Now what?” Neville whispered, eyeing the steaming cauldron.
“Just two pinches of the base mixture and five counter-clockwise stirs,” said Harry, adding the powder as Neville stirred, visibly tense.
“D’you think it’ll work?” Neville asked nervously.
Harry grinned. “Well, it hasn’t exploded yet, so we’re doing alright.”
They shared a quiet laugh. Even following the steps correctly, Harry kept a cautious distance, half-expecting a reaction.
At the next table, Daphne Greengrass—unlike the other Slytherins who watched Snape with impatience—gazed at him timidly, her voice barely audible.
“Professor, does this potion behave differently at certain temperatures?”
“Yes, its properties shift with ambient heat,” Snape replied tersely.
“Is there a spell to stabilise it?”
“Of course there’s a spell—there always is.”
“So... may we use it? Mine turned red, then purple too quickly. I think it’s the temperature.”
“Focus on the potion, Miss Greengrass. Don’t make excuses.” Without another word, he swept away, leaving her looking stricken as she stirred.
Harry bit back a laugh; had anyone but a Slytherin asked, that remark would’ve cost points.
When Neville finished stirring, he exhaled in relief.
“Done. Think I got it right—what next?” he asked, squinting at the book they’d been using as a crib.
Neville frowned, clearly baffled by the text’s terminology, and for a moment seemed to forget why he was holding it.
Harry gave his wand a flick over the cauldron to suspend the potion’s state.
“And thus ends today’s torment.”
Neville raised his hands in victory. “Can’t believe it didn’t go wrong!”
They grinned, exhausted but satisfied.
Harry peered into the cauldron.
“Reckon we nailed it,” he said, examining the bubbling liquid against the book’s description. “Says here it should be bronze-coloured, and... well, this looks bronze to me.”
Neville, still cautious, tilted his head. “Maybe a bit coppery, but close enough.”
Looking around, Harry saw few others had finished.
Along with them, Hermione and Mandy Brocklehurst had finished their potion, both looking pleased with the result.
Snape glanced over indifferently and made no comment.
Further back, Seamus and Ernie Macmillan seemed to have met with disaster; their cauldron had exploded, leaving Seamus covered in soot with singed strands of hair. Macmillan coughed through the smoke.
Ron and Terry Boot had somehow turned their potion into a sludge so thick it gained sentience and crawled out of the cauldron.
Snape had to set the thing aflame before it started swallowing ingredients off the table.
All of them lost points for their “ridiculous, inattentive failures.”
Other pairs with lacklustre results weren’t faring as drastically—just odd-coloured potions or foul smells from poor brewing. The professor ignored them, especially the Slytherins.
Neville, his hands clammy, glanced timidly at Harry.
“Harry, I... wanted to, well, thank you.” His voice was quiet, hesitant. “Should’ve done it sooner, but... I really owe you one.”
Harry, surprised, smiled as he packed away ingredient jars.
“No need. We brewed it together. You did fine,” he replied sincerely.
Neville shook his head almost desperately.
“Not about the potion.” He seemed to hunt for words, then spoke carefully. “It’s... about my Remembrall. In Flying class. Dunno if you remember...”
“Oh, that? Was nothing,” Harry said, grinning. “Anyone would’ve done the same.”
But Neville didn’t look convinced.
“I... don’t think so. Not everyone would’ve. You barely knew me and risked expulsion for me. Heard you didn’t even hesitate before going after Malfoy.”
Harry shrugged. “Really, no big deal. Madam Hooch just wanted to scare us... wasn’t actually expulsion.”
“But you didn’t know that at the time, did you?”
“Er... well—no—suppose I didn’t.”
Neville smiled, though it was tinged with melancholy.
“Should’ve thanked you earlier, but I was... dunno, awkward.” He looked down. “But thanking’s a start—I mean—reckon it’s a start... sort of... er...”
Harry smiled back easily. “S’alright, Neville. Glad I helped.”
Neville, visibly more relaxed, returned a genuine smile.
“Thanks. Really. It was... really decent of you. Especially with him...” He shot a furtive look at Malfoy, who was whispering to Goyle in the distance, looking even more thick than usual.
Harry let out a humourless laugh at the sight of those walking lumps of troll fodder.
“Malfoy’s just a cowardly bully,” he said with the ease of experience. “Only acts tough when he’s got backup. Met plenty like him.”
Neville exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping. “He’s my first... and those two—Crabbe and Goyle—make it worse.”
Harry studied Malfoy’s cronies, who always seemed primed for idiocy.
“They bother you too?” He arched a brow, curious. He’d assumed he was their only target.
Neville nodded wearily. “Nearly every day. Sometimes freeze my legs, trip me up. Call me a... ‘Squib’.” He hesitated on the word, as if it still stung.
“Squib?” Harry frowned, unfamiliar with the term.
Neville hunched his shoulders. “A Squib’s a wizard-born with no magic... Basically a Muggle, but in our world.”
Harry stared at him. “But you’re not a Squib! I’ve seen you cast spells. You’re a wizard.”
Neville gave a sad half-smile.
“Yeah, but... took ages to prove it to my family. Gran, especially...” He trailed off, avoiding his own thoughts. “Malfoy says it ’cause of my... difficulties.”
Harry studied him carefully.
“The spellwork?” he asked, trying not to sound insensitive.
Neville shrugged like it was an old wound.
“Yeah. I’m pants at spells and... most everything, honestly. But I like Herbology... don’t mess up as much there.” A small, genuine smile surfaced at the subject.
Harry grinned back.
“Can tell you fancy plants. Bet Herbology’s your best.”
“Like it, but I’m no expert,” Neville chuckled briefly before sobering. “But Malfoy... he and the others wear me down. Know I’m not much, know I don’t matter, but the way he goes on... like he enjoys me making a fool of myself.”
“Know exactly what you mean,” Harry said thoughtfully. “They hassle me too. Even Pansy joins in sometimes, just to needle me. First it was ’cause I was ‘dangerous,’ now it’s Quidditch.”
Neville met his gaze solemnly. “I know. And... for what it’s worth, never bought that rot about you being a threat.”
“Cheers, Neville...” Harry said, touched.
Neville shrugged with faint irony. “S’pose it’s just us two dealing with this. Dean, Ron, and Seamus always have each other. Helps, I reckon.”
Harry took a steadying breath.
“Started getting sick of it,” he admitted firmly. “That’s why I’ve been practising spells on my own... after... well, last time they had a go.”
Neville blinked.
“You’ve been training alone?” He leaned in, hand half-covering his mouth. “Isn’t that against rules?”
Harry shrugged sheepishly. “Yeah... but I’m done being their punching bag. And no one to practise with.”
Neville hesitated, then offered tentatively:
“Well... if you want, we could train together.” He sounded unsure but earnest. “I’m rubbish, but we might help each other...”
Harry’s grin was instant. “I’d love that. Maybe then we’ll shut those gits up proper.”
Neville laughed, the sound lightening his posture.
“Deal... long as I don’t hold you back...”
“You won’t.”
Harry, still smiling, realised he was genuinely enjoying Neville’s company.
They laughed over stories while clearing their workstation, Harry feeling lighter than he had in ages. But glancing up, he caught Snape watching them from afar. Their eyes met briefly before Snape looked away, resuming his critique of another pair’s botched potion.
Something in the professor’s dark, unreadable gaze felt like an unspoken remark—but Harry couldn’t decipher what.
Harry awoke feeling heavy, as though the mattress were trying to swallow him whole. Every muscle resisted movement, and for a fleeting moment, he considered sinking back into sleep.
Hedwig, somehow, seemed to know today wasn’t one for early wake-ups. Perhaps it was her sharp sixth sense or the time she’d spent observing Harry’s moods. The white owl remained silent on her perch, watchful but not uttering a single hoot.
Harry turned slowly, releasing a drawn-out sigh as he burrowed deeper under the warm blanket. The soft pillow offered tempting comfort, but faint light already seeped through the gaps in his bed’s canopy, forcing him to frown even with his eyes closed.
He huffed quietly, irritated by the unwanted light delivering its unpleasant reminder: the day had begun.
It was Halloween.
Most children adored this holiday—costumes, sweets, mischief. Who wouldn’t love it?
But for Harry, Halloween wasn’t about celebration. It was about loss.
A pain no other Hogwarts student could fully grasp.
“Your parents were murdered by a dark wizard called Voldemort.”
The words echoed in his mind, cold and unrelenting.
For years, he’d believed it was just a drunken car crash—a cruel lie the Dursleys repeated with calculated indifference. In their warped version, he’d borne part of the blame.
His parents had started drinking after he was born. At least, that’s what Aunt Petunia implied with her sour tone and disdainful glances.
Sometimes, when he was younger, Harry caught himself wondering:
What if it were true?
What if they’d drunk too much because they were unhappy?
What if he’d somehow caused it?
But now he knew the truth.
And knowing didn’t hurt less.
It hurt more.
His parents hadn’t simply died. They’d been murdered. Torn from him without warning, without goodbyes. And he’d have been taken too, if not for absurd, inexplicable luck.
Harry opened his eyes and stared at the canopy above, where morning light began tracing soft shapes on the dark fabric.
“Absurd luck...” He repeated inwardly, fingers brushing the lightning-shaped scar that reminded him daily.
Neville, in a rare and careful conversation, had broached the subject of Halloween during a game of wizard’s chess. The Gryffindor common room stood empty at that hour, their only company the crackling fire and the enchanted pieces clattering across the board.
He’d hesitated before speaking, fidgeting with a pawn as he weighed his words.
“Harry… you know what Halloween means to wizards, right?” he asked softly, without a trace of insensitivity.
Harry looked up from the board, surprised.
“You mean… besides All Hallows’ Eve?”
Neville nodded, choosing his words carefully.
“It’s just… most people see it as a… celebration. Not just the holiday, but because it’s when… when You-Know-Who was defeated.”
Harry went very still.
“Thanks to you,” Neville added, barely above a whisper.
Harry’s gaze dropped to the board. One of his bishops was brutally toppled by Neville’s white knight, but he barely registered it.
Of course he knew it was the day Voldemort fell—the day he’d become “The Boy Who Lived.” But that wasn’t how he saw it. To him, it wasn’t a day of triumph.
It was the day his parents were killed.
Neville didn’t need to say more. Harry sensed, between the lines, that he understood in his own way. Not the same—Neville had said his own parents were alive, but…
Harry stole a glance at him.
Neville kept his focus on the game, but there was something in his slightly hunched shoulders, in how his fingers gripped the chessboard’s edge, that spoke louder than words ever could.
Harry never pressed him to elaborate. And Neville never forced him to remember.
Perhaps that was precisely why Harry valued his company so much.
They had these silent understandings.
Lately, Harry and Neville had been spending more time together. Afternoons blurred between disastrous chess matches—neither was particularly skilled, which only made it funnier. The pieces grew so frustrated they sometimes threatened to quit the board entirely.
Between laughs, they talked at length about their childhoods, comparing Muggle and wizarding upbringings. Neville shared stories about his gran Augusta’s endless attempts to coax magic from him—usually ending in broken heirlooms and dramatic sighs. Harry, in turn, spoke of life with the Dursleys, though he omitted the worst bits.
But their favourite pastime was spell practice—not that it yielded grand progress. Untrained, unguided, and often clueless, their results were… unpredictable at best.
Still, it kept them clear of Draco Malfoy and his cronies, which was victory enough. And their minor disasters usually dissolved into uncontrollable laughter.
The unused fifth-floor classroom had become their sanctuary. There, they practiced without fear of interruption or curious stares. So far, their sessions involved basic Levitation Charms and hesitant attempts at defensive spells from their DADA textbook.
Harry couldn’t pinpoint when he’d realised it, but the truth was: he enjoyed Neville’s company. It was nice having someone to talk to, laugh with, share quiet moments—someone who’d never mock or scorn him.
Lately, Hogwarts had never felt more like home.
Yet today, Harry just wanted to disappear.
He wished the day would end before it began. He knew the Great Hall would be decked in Halloween regalia, the celebrations indifferent to his grief.
He took a steadying breath and forced himself up. The wooden floor’s chill sent a shiver up his spine, banishing any lingering desire to stay abed.
Around him, the other boys’ canopies remained drawn. Seamus snored loudly, an irregular sound echoing through the dorm. Ron wasn’t far behind, muttering occasionally as he tossed and turned.
Since Harry had started spending time with Neville, Ron sometimes struck up conversations too. It wasn’t the stiff, nervous exchanges of before—though an awkwardness lingered, as if neither quite knew where they stood.
The rumour of Harry being a threat still hovered over him, mingled with his newfound status as the Slytherins’ laughingstock. Hard to explain, but Harry felt it constantly—like an invisible charge in the air.
Moving carefully to avoid waking anyone, he gathered his clothes and bag, then slipped out to the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click.
After a hot shower that helped shake off his lethargy, Harry dressed in his Hogwarts uniform, attempting to straighten his tie with the precise motions Neville had taught him.
He sniffed, allowing a small smile as he recalled Hermione fixing his tie on the first day—and how he’d kept it knotted so long it had grown misshapen. That small kindness, freely given, remained one of the few he’d ever received.
Thinking of her still stirred a familiar ache somewhere between his chest and stomach.
The trouble was, he’d had no one to teach him how to tie a proper knot, and he’d never ask for help. Neville had offered willingly.
Harry futilely tried to tame his hair, as usual.
Sighing, he left the dormitory in silence, descending the empty stairs toward the Great Hall.
And the corridors of Hogwarts were, as he’d expected, adorned for the occasion.
Enchanted paper bats fluttered overhead, their squeaks echoing. Animated skeletons tap-danced in corners, top hats bobbing. Floating pumpkins cast flickering light, while thick cobwebs draped the walls. Orange banners brought festive cheer—yet none of it warmed Harry’s heart.
He moved through the decorations like a ghost untouched by the surrounding magic.
In the corridors, he half-heartedly acknowledged Nearly Headless Nick and Professor Binns, who were debating the horrors of the Salem witch trials as if they’d happened yesterday.
The Great Hall stood nearly empty at this early hour, its enchanted ceiling reflecting a pale, clouded sky. Only a handful of students had arrived, their footsteps echoing softly.
At the staff table, Minerva McGonagall caught Harry’s eye and offered a brief, sad smile—one that didn’t reach her stern gaze. Beside her, Dumbledore inclined his head almost imperceptibly, his half-moon spectacles glinting as he closed his eyes for a moment, as if to say without words:
“I understand.”
That silence meant more than any speech.
Harry slid onto the Gryffindor bench and stabbed his fork into the scrambled eggs without enthusiasm. The food had gone cold, but he couldn't muster an appetite.
Hermione was already there, as usual, nose buried in some book. Harry avoided looking at her, unwilling to face that familiar internal discomfort that always tightened his chest when he watched her.
It was Neville—when he arrived—who broke through the isolation, approaching with his quiet, unassuming manner. He sat beside Harry and gave his shoulder a light touch.
“Morning,” he said softly.
“Morning,” Harry replied without looking up.
A comfortable silence settled between them. Neville never needed many words; he simply nodded, understanding what Harry needed.
“If you need anything, just say, alright?” he offered after a while, his voice low but firm.
Harry looked at him and, for the first time that morning, managed a small smile.
“Thanks.”
It wasn't much, but it was enough.
Neville remained quiet, but his presence spoke volumes. He was there—not demanding Harry talk about his feelings, but making it clear he'd support him regardless.
As Harry struggled to eat, his eyes wandered across the Hall, observing the other house tables.
For most students, it was just another day.
Laughter, jokes and chatter filled the air. Harry felt a growing emptiness inside—not because he wanted others to mourn, but because he simply couldn't allow himself happiness today. The weight of his loss was always present, and today more than ever, he felt the absence of those he'd never truly known, yet who had shaped his life forever.
Those who had walked these same halls, people he'd never get to speak with or share experiences with.
The same questions always circled his mind on this day:
“What if they'd lived?” he wondered. “Would my mother wake me each morning? Would my father have taught me to fly? Would they hug me and say everything's alright? Did they love me?”
These thoughts had made his eyes shine when he was younger—a lonely boy locked in a cupboard under the stairs.
Herbology started their morning lessons—an in—depth theory class about Dittany, a plant Harry knew—because Neville had told him—was incredibly useful for healing.
As Professor Sprout lectured, the words seemed to float past him, most of the lesson becoming a blur. Neville took diligent notes, probably planning to share them with Harry later—though partly due to his own obsession with the subject.
Transfiguration came next, and despite his grief, Harry made a conscious effort to focus. McGonagall was in top form, explaining the theory of transforming living creatures into objects and its practical applications.
“Now, as you can see, each of you has a rat before you. They will be your partners for this exercise,” McGonagall informed, her crisp voice carrying across the classroom.
Ron was the only one using his own rat—Scabbers—who looked thoroughly displeased, not to say terrified.
“You will transform them into snuffboxes,” the professor continued. “This is crucial preparation for your end-of-year exams, so pay attention.”
She demonstrated the spell perfectly, her wand movement precise, transforming her demonstration rat into an elegant silver snuffbox that gleamed in the classroom light.
“Ten minutes to attempt it yourselves,” she declared, her sharp gaze sweeping the room.
Harry studied her wand movement exactly, memorising the correct incantation tone. With a neutral expression and crossed arms, he slowly drew his wand.
He'd never been fond of Transfiguration theory—on particularly bad days, even Potions seemed more appealing. But practical lessons were different. Professor McGonagall had a gift for demonstrating exact wand movements, and some of the less theoretical library books helped immensely.
When his practice rat transformed into a flawless silver snuffbox, a brief smile—too quick to fully contain—flickered across McGonagall's stern features.
“Excellent, Mr Potter,” she said in that firm tone that always made students feel slightly more capable. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”
Harry simply nodded in acknowledgment, trying to hide his flicker of pride. At least it gave him reason to get out of bed today.
Beside him, Hermione frowned, eyes narrowing behind her wild curls. After a few seconds of intense concentration—tongue poking between her teeth as always when determined—her own rat transformed into an identical box. Perfect, naturally, because she was Hermione.
Ron attempted to transfigure Scabbers, resulting in a snuffbox that still had a tail and fur. The poor rat squealed desperately, hopping about in its half—transformed state until McGonagall reversed the spell.
After lunch, Charms approached.
Students sat in pairs as usual, each with a feather before them. Harry had tried teaching Neville the spell during their private practice sessions, but he still struggled, only managing mediocre results with great effort.
Harry already knew the Levitation Charm—more from necessity than desire. Levitation formed the foundation for many other spells he'd need for self-defense against the Slytherins.
You could always levitate a sword from a knight's statue in the corridors to hurl at anyone bothering you.
“Today you'll practice the Levitation Charm we've been studying,” Professor Flitwick announced cheerfully. “Wands at the ready! Repeat after me!”
“Wingardium Leviosa” the class droned in unison, mimicking his wand movement.
“Very good! Now take turns levitating your feather.”
“You go first,” Neville whispered nervously.
“You go,” Harry said flatly.
“But you're better at this.” Neville shrugged as if stating fact.
On another day, Harry might have argued that Neville wasn't hopeless—he distinctly remembered being hit in the face by a book during one practice session—accidentally, of course. But today, he couldn't muster the energy.
Propping his chin on one hand, Harry sighed deeply.
“Wingardium Leviosa,” he murmured tonelessly.
With effortless grace, Harry levitated the feather. Bored, he decided to play with it—sending it darting up, forward and sideways in precise movements.
Flitwick's eyes sparkled watching the display. When Harry made the—seemingly much heavier—feather zoom across the room only to catch it mid-air and return it to his desk, the professor actually bounced with excitement.
“Oh! By Merlin's beard, Mr Potter! Splendid! You've been practicing variable levitation, I presume?”
“Yes, sir...” Harry's quiet voice barely carried.
“You're quite the exemplary student,” Flitwick continued, making Harry's cheeks burn as others turned to stare.
As usual, Harry hunched into his oversized scarf, hiding his flushed face. Some students looked impressed; others seemed indignant.
“For your advanced efforts and excellent wandwork, twenty-five well-earned points to Gryffindor!”
Hermione—paired with Ron—was the only Gryffindor to huff and roll her eyes while others clapped and cheered. Ron shot her a confused look, but she seemed oblivious, gaze fixed pointedly on Harry.
Other houses grumbled about the point allocation, but quieted when Flitwick regained control.
Neville tried levitating his feather, but it didn't budge. He sighed in frustration.
“Want help?” Harry offered.
Neville nodded glumly. Harry patiently demonstrated the wrist movement and incantation again. “Just like that, see? Try again.”
“That's exactly what I did...” Neville muttered dejectedly.
He took a deep breath and copied Harry's motion. Unsurprisingly, the feather remained still.
“See? Hopeless at this,” he sighed, admitting defeat.
Harry shook his head.
“You're not. Just needs more practice,” he said. “We'll get there.”
The lesson continued, most students struggling but gradually improving—as expected. Ron, ears reddening, waved his wand wildly with intense concentration.
“WingarDium LevioSA!” he growled angrily, as if volume could compensate for technique.
“Stop, stop!” Hermione said, gently lowering his hand. “You're saying it wrong. It's Win-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa, not Wingar-DIUM Levio-SA. Make the 'gar' nice and long.”
Ron shrugged petulantly.
“If you're so clever, you do it then,” he challenged, crossing his arms.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione primly enunciated with perfect wrist movement:
“Wingardium Leviosa.”
Her feather soared gracefully upward as Ron sulked beside her.
“Excellent, Miss Granger!” Flitwick praised before attending to others.
Hermione smiled smugly, shooting Ron a triumphant look that made him redden further as he stubbornly looked away.
BOOM!
COOF! COOF! COOF!
Seamus's coughing fit shattered the moment.
Everyone turned to see the boy, his face smeared with soot and a charred feather in his hand.
“Why does everything I touch explode?” he grumbled.
As class ended, Neville chatted animatedly with Seamus and Dean while heading across the courtyard. The autumn wind cut like knives, and Harry, feeling the cold bite his cheeks, buried his nose in his beloved scarf - that red-and-gold woollen comfort that had often been his only solace when alone.
Seamus scrubbed soot from his face with his robe sleeve.
“It's a joke! Everything I touch turns explosive!” he complained. “Even my stirring rod melted today! Makes no sense!”
Dean, his best mate, nudged his shoulder.
“There was that time in Herbology too,” he added. “When you—”
“That bloody plant stabbed my arse and I reacted! Doesn't count!” Seamus cut in defensively. “Accidental magic happens...”
Harry bit his lip, stifling a laugh. He didn't want attention, so mocking them seemed unwise.
“So that's why the plant caught fire?” Neville asked. “No one told us...”
“Yeah, now you know,” Seamus sighed, squinting as Dean's stupid grin never faltered.
He punched Dean's shoulder lightly.
“Bigmouth here was the only witness!” Seamus grumbled. “Know what karma is, yeah?”
Dean raised his eyebrows, still grinning.
“Didn't say a word! You're the one telling the story,” Dean laughed.
The wind whipped their cloaks violently, forcing them to clutch their scarves. Harry walked silently beside Neville, relieved to no longer be avoided like before, though some suspicious glances still weighed on him.
Then Ron appeared behind them, panting and red-faced with irritation.
“By Merlin's hairy bollocks! She's unbearable, you've no idea!” the redhead fumed, joining the group.
“Who?” Dean frowned, battling the wind stealing his cloak.
“Hermione, obviously!” Ron exploded as if it were the stupidest question. “Thinks she knows better than everyone! 'Know-it-all' doesn't cover it! No wonder she's friendless! Even Harry's avoiding her... and bloody right too. I lasted five minutes with her!”
Harry's throat tightened. He opened his mouth to protest.
Bam!
Someone shoved past, knocking Harry and Ron aside.
Hermione stormed by like lightning, books crushed to her chest. Her brown curls flew wildly, but not enough to hide the tears streaming down her face, carried away by the wind.
A muffled sob echoed before she disappeared.
Harry whirled on Ron, green eyes narrowed.
“Congratulations,” he spat, sarcasm heavy as lead. “Made her cry. Worthy of an award—might as well give you the House Cup now.”
Ron's ears turned scarlet.
“I didn't mean—”
“And for the record,” Harry cut in coldly. “I didn't distance myself. She did.”
The following silence cut sharper than the wind.
“Well, well. The school's most pathetic group, all in one place.” Draco Malfoy appeared behind them, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
The boys turned to face five Slytherins, all clad in black-trimmed green cloaks with serpent crests. Draco, Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy were flanked by Blaise Zabini, whose proud posture amplified his reputation for vanity.
“What do we have here?” Draco continued maliciously. “The ginger in rags, the walking explosion, the Muggle who thinks he's magical, the Squib, and of course... Scarface.”
Harry's blood boiled. His jaw clenched as he glared furiously at Draco.
He remembered the kick to his ribs. The Slytherins' taunts had lessened since Neville started accompanying him, but never stopped completely. They still made a point of shoving him in corridors and knocking his books down, laughing at their own provocations.
“Shut it, Malfoy!” Ron fired back, eyes blazing. “Nobody asked you!”
“More respect, Weasel,” Draco sneered, voice dripping disdain. “I'm not your sort to be spoken to like that.”
“What do you want?” Harry snapped impatiently, exhaustion lacing his tone. “No one here wants to talk to you. Piss off.”
“Ooh, Potter's finally grown a spine again?” Draco mocked, smirking at his snickering cronies. “Need me to remind you how to address me properly?”
Harry's jaw tightened further, and before he could think, his nerves took over.
He pointed his wand at Malfoy.
Almost instantly, the others followed suit. Harry's grip was so tight his knuckles whitened, fury burning within him.
Students crossing the courtyard began stopping to watch, whispers spreading as more gathered at a safe distance.
Harry narrowed his eyes, patience spent.
“Not in the mood for your idiocy today, Malfoy,” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “Get out of my sight... or you'll regret it.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, an arrogant smile forming.
“Me? Regret?” He laughed coldly. “You think I fear you, Potter?”
Harry didn't flinch, gaze locked on Draco.
“You should,” he retorted, the threat unmistakable.
After months of targeting Harry and Neville, the Slytherins had grown bold. It showed in their sadistic smirks.
The courtyard's atmosphere grew heavier, thick with tension. Neville, Seamus, Dean and Ron watched nervously, wands still raised but none daring to strike first. Harry kept his eyes on Draco like a predator poised to pounce.
Neville gulped, voice trembling.
“Maybe... we should all lower our wands,” he suggested. “No one needs to get hurt—”
“Shut it, Squib!” Crabbe growled.
Harry stepped forward, eyes flashing.
“Don't call him that!” he roared, voice sharp as steel.
Draco laughed derisively, twirling his wand threateningly.
“He'll call you what he likes. You don't give orders here.” His gaze turned scornful. “Besides, your pathetic threats mean nothing... just like today does.”
A chill ran down Harry's spine. Something in Draco's tone gave him foreboding.
“Don't you dare—”
“Dare what?” Draco took a step closer, face twisting maliciously.
“Ah... I see. Today's special for you, isn't it? Nearly forgot to congratulate you, Potter. After all, it's their death anniversary...” He tilted his head in mock sympathy. “Pity I don't fancy graveyards... but perhaps you could visit for me. How about it?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Everyone held their breath as the tension reached breaking point.
Something inside Harry shattered.
His vision blurred momentarily as uncontrollable rage consumed him, like a beast breaking free. He felt power surging in his chest, nearly overwhelming, and the world around him began changing.
A fierce, hot wind swirled around him. A red aura emanated from his body, casting a deadly glow in his green eyes—now streaked with crimson in the irises—making them appear terrifying.
His hair and cloak whipped violently, scarf thrashing about.
Draco, who'd maintained his superior expression, stepped back in shock.
“W-what's this?!” he stammered, hand trembling as he raised his wand.
Harry's breathing grew heavier, chest rising and falling rapidly as he kept his dangerous gaze fixed on his target.
In panic, Draco cast his spell.
“Locomotor Mortis!”
Harry dodged the jet of light that struck the distant wall behind him.
Without thinking, he lunged at Draco with lightning speed.
Malfoy retreated. His allies backed away further, abandoning him. He tried to warn:
“Don't you da—”
POW!
Harry's fist connected squarely with Draco's right eye.
The impact was brutal, and Malfoy fell to the ground hard, groaning in pain with his hands over his eye. A small cut had opened just below his eye.
Those witnessing the scene were visibly shocked.
The fury, the anger, the nearly unbearable heat emanating from Harry was palpable, almost tangible.
He approached Draco, who was still trying to recover. Harry's gaze was pure hatred.
Without hesitation, Harry grabbed him by the collar of his imported dress shirt, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip.
He lifted the Slytherin from the ground as if he weighed nothing.
With each passing moment, the wind around Harry seemed to intensify, swirling around him like a magical tornado. Some orange leaves that had been swept up earlier began spinning around them.
“I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU!” Harry shouted, his voice tearing through the silence.
THUD!
He delivered a full-force punch to Draco's stomach, causing him to drop his wand.
Malfoy let out a muffled roar as he struggled to breathe, while the power surrounding Harry violently whipped his hair about.
“YOU DON'T OWN ME!” Harry shouted again.
CRASH!
Harry threw Draco back-first against the wall with such force that he fell face-down onto the ground, moaning and whimpering.
“Y-y-you—” Draco stammered, trying to say something. His face was contorted in pain.
“SHUT IT!” Harry bellowed.
PLOFT!
Harry kicked Draco in the waist, not even aiming properly. The Slytherin fell silent.
Still panting, Harry felt his anger begin to subside slightly. Without the power levitating the leaves around them, they fell in circular patterns on the ground.
His Gryffindor classmates stood frozen in place, watching the scene with wide eyes. The Slytherins had retreated further, observing with equal shock.
Harry grabbed Malfoy by the hood of his cloak, pulling him up to hear him clearly.
“Bother any Gryffindor again, and I swear—I swear next time will be much worse,” Harry hissed, his voice as cold as a sharpened blade. “Do you understand?”
Draco mumbled something almost inaudible.
Harry turned him around and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him again.
“Understand?!” he demanded, shaking him violently.
“Yes! Yes, I understand!” Draco said, fumbling against the wall behind him as he tried to steady himself, his voice filled with desperation.
Harry abruptly released him again, and Malfoy collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.
He seemed to have completely lost strength in his legs. As a wizard from an extremely traditional family, he had never experienced or witnessed physical violence in his life.
Harry bent down and pointed a threatening finger at him, his eyes smoldering.
“Never mention my parents with your rotten mouth again,” Harry whispered, his voice low and dangerous.
Draco quickly scrambled away, rubbing his sore shoulder.
Harry shot an equally dangerous look at the other Slytherins, who flinched, each wondering if they would be next.
The wind stopped completely, and when Harry blinked, his bright green eyes returned to normal.
At that moment, Professor McGonagall appeared at the end of the corridor. Her robes billowed with each step, and her stern expression left no doubt that she was furious.
“What is going on here?!” Her voice cut through the air like a sharpened blade, full of authority.
Immediately, all eyes turned to her.
Draco, his eye beginning to swell, the cut visible beneath it, and his face marked by a mix of fury and humiliation, shot Harry a deathly glare.
Harry, still breathing heavily, lowered his gaze to the stone floor. The heat of his anger had left him sweaty, and it still burned inside him, but he struggled to control himself.
“Potter started it! He—he hit Draco!” Goyle said quickly.
“Liar! He didn't!” Ron stepped closer to Harry, fists clenched and voice firm. “It was Malfoy!”
Blaise Zabini pointed at Malfoy's face.
“No! Potter created some kind of wind around himself—everything got hot, and then he attacked Draco—”
“Enough!”
McGonagall raised a hand, silencing everyone with a single gesture.
“Quiet—Mr. Boot,” she turned to Terry Boot, who stood nearby with a group of Ravenclaw students. “You were close by. What happened here?”
Terry, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden attention, stammered as he spoke.
“It started with an argument, Professor... Malfoy provoked Potter... then wands were drawn, and everyone pointed theirs at each other.” He vaguely gestured toward the group involved.
From the other end of the corridor, a tall, imposing figure approached swiftly, black robes billowing around him.
Snape strode forward with purposeful steps, his face tense and eyes narrowed in pure irritation. The Halloween decorations contrasted sharply with his menacing presence, as if he were a disturbed shadow amidst the festive colors.
“What was all that noise? I could hear shouting from across the castle,” Snape demanded.
His black eyes landed on Draco.
“And why is Draco's eye swollen?” he asked, casting a suspicious glance at Harry.
Draco, still trying to regain his composure, pointed at Harry.
“Potter attacked me... and threw me to the ground!”
Harry took a step forward, his eyes flashing with anger.
“Be grateful it wasn't a kick to the ribs, like the one you gave me when no one was watching!”
Snape frowned, but before he could respond, McGonagall intervened.
“Silence, both of you!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Everyone else, move along. There's nothing more to see here.”
She gave a stern look to the students who had gathered to watch, prompting them to slowly disperse.
“And where do you think you're going?” she asked Crabbe and Goyle, who were trying to blend into the crowd. “Gryffindors and Slytherins stay.”
Snape flicked his wand with precise movement, conjuring a translucent blue barrier around those involved.
Harry glanced at Dean and Seamus—the two exchanged worried looks. Ron looked like he might lunge at Malfoy given the chance, while Neville timidly hugged one arm with the other, giving Harry a look of understanding.
The Slytherins simply put some distance between themselves and the others, huddling together in a tense group.
The tension was palpable. Harry's face still burned, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest.
McGonagall and Snape exchanged glances, both visibly irritated, though in different ways.
Harry knew the fight had gotten out of hand, but anger still simmered inside him. What Malfoy had said, especially today... He felt like he was on the verge of exploding again, ready to punch him once more.
McGonagall took a deep breath, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“I want this resolved here and now,” she declared with authority. “There's no need to prolong this discussion.”
Harry glanced quickly at Snape, expecting him to protest, but the Potions Master remained silent, his jaw clenched. Something in Snape's expression seemed... different. It wasn't the usual cold anger he reserved for students, but something darker.
“Now, someone explain to me exactly what happened—without interrupting each other. I want the truth,” McGonagall continued, her voice firm but controlled.
She looked directly at Harry, as if expecting him to break the silence.
Before he could speak, Neville took a hesitant step forward.
“It was Malfoy, Professor... He said horrible things about Harry's parents,” Neville glanced briefly at Harry, his eyes full of sympathy, then lowered his head, his ears turning red. “Harry just... reacted.”
“That doesn't justify violence, Longbottom,” Snape cut in, his voice icy, though there was a tightness in his tone that Harry noticed, as if he were holding back. “Provocations aren't an excuse for uncontrolled behavior.”
“I know it doesn't, sir,” Neville murmured, his voice barely audible as he tried to stand up to his most feared professor. “But Malfoy went... he went too far...”
Harry lifted his head and met McGonagall's gaze. He wanted to shout, to tell her that Malfoy deserved it and more, but the words stuck in his throat.
He saw McGonagall's face harden slightly, her eyes analyzing the situation more carefully.
“Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said, turning to the boy, “what exactly did you say?”
Draco hesitated, his face now pale in contrast to the bruising around his eye, his expression full of wariness. He glanced quickly at Snape, seeking support, but the Potions Master did nothing but watch him with an unreadable expression.
Draco muttered something inaudible, avoiding eye contact.
“Speak up, I want to hear,” McGonagall insisted, crossing her arms.
Draco took a deep breath, his voice now laced with contained disdain.
“I... I talked about his parents,” he admitted, staring at the ground. “Said that... well, that I didn't much care for graveyards and that he could visit his parents for me.”
“Oh, put like that, even I'd believe it!” Ron sneered sarcastically, frowning as he glared at the Slytherin. “You even congratulated him too.”
Harry clenched his fists but restrained himself. He felt McGonagall's gaze on him, but Snape's stare burned even more intensely.
McGonagall closed her eyes briefly, clearly trying to maintain composure. When she opened them, they blazed with indignation.
“Mr. Malfoy,” her voice was ice-cold, “do you truly believe that is acceptable?”
Draco swallowed hard.
“I... I mean... It wasn't intentional...” he said.
Malfoy shot a desperate look at Snape, as if hoping for defense. But the professor remained still. Something in Snape's expression seemed heavier than usual, almost as if he were lost in his own thoughts for a moment.
Ron snorted a laugh.
“Wasn't intentional?” he exclaimed incredulously. “Then what was it—”
“Silence, Weasley!” Professor McGonagall barked, making him flinch and look away, his ears still red.
The professor then took a deep breath and turned back to Draco with a disappointed expression.
“This is unacceptable behavior,” she said, her voice full of frustration. “But Mr. Potter, hitting a fellow student is not the solution. No matter what was said.”
She sighed, seeming to weigh each word carefully.
“Therefore, both will be punished. You will each lose forty house points and serve detention with Mr. Filch.”
Harry lowered his head. He knew he shouldn't have lost control, but part of him still believed Malfoy deserved it and more.
“I hope you understand this is not how we resolve our conflicts,” she said.
Snape stepped forward.
“Both have made mistakes,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “But what happened here will not be tolerated, Potter. Hogwarts is not a school for brutes where violence—especially physical violence—is an acceptable response. It is barbaric, dishonorable, and unacceptable.”
Harry averted his gaze. He felt exhausted, emotionally drained. The whirlwind of emotions inside him was hard to control when unleashed. The deep anger seemed to release that power from within him—something he barely understood.
It seemed McGonagall and Snape also knew there was something strange about him. Something they were silently debating with their eyes but wouldn't voice aloud.
“The two of you,” McGonagall pointed at Draco and Harry, “will resolve this civilly. I expect this behavior won't be repeated. Or the consequences will be far more severe. Understood?”
Harry merely nodded, not looking at anyone. McGonagall's words echoed in his mind.
“I'll take Malfoy to the hospital wing,” Snape said, giving Harry a penetrating look. “And I suggest Potter learns to control himself.”
“I'll handle things from here, Severus,” McGonagall interjected with authority, her stern gaze fixed on Snape, lips pursed and hands clasped firmly in front of her.
As the group dispersed, Harry cast one last glance at Snape, who strode away quickly, his robes billowing behind him like shadows. Draco, head lowered, followed in silence.
“You may go. I wish to speak with Mr. Potter alone,” McGonagall's voice was firm, and the students, sensing the gravity of the situation, moved away, each group going their separate ways.
Harry looked at his friends, noticing Neville, who gave him a silent look of support. Ron also offered a weak smile before joining Seamus and Dean, who exchanged concerned glances before walking off, whispering to each other.
As silence fell upon them, Harry hung his head in shame, his fist still tingling from the intensity of the punch, knuckles reddened and sore.
“Come with me,” McGonagall said slowly, her voice calm, as she moved toward an empty classroom near the corridor.
Harry followed, the door closing soundlessly behind them.
With a smooth flick of her wand, the professor drew back the classroom curtains, allowing shafts of yellowish light to penetrate the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. She walked to the Professor's desk, and Harry trailed after her.
She turned to face him, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.
“I'm sorry... I...” Harry began, a lump forming in his throat.
But McGonagall's voice interrupted his attempted apology.
“Harry, look at me,” she requested, and he slowly raised his eyes, hesitating.
Her gaze was almost maternal, brimming with compassion—much like the one she'd given him when they first met, when he was still under the Dursleys' shadow.
“There's nothing you need to apologise for at this moment. As your professor and Head of House, I must uphold the school's rules, and I know Mr Malfoy's words were painful. But I must also say this isn't how we resolve conflicts.”
He sighed, reflecting on what had just transpired.
“It's just... when he... when he said that... it hurt. It hurt so much. He mocked something that matters to me. Because I wish they were here.”
With a hesitant gesture, McGonagall placed her hands on his shoulders.
Harry flinched slightly, unaccustomed to such contact, but didn't pull away.
“Harry,” she said softly. “Those we love who've departed never truly leave us. They're with us everywhere, no matter where we are.”
Her eyes, for the briefest moment, lost their customary sternness and reflected a profound sadness, a silent understanding of the burden he carried. But there was something more there—a spark of hope.
“They're here,” she added, resting her hand over the Gryffindor crest on his robes. “In your heart. Whenever you need them, you'll know where to find them, even in silence.”
Harry swallowed hard. He felt a tightness in his chest, but this time, it wasn't quite so painful.
“Thank you...” he murmured, his voice hoarse with gratitude.
“No need for thanks,” said McGonagall, softening her tone. “I believe you have Defence Against the Dark Arts now, followed by History of Magic—I never do this, but I'll make an exception. If you don't wish to attend, I'll permit you to rest for the remainder of the day. I'll speak with Professors Quirrell and Binns later.”
Harry remained silent.
The professor was offering something he'd never had: a day of mourning.
A moment to miss his parents as he should—not alone in a dark cupboard, but in a world that knew them, respected them, where people remembered them fondly—like the professor herself and Hagrid. It was as if only now was he truly experiencing the anniversary of their deaths for the first time, after properly learning who they'd been.
“I'd rather not go... if that's alright,” he replied quietly, shrugging.
McGonagall straightened, recomposing herself swiftly, her expression regaining its usual firmness yet remaining no less kind.
“Very well,” she said. “But you won't miss the lesson content. Catch up with your classmates or the professors later. Your assignments won't be excused either.”
“Yes, Professor,” Harry responded with a grateful smile.
She nodded and said no more.
Words weren't necessary.
Harry walked through the school corridors with his broom in hand, feeling the curious gazes of students passing by. It was unusual for someone to be carrying a broom in the middle of class hours, but Harry didn't care.
He needed a moment for himself.
After everything that had happened that afternoon, he felt a weight in his chest that wouldn't dissipate. Flying was his only solution—his go—to when he needed to relax. The wind against his face and the sensation of freedom always made him forget, if only briefly, the pressures and anxieties that had haunted him since arriving at Hogwarts.
He'd considered lying in bed and sleeping, but realised that would only make him feel worse than he already did.
The sky was clear, blue, with scattered clouds. The sun gently illuminated the Hogwarts grounds, warming his skin as he stepped out of the castle's shadow and onto the open field.
Clad in his robes with his trusty scarf wrapped around his neck, Harry felt a sense of comfort as he mounted his broom.
With a slight push, he rose into the air.
The wind tousled his hair and billowed his robes, but the freedom of flying, of leaving the ground and his troubles behind, was—as clichéd as it sounded—magical.
Though the broom was one of the standard school-issued ones—Oliver Wood despised it, always claiming it wasn't even fit for sweeping floors—Harry could still appreciate its manoeuvrability.
It was far too slow for a Seeker, of course, and he'd been considering which broom to buy on the captain's advice. The Cleansweep Seven was a safe, slightly above-average option, but couldn't hold a candle to the Nimbus 2000 that so many wizards coveted for being the best available—and the most expensive. Still, none of those decisions mattered right now.
He just wanted to fly, to feel the air and escape his worries.
Harry wove around Hogwarts' towers, ascending and descending smoothly. Sometimes he spotted students through windows—some attentive in class, others dozing over their scrolls. Other times, he simply admired the vast castle and its surroundings, savouring the lightness of the moment.
He flew over the Black Lake, where the dark waters reflected the sun's soft glow. In the distance, by the old gamekeeper's hut, he saw Hagrid chopping wood, his axe echoing faintly while Fang slept lazily nearby. Hagrid's vegetable patch now stood empty, the countless orange pumpkins he'd planted scattered throughout the castle.
Everything seemed at peace.
Then he spotted her.
A small white dot in the sky, distant yet unmistakable. Harry smiled as he recognised Hedwig. She was out for a flight too, soaring gracefully through the air.
Harry angled his broom toward her, skilfully avoiding the Astronomy Tower. As he approached, Hedwig turned her head, her amber eyes fixed on him, and let out a soft hoot.
“Hey, girl,” he murmured, comforted by her presence. “Don't think you'll believe this, but I had a fight with Malfoy today... And, well, it was... bad.”
He extended his arm, and Hedwig landed on it, studying him with her keen, inquisitive eyes.
Harry stroked her feathers.
“I just wish today could be easier, you know?” he whispered. “That I didn't have all this... If I had a family... I mean, one that wasn't...”
He sighed mournfully.
“You know what I mean...” he finished.
Hedwig hooted softly, nipping at his finger as if to chase away those thoughts.
He laughed, though sadness tinged his voice.
“You're right. I'm being repetitive, aren't I?” He gazed at the horizon and sighed.
She flapped her wings lightly, nestling closer, and he smiled.
“I'll fly a bit more. Fancy joining me to that plateau?” He pointed toward an area where sunlight still shone brightly—a perfect refuge.
She seemed to agree when she took flight again, and Harry followed alongside her on his broom.
Flying with Hedwig beside him was a new and curiously soothing experience.
Watching her in the sky, with her natural freedom, made Harry feel he too could leave behind whatever burdens he carried. For that moment, he was just a boy flying with his owl, free and light as the wind around them.
When he finally descended onto the plateau, Harry landed softly on the ground and let himself collapse at the base of a large oak tree. The sun still warmed his skin while a fresh breeze made the surrounding grass sway lazily. From here, Hogwarts looked small in the distance, its towers rising against the blue sky—the perfect image of a fairytale castle.
Hedwig perched beside him, shaking her feathers with satisfied air.
Harry ran his hand over her head, fingers sliding through her soft plumage. She hooted quietly, leaning into his touch as if understanding exactly what he felt.
For a while, they stayed like that—just each other's silent company, no words needed. Then, as if sensing Harry wanted to be alone, Hedwig gave a long hoot, nipped his ear gently, and with an elegant flap of her wings, took flight, disappearing into the horizon.
Harry watched her go and exhaled deeply. He let the day's exhaustion wash over him completely. He didn't want to think. Didn't need to. Just existing here, in the sun's gentle warmth and the whispering sway of leaves, was enough.
Lying beneath the oak's shade, he closed his eyes. The sound of wind rustling through the canopy and the feel of grass beneath his fingers were incredibly soothing. His breathing became slow and rhythmic, and the restless thoughts that had weighed on him began to fade.
Then, without even realising it, Harry fell asleep.
In the silence of the forest, a feminine figure emerged from the shadows between the trees. Barefoot and clad in white, she radiated her own light—soft, yet nearly blinding.
The mysterious figure observed Harry for a long moment, her face bearing a serene and inscrutable expression.
He didn't wake. The light enveloped his body, and yet it was as if he couldn't see her.
She smiled, moving her hands in fluid gestures, whispering protective spells around him. A warmer breeze blew gently over Harry, and for an instant, the grass around him shimmered as though bathed in starlight.
It was as if an invisible blanket covered him—warm, comforting, and everything he needed in that moment to push aside any dark thoughts.
Nothing could harm him here; nothing could even come near him.
Then, as silently as she had come, the figure disappeared among the trees.
A biting gust of wind roused Harry from reluctant sleep.
He lay on his back in the grass, his robes tightly wrapped around him and his scarf covering his face in a futile attempt to ward off the icy chill.
Groaning in protest, he opened eyes still shielded by the scarf—now carrying the familiar scent of his own skin mingled with the crisp aroma of the field.
He rarely removed that scarf; it was his constant companion, seeming to warm him even on the coldest nights.
Wincing at his soreness, Harry realised sleeping outdoors hadn't been his wisest idea.
Reality, after all, wasn't as romantic as books made it seem. Moving slowly, he pulled the scarf from his eyes and gasped upon confronting the surrounding darkness.
The distant castle was dotted with flickering yellow lights in its windows, like distant stars on a moonless night.
“How long was I asleep?” he wondered aloud.
He scrambled up, hastily rewrapping the scarf around his neck.
The darkness felt thicker here, the wind whispering ominously, and a chill ran down his spine as he glanced at the deep forest stretching behind him. Anything could be watching from those shadows—a profoundly unsettling thought.
Gulping, he grabbed his broom and swiftly flew back toward the castle. Icy winds lashed his face as he retreated.
Inside, he entered a nearby corridor. Drawing his wand, he cast:
“Tempus Revelio!”
Immediately, a floating clock appeared before him, its hands pointing to half-past eight.
“Dinner's still on,” he murmured.
The idea of joining Halloween festivities held no appeal, so he decided to find food later—perhaps by asking the twins where the kitchens were.
With this plan, he headed for the common room.
As he walked through dimly lit corridors, an unbearable stench assaulted his nostrils—a mix of rotten eggs and sewage that nearly made him retch.
Then came floor vibrations, like heavy footsteps approaching.
“What's that?” he muttered, confused, but kept walking.
The vibrations intensified with each step. Something was clearly wrong, and curiosity drove him to investigate. Turning a corner, he instinctively ducked behind a statue as he spotted Snape's back—the professor was striding swiftly toward the staircase.
Luckily, Snape didn't notice him. If he had, Harry would surely face personal reprimand for injuring Malfoy earlier.
“Does he fart that loudly? Disgusting,” Harry whispered, still nauseated by the smell.
But the vibrations continued rhythmically. Following the sound, Harry noticed the corridor's torches were extinguished, leaving only moonlight to illuminate his path.
The putrid odour intensified with each step. Gulping, Harry sought cover behind a statue of a formidable wizard just as he spotted the grotesque creature.
Nearly four metres tall, the grey-skinned troll dragged an enormous club that resembled a broken tree. Its long arms and barrel chest contrasted with its small, bald head.
Harry swallowed hard, recalling troll descriptions from his books:
“The stupider they are, the more aggressive and dangerous. Mountain trolls are among the dimmest.”
He needed to act.
Following it was reckless, but the creature could easily ambush an unsuspecting student. Many roamed corridors before curfew.
Gripping his broom tighter, he decided to trail it—at least he could fly away if things turned bad.
Moving with utmost caution, he followed the beast, now certain the stench came from it.
The troll suddenly sniffed the air and looked toward Harry's hiding spot. Barely concealing himself in time, Harry's heart pounded wildly.
The troll grunted incomprehensibly and lumbered onward. Harry frowned when it stopped completely.
Peering out, he saw it standing before a large door.
Muffled sobs came from within, making Harry's eyes widen.
“The bathroom! Someone's in there!”
The troll shuffled inside clumsily.
Harry had to help—no time to fetch reinforcements. He needed to lure the monster out, buying time for whoever was trapped.
Closing his eyes to muster courage, he tightened his broom grip and approached the bathroom.
“AAH!”
A female scream pierced the air as he reached the doorway, followed by the troll's angry grunts.
BOOM!
The club's impact shook the floor.
Harry rushed in, and his heart froze at the scene.
Hermione.
Crouched beneath sinks in the corner, her bushy hair partially obscuring a tear-streaked face. Arms raised defensively as the enormous creature cornered her. The troll's first strike had missed, smashing left-side sinks instead, scattering porcelain and pipes across the floor. Now it raised its club again, ready to crush her.
Harry held his breath, mind racing for solutions.
He grabbed the nearest debris and hurled it at the troll's head.
The beast grunted, shaking its head in confusion.
“HEY! UGLY GIT, OVER HERE!” Harry bellowed.
He threw another fragment.
The troll paused, slowly turning to fix its beady eyes on Harry.
“RUN!” Harry shouted at Hermione.
But she remained frozen, mouth slightly open, eyes wide with terror.
The troll emitted a guttural sound so deep Harry's chest vibrated. Then, with a snarl, it raised its club for a brutal downward swing.
Harry dove sideways instinctively.
BOOM!
The club's impact echoed through the bathroom, smashing tiles and leaving a crater.
Scrambling up, determination flooded Harry's mind. If he could draw the troll away, Hermione might escape.
Trembling hands fumbled for his wand while the other still clutched his broom.
The troll swung horizontally with a growl.
Harry barely ducked in time, feeling the weapon's wind above his head.
CRASH!
Wooden partitions shattered as water pipes burst, spraying cold jets everywhere.
“AAAH!”
Hermione screamed again - still trapped.
“RUN, HERMIONE!” Harry yelled, darting across the bathroom.
The long space, filled with stalls, might provide diversion if he could lead the troll away.
THUD - THUD - THUD
The troll pursued him relentlessly.
Growling angrily, it swung wildly, damaging walls as water levels rose rapidly.
Harry finally dropped his broom and drew his wand, though it shook violently in his sweaty grip.
“Diffindo!”
The spell bounced harmlessly off the troll's stone-like hide. Like trying to cut rock with a blunt knife—his magic still only worked reliably on soft fruit and fabric.
The troll merely grunted and raised its club again.
Harry lunged forward but wasn't fast enough.
WHAM!
“AH!”
He cried out as the club's jagged edge grazed him, tearing robes and shirt sleeve.
White-hot pain shot through his left arm before he even saw blood welling up.
His feet slipped on the flooded floor, sending him crashing onto his back.
The troll snarled unintelligibly, tiny eyes blazing with fury. Each miss made it more impatient—and worse, faster and more violent.
Harry scrambled backward, feeling cold tiles against trembling palms.
He needed to move. No time to think.
But the troll didn't wait. With a roar echoing off wet walls, it raised its club again.
Harry, still grounded, defenseless.
He barely had time to raise his wand and shout the first spell that came to mind:
“Wingardium Leviosa!”
To his shock, the club froze mid-air above the troll's head. The creature stared dumbly at its empty hands.
Before it could react, Harry willed the club downward—though his shaking hands made precision impossible.
CRACK!
“GRROOAAARRRGGHHH!!!”
The troll's agonised roar filled the bathroom as the club struck its shoulder, dislocating it with the combined weight and magical force.
Its weapon fell abandoned, cracking the floor under its mass.
The troll seemed momentarily stunned by pain, not even looking at Harry.
Gasping and paler than ever, Harry tried rising, but panic made his hands slip helplessly.
He kicked desperately at the floor, trying to scoot backward.
When the troll finally locked eyes with him again, its gaze held pure, savage fury.
THUD - THUD - THUD
Its footsteps advanced.
Fear and despair consumed Harry. He knew he was about to die, his mind blank with terror.
His body trembled involuntarily, but something stronger stirred within—that same power from his magical outburst at the Dursleys'.
As the troll grabbed his legs with its good arm and hoisted him to face level, Harry froze in primal terror.
The murderous look in its eyes sparked fear beyond anything he'd known.
Then suddenly, uncontrollably, something erupted from him.
A swirling aura formed, debris flying everywhere as a magical tempest unleashed.
Wood fragments, tile shards, and water became projectiles in the maelstrom, all sound drowned in the supernatural whirlwind.
The floor that had trembled under the troll's steps now cracked under Harry's immeasurable power.
His body tingled intensely, energy pulsing with his racing heartbeat.
“RAAAGHHHHRRR!!!”
With a deafening roar, the troll hurled Harry against the farthest wall with monstrous strength.
He had no time to scream. The impact came swiftly, brutally, and all he could do was squeeze his eyes shut, willing it to be over quickly.
His aura reacted instinctively—a primal survival reflex—wrapping around his back in a desperate attempt to cushion the blow.
Without this power pulsing within him, he would have died right there on the bathroom's cold, filthy floor, crushed by the sheer force of impact.
But it wasn't enough.
The collision hit him like an invisible fist.
Harry cried out as he landed face-first, the shock reverberating through his body up to his throbbing head, which pulsed as if struck by a bludger.
Dazed, the world spun slowly around him, but Harry focused and shot a quick glance beneath the sinks.
Hermione was gone.
He exhaled in relief. At least that hadn't been for nothing.
The floor was completely submerged under thick water, and now he felt something warm trickling down the back of his head.
THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!
Looking up, Harry saw the troll charging like an enraged bull—ignoring the debris bouncing off it. The vibration of its stomping feet and the magical wind created a horrific symphony.
Shakily, Harry pushed himself up against the wall, trembling violently, his heart hammering with terror.
He didn't want to die; he just wanted this to end. With adrenaline surging through his veins, he thrust his arms forward, palms facing the troll in a feeble attempt to stop it.
Suddenly, a dense orb of vibrant purple energy erupted from his palms.
When the troll was mere feet away, ready to crush him, the projectile struck it square in the gut.
The accidental magic hit with such force that the troll was flung across the bathroom as if weightless.
CRASH!
The impact shook the stone walls violently.
A grotesque explosion of blood, viscera and chunks of flesh painted the girls' bathroom, drenching the flooded floor like buckets of red paint had been hurled everywhere.
Harry instinctively recoiled, arms raised as if they could shield him from the carnage, though nothing physically touched him. Yet the sight before him churned his stomach violently.
What had been a mountain troll was now just a shapeless heap of pulverised flesh and shattered bones, scattered across the floor and mixing with the dark water still spreading.
The purple energy that had enveloped him moments earlier dissipated slowly, leaving only the sound of gushing water from broken pipes and his own ragged, trembling breaths.
Then came the smell.
If the creature had reeked before, the stench was now a hundred times worse. The air grew thick and heavy, saturated with the nauseating odour of exposed intestines dangling grotesquely from the troll's ruined torso. There was also a sour, putrid stench mixed with partially digested animal parts—lamb legs, whole chickens, even pig heads, along with rotting half-chewed fruits and vegetables and feces.
Harry's stomach lurched, forcing him to breathe shallowly to avoid vomiting.
Staggering, he dropped to all fours on the cold, wet floor, each breath sending sharp pains through his body.
He blinked slowly, his vision growing increasingly blurred and confused with each reopening of his eyes.
Something warm and sticky trailed down his face, mingling with sweat and dripping onto his now filthy, soaked scarf, its long end dragging through the muck.
Blood.
He was bleeding.
He tasted metal in his mouth as the liquid continued flowing, dripping steadily into the flooded floor.
With each heartbeat, exhaustion spread through his limbs, making them unbearably heavy. Sounds became muffled—shouts, hurried footsteps, the constant rush of water from broken pipes.
“I could... just sleep a little...” The thought floated through his fogging mind as dizziness intensified.
His consciousness grew hazy and distant.
His arms trembled violently, their strength failing by the second.
“Harry!”
The call came urgently but distantly, as if from another reality.
“Merlin's beard, he's bleeding badly—”
“We need pressure!” another voice overlapped, more practical, more desperate.
He almost recognised that one... but there was another, more familiar—firm yet slightly unsteady.
“Don't let him faint now!”
“He's getting paler, Poppy!” Professor McGonagall's crisp voice cut through the chaos.
“I need him awake for the spell to work!” Said the practical woman. “Bloody hell the stench—”
“Keep her away from here!” McGonagall snapped, her voice thick with urgency.
“Granger! Stay back! That's an order!” Another voice, sharp and cold as a whip.
Snape.
That acidic harshness could only be him.
“HARRY! PLEASE, NO!”
Hermione's plea pierced through the confusion, raw with desperation.
With tremendous effort, Harry turned his head slightly.
All he could see were blurred outlines of dark robes, feet moving frantically around him. Further away, white socks, a school skirt, and a smaller figure struggling against restraining arms.
Another robe in garish purple approached swiftly in silence.
“Just... sleep...”
His lips moved, but barely a sound emerged. The weight pressing down on him felt crushing, as if the floor was trying to swallow him whole.
Then, he collapsed face-first.
Blood soaked his clothes, mixing with the surrounding water, and Harry felt a chill spread through his body. His consciousness flickered like a dying flame.
“Stay awake, Harry!”
Strong hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him roughly.
“Look at me! You must stay with me!” McGonagall commanded, but her voice already sounded distant, as if coming through a tunnel.
“What day is it?”
The question floated through his mind before he could grasp it.
“H'lo...ween...” he slurred, the words thick and clumsy like a drunkard's.
“Your full name?”
“Harry... James... Potter...”
The voice continued questioning him, but the words became muffled nonsense.
His breathing grew erratic, each inhale a struggle. The headache pulsed violently, intensifying every second as if something might explode inside his skull.
Feet, knees, bodies crowded around him. He could vaguely distinguish blurred shapes moving urgently, while in the background, the troll's grotesque remains littered the bloodied floor.
The threat that had nearly killed him lay destroyed, undone by his own unleashed power.
But none of that mattered now.
His vision darkened, receding further. Voices grew softer, more confused. Breathing no longer seemed important. And before he could resist, Harry finally surrendered.
His body sank into unconsciousness until everything faded.
Everything went dark.
Everything went silent.
Chapter 8: The Golden Quartet
Chapter Text
Harry opened his eyes slowly, his eyelids heavy and gummed together, as though sleep had sealed each one shut. The warm, orange-tinted light of late afternoon made him screw them shut again at once, a wince of pain flickering across his face.
He waited a few seconds before trying again, blinking cautiously. When he finally adjusted to the brightness, he looked around, trying to work out where he was.
The hospital wing.
It didn’t take him long to guess. Even if he’d never been here before, the place was unmistakable. There was a sharp, clean smell—different from the corridors of Hogwarts, purer, almost antiseptic. The immaculate gleam of white tile, the spotless walls, the meticulous arrangement of beds, each separated by screens for privacy—it all made it perfectly clear he was in a magical hospital.
The tall, wide windows let in a cool breeze that stirred the curtains slightly, making them ripple in a near-hypnotic way. The air felt… clean. So clean it gave the impression that all aches, fevers, and infections would simply dissipate outward, carried off by the wind.
Harry realised then that he was lying in a bed with flawlessly white sheets. The pillow under his head was soft, slightly raised, leaving him half-propped up. A strange numbness still dulled his body, but bit by bit, awareness returned.
He turned his head to the right.
Hermione?
She was there, sitting in a chair beside his bed, a thick book open on her lap. Her bushy brown hair fell in messy waves, partly obscuring her face as she read, utterly absorbed. Every so often, her fingers skimmed the pages, tracing specific lines before turning to the next. Her legs were crossed in a relaxed manner, and the faint furrow of her brows suggested that, whatever the book was about, she was completely engrossed.
“After the weather-altering trials conducted by Professor Ludwig ended in disastrous failure,” Hermione read softly, “everyone was trapped in the castle during winter by an unending blizzard. Even the most powerful fire spells could only clear the passages temporarily. Headmaster Crimbelt cancelled classes and organised feasts and games to ease tensions. Snowball fights became a daily event in the ground-floor corridors leading to the gardens, and even some of the professors—like Albatan Matrick, the Herbology professor and Slytherin Head of House—eventually joined in the fun…”
She sighed deeply, turning the page carefully.
“Might’ve been fun,” she mused. “I mean, missing classes would’ve been awful, obviously, but imagine what it must’ve been like… playing in the snow like that? Must’ve been brilliant, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Harry murmured, his voice hoarse and hesitant.
The book slipped from Hermione’s hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.
Her eyes widened, and in an instant, she clasped Harry’s hand in hers—warm and delicate.
“My God, Harry! You’re awake! How are you feeling? Do you remember anything? Madam Pomfrey—”
“Hermione…” Harry cut in, speaking slowly, a twinge of pain radiating through his chest.
She recoiled at once.
“Sorry,” she murmured, settling back into her chair and wringing her hands nervously in her lap.
Harry blinked a few times, trying to orient himself. “Where am I? The hospital wing?”
“Yes,” Hermione confirmed promptly. “Actually, you’ve been here for two weeks, three days, and an afternoon.” Her eyes shone with worry as she watched him closely.
“T-two weeks?” The idea left him winded.
“Thank Merlin you’ve finally woken up,” said a firm voice.
Madam Pomfrey appeared beside the bed, her expression stern but relieved.
“How are you feeling, Mr Potter?”
“Erm… a bit dizzy. And sore,” he admitted, trying to sound stronger than he felt.
The matron relaxed her shoulders slightly and moved to the nearby counter, where Harry noticed a row of dark glass vials, precisely arranged beside dried herbs and mortars.
“You gave us quite the scare, young man. You could’ve died, you know.”
Harry swallowed thickly and nodded.
Pomfrey handed him a spoonful of a thick, unappealing green liquid.
“Here, take this.”
The moment the potion touched his tongue, Harry grimaced in pure disgust. It was bitter and sour all at once, as though he’d just drunk lemon juice mixed with some horribly acrid herb.
“What is this?” he managed to ask, still shuddering from the taste.
“Drained Mistletoe Potion,” Hermione supplied promptly. “It helps with headache relief and serves as a muscle analgesic at room temperature.”
“Correct, Miss Granger,” said Pomfrey, raising an eyebrow. “I see you’ve been studying what I’ve been administering to Mr Potter?”
Hermione averted her gaze and shrugged.
“Well… just a bit,” she murmured. “I’ve had quite a lot of free time.”
“In short, Mr Potter,” Pomfrey continued with a sigh, “the worse it tastes, the better it is for you. I trust you’ve learned your lesson and won’t go chasing after any more trolls.”
Harry let out a weak laugh, but a sharp twinge in his chest made him stop entirely.
“If no one’s being threatened by one at school again, I promise I’ll stay away.”
Hermione, beside him, shrunk slightly into herself, pretending to be fascinated by the creases in her skirt.
Pomfrey gave her a reproachful look.
“If you hadn’t gone after that creature, you’d have spared yourself two problems,” said the matron. “But you’ve already been told off for that, so it’s not my place to remind you.”
Harry frowned and looked at Hermione.
She hadn’t gone after any troll. But when their eyes met, Hermione shook her head subtly, clearly willing him not to ask.
He decided not to. At least, not here.
“Anyway,” said Pomfrey, her tone lighter, “I suppose it’s your right to know about the state of your body, wouldn’t you agree?”
Harry nodded.
The matron drew her wand and conjured a translucent image of Harry’s body above him, highlighting the affected areas with precision.
“See here,” she pointed. “You suffered a severe fracture at the back of your head and broke three ribs. Fortunately, none punctured your lung, which was very lucky. You also got a rather deep cut on your arm. Thankfully, there’ll be no scarring—the potions took care of that.”
It took Harry a few seconds to process the information.
“You’ll be fine—the worst is over,” she said reassuringly. “Your recovery’s been quick, and now that you’re awake, it’s a sign your body’s healed enough. I expect you’ll be fit to return to your routine by tomorrow.”
Harry let out a sigh of relief, though his body still felt leaden.
“That’s good… but I’ve missed a lot, haven’t I?” he asked, hoping the answer would be less grim than he expected.
Hermione leaned closer to the bed, her expression a mix of concern and efficiency.
“Well. Yes, you’ve missed two weeks of lessons, after all,” she said gently. “But don’t worry, I’ve taken detailed notes in every class and made extra summaries for you to study… it’s all here—if you’d like to look.”
She pulled a few scrolls of parchment from her bag, holding them as though they were precious.
Harry gave a weak smile, gratitude plain on his tired face.
“Thanks, Hermione.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she replied with a wave of her hand, though her eyes betrayed how much it meant to her.
Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat softly, drawing their attention.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to talk,” said the matron, organising a few potions on the shelf. “I’ve other matters to attend to. Miss Granger, I trust you’ll leave at the proper time, yes? Can I rely on you?”
“Of course, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione replied with characteristic politeness.
With a final nod, Madam Pomfrey left the hospital wing, closing the door softly behind her. The silence that followed was almost palpable, heavy as freshly fallen snow. Harry and Hermione looked at each other for a moment, then quickly away, as though searching for words that refused to come.
“You…” Harry began hesitantly.
“I…” Hermione said at the same time.
They broke off, exchanging awkward glances.
“You go first,” Hermione offered, clasping her hands in her lap.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts.
“Not that I’m complaining about your company or help—I really do appreciate it…” he started slowly. “But… why d’you want to help me? I mean… you stopped talking to me right after the first few days.”
He swallowed hard, shrugging. His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of sadness there—something Hermione picked up on at once.
“If this is about the troll—”
“It’s not about the troll,” Hermione said suddenly, cutting him off before he could respond.
Her eyes flicked to the next bed over, as though it were easier to speak without looking at him.
“I… I spent all day in that loo… because of what Ron said after class. I didn’t want to tell on him.”
Harry frowned.
“He shouldn’t have said that.” His voice was firm, irritated. “And he dragged me into it too. I didn’t like it.”
Hermione let out a humourless, dry laugh.
“I’m not exactly the most pleasant person in the world either, Harry. And that day… I suppose it just hit me.”
She shook her head slowly, her brown hair swaying. That wasn’t what she’d meant to say, and Harry knew it.
“So when they asked why I was in the bathroom, I said I’d gone after the troll alone.” She continued quietly, eyes fixed on the folded blanket at the foot of the bed. “Told them I thought I could beat it… just so he wouldn’t get in trouble. I thought they’d hate me even more for that—it’s not like I’m popular, that much was obvious. But if you hadn’t shown up when you did, I’d…”
She broke off, swallowing hard. For a moment, it seemed as though something invisible weighed on her shoulders. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper.
“I wouldn’t be here now.”
The silence that followed fell like a Petrificus Totalus—solid, unmoving, almost tangible. Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly struggling to find the right words.
“I… I wanted to say sorry,” she said at last, her voice hesitant, almost ashamed. “You were the only one who was actually decent to me… and still, I pushed you away.”
Harry sighed, tension tightening his shoulders.
“Was it ‘cause I was a threat?”
This time, his voice was quieter, but the hurt in it was plain. As though the question had hovered over him for ages, eating away at him.
“What? No!” Hermione replied at once, eyes wide. “Never! I remember, right at the first breakfast, they started spreading that ridiculous rumour… But I’d read about you before, and after meeting you on the train, I knew you weren’t like that.”
Harry was silent for a moment, absorbing her words.
“Then… why?” he asked cautiously, pulling the blanket closer, as though bracing himself. “Did I do something? Make you uncomfortable?”
Hermione bit her lip, eyes fixed on the floor.
“No… it was my fault,” she admitted with a deep sigh.
Harry waited. She seemed on the verge of speaking but hesitated, as though the words were slipping away before she could say them. After another sigh, she hugged her own arm, a nervous gesture.
“And I know it sounds stupid, but… I… I was jealous of you.”
The words tumbled out of Hermione’s mouth so quickly they seemed to trip over each other, as though she wanted them gone before regret could swallow them.
Harry blinked, stunned.
“Jealous? Of me? But… why?”
He heard himself ask, but the questions sounded absurd even to his own ears. How could someone like Hermione—brilliant, sharp, practically a walking encyclopedia—be jealous of him?
Hermione let out a slow breath, as though about to admit something painful.
“I was always the top of my class… the cleverest,” she said, shrugging in an attempt to seem indifferent, though her voice came out quiet, almost ashamed. “But when I got here, you… you stood out so much in practical lessons. Always the first to cast spells, like it was the simplest thing in the world.”
Harry scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable.
“But we just studied all the time! I practically lived in the library with you.” He gave a small chuckle, trying to ease the tension. “I was never thick in school, but I was never… brilliant, either.”
“You’ve got talent.”
Harry shook his head. “No… not even close.”
“You just don’t see it, but you have.” Hermione insisted.
She hesitated, her eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the floor, as though still debating with herself whether to continue.
“In our first Transfiguration lesson,” she said, with an almost imperceptible laugh, “you were late, remember? Your glasses were cracked, your shirt half-tucked… looked like you’d been through a hurricane. Said you barely knew the subject, even tried to copy off me, and you were still the first to turn the match into a needle.”
She bit her lower lip, her gaze still downcast.
“And I… I started wondering if I wasn’t good enough.”
Harry stayed silent. The words simply wouldn’t come. The idea that someone—let alone Hermione—could envy him was so absurd his mind could barely grasp it.
This was the girl who always knew the answers before the Professors had even finished asking the questions. The girl who’d memorised The Standard Book of Spells before first year had even begun.
He looked away, trying to make sense of it all.
Of course, he’d learned a lot. He’d spent hours upon hours holed up in the library in those early days—even with Neville once he’d started hanging around with him, though not nearly as intensely as before, but still, it was another refuge of theirs—not out of any love for books, but because there was nowhere else he felt safe.
It was quiet there.
No one bothered him.
And since the only entertainment available between those dusty shelves were stacks of spellbooks, potion manuals, and magical creature guides, he… studied.
And like it or not, he’d got good at it. Kept up with assignments and learned more than the bare minimum for classes.
Not that he’d found it fun. If there’d been a better alternative, he’d have taken it. But studying had, almost accidentally, become his hiding place.
He’d never imagined that—this habit born of discomfort and loneliness—could be the reason for the distance between them. The mere thought that his attempt to survive this new world might have pushed someone like Hermione away hurt in a strange way.
Still, he understood.
To her eyes, it must have seemed like he didn’t even have to try—and truthfully, Harry didn’t quite understand what happened in Transfiguration lessons either.
Professor McGonagall would barely begin explaining, and somehow, it all just made sense. But who could blame him? She was brilliant at teaching—at least in Harry’s opinion.
Hermione, on the other hand, studied with the discipline of a cloistered monk. She read during breakfast, lunch, and dinner; muttered spells between bites and scribbled notes in the margins of her books as though her life depended on it. She was always the first to raise her hand in class, even before the others had worked out what, exactly, the question was about.
And yet, there were moments when Harry excelled in practical lessons, especially when a wand was involved.
Now, it was all starting to make sense.
That expression he’d seen so often on Hermione’s face—when he got a spell right on the first try—wasn’t just surprise. Nor just frustration.
There was something else there, something he hadn’t been able to name until now:
A flicker of doubt, a discomfort so subtle it seemed almost invisible.
Insecurity.
It was hard to believe—almost impossible, really—that Hermione Granger, the most determined and self-assured person he knew in this school, could carry something like that, so well-hidden. Hermione, with her always-correct answers, her unshakable confidence, as though failure simply didn’t exist in her world.
Her voice reached him as a hesitant whisper, light as the rustling of curtains stirred by the breeze from the half-open window.
“You always manage to cast spells and transfigure objects before anyone else… like it’s the simplest thing in the world.”
Harry ran his hand gently over the sheets, not quite knowing what to say.
“But I’ve only managed that in those two subjects,” he replied, trying to sound light. “You’ve seen how I do in Potions? If I don’t have my book right in front of me, I’ll probably blow something up.”
He gave a weak laugh, hoping to ease the tension, and was rewarded with a small smile from Hermione—albeit a faint one—before she sighed, the weight of her words hanging in the air.
“When I got angry,” she continued, her voice low and earnest, “it wasn’t something I really thought about. I love spells, I like Transfiguration… even when I had the best essays, the top marks…”—she paused, her gaze lost somewhere between them—”I felt like it wasn’t enough.”
Harry watched her silently, and for the first time, saw Hermione without that usual mask of unshakable determination.
She looked vulnerable. Human. As though, until this moment, he’d never truly seen her.
“And no matter how hard I tried,” Hermione said, with a melancholy smile, “no matter how much I worked… it never seemed enough to outdo you—as though I needed to, somehow.”
She clasped her hands in her lap, her voice trembling slightly.
“And yet, you were never cruel to me. Always kind… and that made me furious. Not really at you,” she added quickly, shaking her head. “At myself, I think. So… I pulled away.”
The hospital wing seemed to shrink around them, as though even the walls were holding their breath. The breeze from the window rippled the curtains softly, filling the silence that settled over them—a silence that seemed full of everything they still hadn’t said.
Harry wet his lips, trying to find the right words.
“Hermione…” he began quietly. “You’re, by far, the cleverest person I know.”
Her eyes flicked up at once, as though that were the last compliment she’d expected to hear. They glimmered in the golden sunlight.
“You always have the answers for everything… always.” He gave a shy smile. “You’ve bailed me out on homework loads of times like it… ‘was the simplest thing in the world’.” He even raised his hands and made air quotes.
Hermione let out a long, resigned sigh—the kind that carried away a weight that had built up for far too long.
“When I saw you facing that thing… the troll… you didn’t have to do that. You could’ve run, could’ve gone for help, but… you stayed. You saved me, Harry. You let me run.”
“But—”
“Let me finish.” She didn’t look at him, but her voice was firm, though quiet. “After what I saw you do for me, even after I’d pushed you away, ignored you completely… I realised how ridiculous I’d been. So… I’m sorry.”
She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together in a restrained gesture, trying to keep her composure.
“You don’t have to apologise,” said Harry, shaking his head. “Anyone would’ve done the same.”
He gave a small smile and shrugged, almost sheepishly.
Hermione sniffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a faint smile, as though some part of her was, slowly, settling back into place.
“No… not everyone would face a troll alone, Harry. And you know that.”
Harry stayed quiet, letting her words sink in slowly. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought at all when he’d run into that bathroom—he’d just acted. Not out of bravery, or glory, but because it was right. Because she’d been in danger, and he simply couldn’t stand by.
Hermione took a deep breath, her chest rising slowly, as though gathering courage to continue. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost a secret.
“I… actually swapped shifts with Neville so I could stay with you,” she confessed, avoiding his eyes.
A shy smile bloomed on her face, halfway embarrassed.
“He’s been really kind. Would sit here for hours if he had to.”
“Neville?” Harry repeated, surprised at the image of his friend sitting here, beside the bed, while he’d been unconscious. It seemed both absurd and perfectly plausible. “He’s a really good bloke… a bit shy sometimes, but once you talk to him, he’s great. Maybe a bit too into plants.”
Hermione laughed lightly, a soft sound that warmed the air between them.
“I’d noticed that,” she said, her eyes bright with amusement.
They laughed together, and the shared laughter seemed to dissolve the lingering tension in the air.
“I reckon you’d like studying with him,” Harry remarked casually. “Especially Herbology.”
“The way he talked about it, you could really see his eyes light up,” Hermione said, still smiling.
Harry hesitated for a moment. He ran his hand over the sheets, staring at them as though searching for courage in the folds.
“Actually” he began, with a shyness unusual in his voice, “d’you want to join us? Me and him have been studying together for a few weeks now… and, to be honest, we’re both rubbish at it. If it weren’t for those books you lent me at the start of term, I don’t think I’d even know where to begin.”
Hermione blinked, confused for a moment, as though making sure she’d heard right.
“You want me to study with you?” she asked, her voice wavering between surprise and hope. “You… don’t think I’m…”
She lowered her eyes, shrugging with a resigned gesture.
“Insufferable and a know-it-all?” she finished in a whisper, with an almost childlike hope that he’d say no.
Harry frowned, clearly baffled.
“Insufferable? I don’t think you’re insufferable,” he replied with immediate sincerity.
Her eyes widened, as though his words had lit something inside her—a warm, comforting flame.
“Really? You don’t… don’t think any of that?”
Harry shook his head and smiled, one of those easy, effortless smiles.
“No—that’s why I thought it’d be nice if you wanted to study with us… but… well, only if you want to, of course.”
Hermione smiled back, this time more freely. There was still a faint blush colouring her cheeks, but her nervousness seemed lesser, more contained.
“I think… that might be a good idea,” Hermione said, lowering her eyes to her clasped hands in her lap, as though holding something precious she didn’t want to let slip.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in the bed, shrugging in an almost embarrassed way.
“Besides, we’re still friends,” he added awkwardly. “You explained everything, so… it doesn’t make sense not to be, right? I reckon friends can row sometimes, but… you make up. At least, I think that’s how it works.”
Hermione looked up and smiled at him, nodding.
“Yeah… I think so too...”
They lapsed into silence for a moment, listening to the breeze in the room, trying to think of something to say.
“By the way,” he began slowly, glancing at the book still on the floor, “you were reading out loud…”
Immediately, she flushed deeply, clearing her throat as she quickly snatched the book from the floor and placed it on the bedside table. The cover read Hogwarts: A History.
“Er... yeah, I was,” she confirmed, her voice shakier than she'd have liked as she adjusted her jumper.
“You were talking to me?” he asked, mildly amused by her shyness as he shifted in the chair.
“Well... yes, I was reading to you while you slept,” she said quickly, “and making comments... I didn't wake you, did I?”
“No, you didn't,” he reassured her with a wave of his hand. “Just wasn't expecting it... but it was nice of you. The story was interesting, to say the least. Who knows, maybe some mad professor will try changing the weather again.”
Harry gave a light laugh, which made her smile in return.
“There are loads of interesting stories in there, you know? You ought to read it sometime,” she encouraged, smoothing her skirt on the chair.
“Maybe one day,” he sniffed.
If he were honest, that enormous brick of a book would never pass his eyes—just the thought of reading it filled him with boredom.
Hermione hesitated for a moment, as though carefully weighing her next words, before changing the subject.
“By the way... the whole school knows about the troll now.” Her voice carried a mix of curiosity and concern. “They're saying you actually... killed it.”
Harry raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Hermione continued, her voice softer now.
“I didn't quite understand what happened. When everything turned chaotic, it felt like the bathroom was exploding with... with your magic. I ran to get help, but they wouldn’t let me back in after. Are you all right? What happened in there?”
Harry swallowed thickly, trying to keep control of the memories that still felt raw, vibrating under his skin. The image of the fallen troll, motionless, still danced behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes.
“Yeah, I... I killed the troll. I think.” His voice sounded oddly distant, as though he still didn’t believe it. “But I don’t know how I did it. It all happened so fast... and then suddenly, the bathroom was destroyed, there was blood, and... well, you can imagine.”
He paused, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath. “I just don’t get why it happened to me.”
Hermione watched him silently, her brown eyes reflecting something close to compassion—and perhaps a faint trace of awe. She seemed to weigh each word, as though trying to decipher him.
“It might’ve been accidental magic,” she said at last, in a tone that was almost professorial. “It can still happen at our age. And, well... it wouldn’t be unusual, given the situation.”
Harry shrugged, though the look on his face said he wasn’t entirely convinced.
“Could be. Suppose that’s the most likely.”
There was a brief silence before Hermione spoke again, this time with some hesitation.
“And... there’s another rumour going around.” She bit her lower lip. “They’re saying you punched Malfoy after Charms, out in the courtyard.”
Harry let out an almost-laughing sigh.
“Yeah... things got out of hand. He ended up with a black eye and a sore stomach. Long story short.”
Hermione pressed her lips together, but her eyes sparkled, amused despite herself.
“Well... it’s caused some Gryffindors and Slytherins to start fighting. The Slytherins, obviously, want revenge for Malfoy, and the older Gryffindors are already ready to defend you since they heard the whole story. It’s all a bit... tense. And I think the upcoming Quidditch match is only making things worse.”
Harry leaned back against the pillow with a frustrated sigh, covering his eyes with his good arm.
“Brilliant. Just perfect. Now the whole school’s at war because of that shite.”
“Harry,” Hermione admonished quietly, but with that characteristic disapproving tone.
“Sorry.” He sighed. “Malfoy’s always been... himself. Only this time, he said the wrong thing and...” Harry trailed off, choosing his words carefully. “Paid for it.”
She offered a small, understanding smile.
“I get it. Maybe I don’t know exactly how you felt... but I understand why you did it.”
Harry stayed silent. The memory of the fight still weighed on his mind, as though it didn’t quite fit with who he was—or who he’d thought he was. Malfoy had deserved it, no question. But Harry had never been one to settle things with his fists. In fact, until that moment, he’d been more used to being the target, not the one throwing punches.
Hermione shook her head, worried.
“The school’s divided. And... I think you need to be careful. These fights aren’t just about you or Malfoy. The feud between the houses is old. The Professors are having to patrol the corridors more often.”
Harry dragged a hand down his face, exhausted. It wasn’t just his body—his mind was tired too, and this conversation seemed to make him even more aware of everything happening around him. He looked at Hermione, trying to muster a smile, however weak.
“I know. I’ll try to keep my head down... though that doesn’t seem to be my strong suit lately.”
Harry gazed out with a long sigh, the window breeze tousling his hair ever so slightly.
Hermione smiled back, warmth in her eyes.
“You saved my life, Harry,” she said softly, leaning forward slightly. “I just wanted to say thank you again.”
Harry looked away, uncomfortable with the praise.
“Was nothing... really,” he murmured, fiddling with the sheets as though they’d suddenly become fascinating.
Hermione let out a muffled little laugh, the light sound contrasting with the quiet of the hospital wing.
“Might’ve been nothing to you,” she said earnestly, “but it meant everything to me.”
Harry shrugged, feeling his eyelids grow heavy—Madam Pomfrey’s potion was working its way through him subtly but relentlessly.
“You’d have done the same. I’m sure.”
“Probably,” she admitted, straightening up and adjusting her bag on her shoulder, “but in that case, I wouldn’t be in a hospital bed. I’d have thought of a better way out.” She added with a teasing smile.
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a weak chuckle.
“Get some rest, Harry. I’ll come by tomorrow, all right?”
“See you tomorrow, Hermione. And... thanks for staying.”
She made to turn away but then hesitated. She bit her lower lip, as though carefully weighing her words, and looked at him with a serious expression.
“Just wanted to say... this—the two of us—it’s not just because of the troll.” Her voice was measured. “I should’ve talked to you sooner. Maybe I was a bit... stubborn.”
The word came out reluctantly, almost as if it pained her to admit it.
Harry lifted his gaze, already half-sleepy.
“So we’re good? No... hard feelings?” he asked hoarsely, barely above a whisper.
Hermione smiled.
“We are. No hard feelings.” she replied warmly.
And with one last fond glance, she turned slowly and left the hospital wing, her footsteps echoing softly until silence settled over the room like a warm blanket.
Before long, exhaustion won out over any attempt to resist. Harry sank into the pillows and warm blankets, and sleep came—silent and complete—wrapping around him as though the castle itself had decided to let him rest, at least for this one night.
Harry awoke the following morning with a heavy head and burning eyes. The nightmares that had haunted him through the night still seemed to linger in the air like a shadowy mist. In his disturbing visions, he kept reliving the troll charging at Hermione—and in some of them, he didn’t make it in time to save her. The scene pursued him relentlessly, and after that, sleep had become impossible.
He lay still, eyes tightly shut, waiting for dawn to break, consumed by bitter exhaustion. The images of the troll—both alive and fallen on the stone floor—clung to his mind like stubborn shadows he couldn’t shake off.
The sky outside was still grey when Hermione appeared beside his bed. She looked more put-together than usual, as though she’d made an effort to mask the evident worry on her face.
“Good morning, Harry,” she said, settling into the chair beside him, her voice carrying cautious gentleness.
She began talking about trivialities—the weather, the homework that had been postponed, even a particularly grumpy owl that had tried to peck her in the common room—as though words alone could sweep away the thick atmosphere between them. But her eyes kept flicking back to Harry, examining him with poorly concealed concern.
Harry, however, didn’t want to talk about his nightmares. He didn’t want to admit he felt helpless and vulnerable—least of all to a girl. A growing discomfort churned inside him, as though any honest word might crack open a fissure impossible to seal.
“Are you really all right? If you want, I can fetch Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione offered quietly, leaning forward slightly.
“I’m fine, really,” Harry replied quickly, forcing a smile he knew fooled no one.
Hermione frowned slightly, as though wrestling internally between pressing him or respecting his silence. After a moment, she sighed and leaned back in her chair, shaking her head.
“Well, the important thing is you’re recovering,” she said, attempting a brighter smile. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Harry watched her, a strange warmth spreading through his chest. It was a new—and disconcerting—sensation, realising someone genuinely cared about him. People he’d known only a few weeks were showing a concern his aunt and uncle had never demonstrated in his entire life.
The realisation caught him off guard, nearly moving him. But he still didn’t quite know how to reciprocate. So he simply nodded, silently grateful, as Hermione continued talking, filling the room with a tranquillity he hadn’t known he needed.
Shortly after Hermione left—very much against her will at that moment—the hospital wing door creaked again, and Neville and Ron stumbled in almost clumsily.
Both looked relieved and somewhat awkward, as though they’d rehearsed what to say but forgotten everything upon seeing him awake.
Ron, especially, seemed about to burst with excitement; Neville, shyer, smiled with a mix of joy and hesitation.
“Harry! You’re awake!” Ron exclaimed, flinging himself into a chair beside the bed with such force it groaned in protest. “Blimey, I can’t believe it. You took down a troll! That’s... that’s mental!”
“Er... suppose I did,” said Harry, pulling the covers up as though hoping they might shield him from the onslaught of attention.
Neville, sitting more carefully beside Ron, stared at Harry as though afraid he might collapse at any moment.
“D’you feel all right?” he asked hesitantly. “They said what happened to you was... not great.”
“Better than yesterday, for sure,” Harry replied honestly. “Thanks for staying with me, by the way. Hermione told me you swapped shifts with her.”
“Oh, yeah... I sat with you. Thought it’d be good if someone was here if you woke up,” he said, sounding unsure of his own answer. “Least, that’s what I reckoned.”
“Anything happen while I was out?”
“Loads... well, not loads, but... sort of in between, I s’pose,” Neville mumbled.
Harry knew Neville sometimes struggled to articulate exactly what he meant, but he’d learned to interpret his friend’s roundabout way of speaking.
“Dunno why we’re tryin’ to measure it,” Ron interjected with a shrug. “But reckon we’ve had enough gossip at meals every day to count as something.”
“After... well, after you punched Malfoy and the whole troll thing... the school’s been different,” Neville remarked.
Harry sank back into his pillow, releasing a long sigh as he ran a hand through his tousled hair, which seemed to have waged its own battle against the pillow.
“I don’t regret what I did to Malfoy,” he said firmly, his voice edged with bitterness. “He shouldn’t have said what he did... Just didn’t think it’d blow up like this.”
Ron, who’d been swinging his legs under the chair, stopped and leaned forward, eyes alight with enthusiasm.
“Don’t feel bad, Harry,” he said with conviction. “You did what was right. That git deserved it. Fred told me when Gryffindor and Slytherin are set to play, the whole school turns into a battlefield. Worst rivalry there is.”
Harry frowned.
“What exactly’s been happening?” he asked, an uneasy feeling twisting in his stomach.
Ron shrugged, as though describing the weather.
“Ah, the usual,” he replied airily. “Name-calling, dirty looks, a bit of shoving in the corridors... But since your row with Malfoy, no one’s pulled their wand yet. They’re respecting a line... more or less.”
“They’re still respecting a line,” Neville muttered, barely moving his lips, shooting Ron a dark look.
A slightly uncomfortable silence settled, filled only by the distant echo of footsteps on stone corridors.
Harry seized the moment to voice the question that had been gnawing at him since he woke.
He furrowed his brow further, his gaze fixed on the two of them.
“Before all this,” he began, his voice heavy, “I was already seen as a threat... And now? After Malfoy and the troll... Has anything changed? Or did I just make it worse?”
Neville opened his mouth, closed it quickly, and looked at Ron, as though hoping he’d have a better answer.
Ron was the first to speak, though his voice carried an uncharacteristic hesitance.
“I... dunno,” he started, scratching the back of his neck, his face flushing with discomfort. “Mate, you didn’t just... well, defend your parents’ honour, right? You also told him to lay off everyone. Sometimes it was rough for me, being on my own out there... When I was by myself—which wasn’t often, but it happened—he’d take the mickey out of my family. Always wanted to hex him for it, but alone? No chance. When I was with Seamus and Dean, he never came near.”
“Welcome to the club,” Harry said, mustering a humourless smile.
“Yeah, well, reckon he only left me alone ‘cause he knew my brothers were always about,” Ron added, shrugging as though it were obvious.
“You’ve got that going for you, at least...” Neville murmured.
“He’s a coward either way.” Ron pulled a face, then added, more seriously: “But really, it was... decent of you.”
Harry rubbed his eyes, as though trying to dispel the weariness weighing on him.
“At least something good came of it, then,” he sighed.
“Malfoy’s actually gone quiet,” Neville remarked, lifting his shoulders slightly. “Hasn’t bothered anyone else—least, not me. Just gives me these looks... but doesn’t try anything.”
Ron half-smiled but quickly averted his gaze from Harry, suddenly very interested in the hospital blanket’s stitching.
“To be honest, I was a prat,” he said, his voice low but earnest. “Told Neville that after you... well, after you punched Malfoy.”
“And a few more times these past two weeks,” Neville murmured, a faint smile lighting his eyes.
Ron gave Neville a friendly thump on the shoulder, making him wobble slightly in his chair, before continuing, meeting Harry’s gaze squarely this time.
“I was a complete berk, Harry. Let myself get swept up in all that rubbish about you being dangerous... One person says it, then another, you know how it is. Didn’t even try talking to you properly. Let it go. And now... now it feels a bit late to apologise, after everything, doesn’t it? But... if there’s anything I can do to make it right—”
“You don’t have to do anything, Ron,” said Harry, his voice calm and steady.
His lips pressed into the ghost of a smile, devoid of any resentment.
He understood what Ron meant. More than that—he felt, somehow, that he’d already forgiven him before the words were spoken.
“I sort of figured,” Harry admitted, studying the quilt between his fingers. “The way you and the others looked at me in the dorm... the common room... But, well, either way, thanks for saying it.”
Ron took a deep breath and straightened in his chair, his expression more resolute now.
“After what you did... after punching Malfoy—which, by the way, everyone wanted to do—and after saving Hermione that night...” His voice faltered briefly, and he rubbed his knee nervously. “Which, mind... was a situation I sort of helped create...”
Harry had never seen Ron so... contrite.
There was something in the way the redhead stared at the floor and scratched his neck that made it clear: he truly grasped how badly he’d messed up.
“So now,” said Ron, his voice firm despite the redness creeping up his ears, “no matter what anyone says. I know you’re not what they say you are.”
An unexpected warmth bloomed in Harry’s chest. He smiled—a genuine, grateful smile—and extended his hand.
“Thanks, Ron. That means a lot,” he said honestly. “And I accept your apology.”
Ron grinned broadly and shook Harry’s hand with vigour.
“Friends?” he asked, almost hopeful.
“Friends,” Harry replied, gripping back firmly.
The gesture was more comforting than he could express.
Neville, who’d been watching the exchange with an amused smile on his round face, leaned forward with eyes twinkling in humour.
“No one shook my hand...” he murmured.
Ron let out a laugh and crossed his arms, adopting a mock-challenging look.
“Only if you admit Quidditch is better than Herbology.”
Neville’s eyebrows shot up, and he shook his head as though this were unthinkable.
“You only say that ‘cause you don’t value Dittany enough... Bet you’d change your mind if you got hurt in a match without it,” he retorted. “You’d start liking Herbology more.”
Ron rolled his eyes exaggeratedly but, laughing, extended his hand to Neville.
“I’ll wear you down... just you wait.”
The three laughed together, exchanging enthusiastic handshakes before Neville and Ron stood, adjusting their bags.
“See you later, Harry!” Ron called over his shoulder, still grinning, as he left with Neville, the two chatting animatedly.
When they were gone, Harry looked at the stack of parchment and notes Hermione had left by his bed earlier.
The notes were impeccable, the handwriting flawless. He couldn’t help but marvel at how meticulously she’d organised everything. It almost seemed like reading the material would be easier, the way she’d laid it all out.
The rest of the day passed in a blur for Harry.
Focused on the notes, he began to grasp just how much work he’d need to catch up on over the weekend. Hermione had promised to help, and he knew her assistance would be indispensable. Even with his head still full of disturbing visions, he forced himself to concentrate on studying, though his weary body protested.
Harry set down the notes, closing his eyes and rubbing his face with his hands, trying to relieve the built-up tension.
He sank into the pillow, feeling its comforting softness against his head, but his mind still churned with recent events, making it hard to focus.
A faint sound of footsteps caught his attention.
Harry opened his eyes and saw, with silent surprise, the serene figure of Headmaster Dumbledore approaching.
The headmaster seemed to almost glide through the room, his demeanour tranquil, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. Though he saw him daily at meals, this was the first time they’d spoken directly. Even without having exchanged many words before, Albus Dumbledore exuded a calm authority and presence Harry deeply respected.
“If the stories about him are true, then he really is the most powerful wizard alive.” Harry thought.
To make matters worse, he was also the headmaster, and headmasters showing up was never a good sign.
“Ah, good to see you awake, Harry.” Dumbledore spread his arms in a warm gesture, a kind smile on his face. “I’ve come to check on you again. I fear we’ve never had the chance to speak properly.”
“Hello, Headmaster,” Harry said, unexpected nervousness rising in him.
His experiences with headmasters during his childhood hadn’t been good.
He remembered always being blamed for fights with Dudley, and how the headmasters at his Muggle schools had been intimidating and distant.
Noticing his discomfort, Dumbledore softened his smile further, his eyes gleaming with understanding.
“There’s no need for apprehension. I haven’t come to frighten you. Shadows of conflict and reprimand are not my intent, nor do they belong in a place like the hospital wing.” His voice was calm, almost musical, as he settled into a chair near Harry’s bed, now at eye level with the boy. “I know your stay here has caused some concern, but I believe you’re already aware of that.”
“Yes...” Harry replied hesitantly, his shoulders tense. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Trouble?” Dumbledore arched an eyebrow, smoothing his long beard as he considered Harry’s words. “What trouble, exactly, do you refer to? To my knowledge, there was more than one event that day, was there not?”
“Er... I fought Malfoy... and then there was the troll.” Harry’s voice nearly faded as he looked down at his hands.
“Ah, yes. A rather tumultuous day for you, I’d say. More than many wizards would endure on a holiday like that.” Dumbledore nodded, his eyes still gleaming with quiet wisdom. “But I’m not here to discuss the events themselves. The consequences with Mr Malfoy have been addressed, as has the troll matter. So there’s no need to worry.”
Harry lifted his eyes curiously.
“What was a troll doing in the castle, sir?” he asked quietly.
Dumbledore pondered for a moment, his gaze drifting to the half-open window where a gentle breeze stirred the curtains.
“I’m afraid it would be unwise of me to share details at this time. Certain cracks are better left in the shadows of uncertainty, at least for now,” he said, his tone remaining calm. “But I’ve come to speak of another matter, which is connected, in a way, to everything that’s happened.”
Harry remained silent, his gaze fixed on the headmaster, who now seemed lost in his own thoughts. Dumbledore gave a slight shake of his head, as though arranging his words before letting them escape. For a brief moment, the hospital wing fell silent.
“You experienced... certain situations on Halloween,” Dumbledore said at last, his voice low and reflective. “In the courtyard, after Charms.”
He paused, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.
“I refer to a sort of... magical gust, accompanied by heat, as some have described it.”
A shiver ran down Harry’s spine at the memory. He nodded, swallowing thickly.
“I... I don’t know why it happened,” he said honestly. “Didn’t mean to. Wasn’t trying to scare anyone.” He shrugged, suddenly feeling very small in the face of Dumbledore’s vast presence.
The headmaster watched him intently, his gaze so full of understanding that, to Harry, it felt like a weight lifting from his shoulders. Dumbledore steepled his fingers in his lap, his expression serene.
“Yes, many were surprised... perhaps even a little frightened, it’s true,” he admitted with a slight nod. “But that impression didn’t last as long as you might think.”
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze attentive.
“This isn’t the first time something similar has occurred, is it?”
Harry hesitated for a moment but finally shook his head.
“No, sir. Happened once... at my aunt and uncle’s house. Just before Professor McGonagall and Hagrid showed up.”
“Ah, yes,” murmured Dumbledore, his eyes drifting momentarily to distant memories. “I recall speaking with Minerva about that. We’d sent you two letters and, receiving no response, considered that, perhaps, being raised by a Muggle family, you might need... a little more guidance, or information.”
The way he said it sounded so measured and diplomatic that Harry, deep down, suspected Dumbledore was choosing his words far too carefully. He knew, as surely as he knew how to cast Lumos, that Vernon and Petunia Dursley were far from needing ‘information’ about the wizarding world—they simply hated it.
“Professor McGonagall typically visits Muggle-born families to ensure everything is in order,” Dumbledore continued, his eyes resting gently on Harry. “So it didn’t seem excessive to pay a visit to Privet Drive as well.”
Harry smiled, a small but genuine one.
“I’m grateful for that,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than intended. “If they hadn’t turned up there, I... I don’t know what would’ve happened.”
For a moment, he let the words hang in the air. He knew all too well what might have happened—knew better than he’d like—but he didn’t want to give voice to those dark thoughts now.
Dumbledore simply watched him, his gaze filled with what seemed like silent acknowledgement of what Harry hadn't said.
“What I'd like to understand, Harry, is whether you can identify when these... moments occur. These magical gusts.”
Harry thought for a while, his mind drifting back to the Dursleys, to moments of loneliness and despair. Then to Hogwarts, to the fight with Malfoy, to the panic in the bathroom.
It was as if it all followed some sort of pattern.
“I think it's when I... feel something very strongly. Emotionally, I mean.”
Dumbledore nodded slightly, as if confirming something he'd already suspected.
“When you feel you can no longer contain it, your body responds,” he said, seeking confirmation.
“Yeah...” Harry replied, frowning as he tried to find the right words. “But it has to be something... really intense. I couldn't control it.”
“I see.” The headmaster leaned back in his chair. “Is that what happened in the girls' lavatory? Emotion overwhelming you?”
“Yes, it was... it was too much.” Harry shuddered at the memory of the terror he'd felt facing the troll. “For a moment, I thought I was going to die.”
He averted his gaze, his fingers tightening on the blanket.
“Then everything around me started spinning and breaking apart... he threw me against the wall and... I killed him, but I don't know exactly how.”
Dumbledore remained silent for several seconds.
“It must have been terrifying, and I deeply regret not arriving in time,” he said slowly. “That was a failing on my part and the other professors', I'm afraid.”
Harry hesitated before asking the question that had been hammering in his mind for days.
“Does... does this happen to other wizards? What happened to me?”
Dumbledore drew a deep breath, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles as he pondered the best way to respond.
“Yes... and no,” he said calmly. “Accidental magic happens to many wizards at some point in their lives. But what you experienced was somewhat different.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if choosing his words with extreme care. “Normally, accidental magic manifests more subtly. An object falling off a shelf, hair changing colour... nothing as intense as what occurred with you. I believe you've studied the basic concept of magic in Professor Flitwick's lessons?”
Harry nodded, remembering long afternoons in the library hunched over spellbooks.
“Magic is something that exists within us,” he recited from memory, “and it develops as we grow, reaching its peak in adulthood. Only those who learn to control it can use it consciously.”
“Correct,” Dumbledore approved, inclining his head with a satisfied smile. “And regarding what's known about the quantity of magic in a wizard... can you tell me what you've learned?”
Harry frowned, thinking carefully.
“I think... it depends,” he answered, somewhat uncertain.
Dumbledore's eyes shone with enthusiasm, as they always did when a student began reasoning.
“Depends? And why does it depend?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“Some books say certain wizards have more magic than others,” Harry explained. “But Professor Flitwick said that was rubbish.”
“Is there any scientific proof in the wizarding world to measure the quantity of magic in a person?” Dumbledore continued.
Harry shook his head.
“Don't think so... From what I've read, no wizard truly has more or less magic than another. At least... I don't think so.”
“Precisely,” murmured Dumbledore, nodding slowly as if Harry had just solved a particularly complex riddle. “But the theory that complements this simple foundation is, as you'll see, somewhat more intricate. What happened to you—and yes, it has occurred before with other wizards—goes beyond what you've learned about magic thus far.”
Harry blinked, his eyes attentive.
“How do you mean, sir?” he asked, confused.
Dumbledore rested his hands on his lap, interlacing his fingers.
“Magic, as we've discussed, isn't a matter of quantity,” he said, his voice low and grave. “It's not something that can be measured or compared between people, like height or weight. It develops within each of us until reaching its maximum potential, as you rightly recalled. However, there are... exceptions.”
Harry furrowed his brows.
“Exceptions?” he repeated, curious.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore, lightly drumming his fingers on his knee. “As you may recall, all wizards and magical creatures possess what we call 'auras'. But those who delve deeper into this study will find there are two classifications: Contained Aura—the most common type, which the vast majority of us possess—and Wild Aura.”
He paused, watching Harry intently.
“What happened to you,” Dumbledore continued, “was the result of your aura—which, from what you're telling me, is your Wild Aura responding. As you lack experience with it, your magic, feeling threatened, reacted to protect you in the most radical way it could find, without you truly intending it. Rather than a minor incident—like breaking a vase or changing a cat's colour—there was an immense discharge. So powerful it could save your life or cause great damage, depending on what was needed in the moment.”
A shiver ran down Harry's spine.
“So... I'm dangerous?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Dumbledore smiled—one of those warm smiles that seemed to dispel the room's shadows.
“We're all dangerous, Harry, if we don't learn to control what lies within us,” he said serenely. “But the fact that we're here, asking these questions, seeking to understand... that's what makes all the difference. Speaking to one another about things that matter always makes us stronger.”
Harry fell silent for a moment, digesting the headmaster's words.
“So there aren't many cases like mine?” he finally asked.
“No,” Dumbledore admitted. “They're quite rare.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Auras are part of our very soul, an extension of ourselves. And wild auras rarely manifest in people, but when the wizard gains full control over theirs, they can achieve what others perhaps cannot—not in the same way.”
Harry looked down at his own hands, wondering if they were tingling or if it was just his imagination, as though magic still echoed in them.
“Will I learn to control this?” he asked, his voice barely concealing his anxiety.
“You will,” Dumbledore replied firmly. “And you won't be alone on this journey.”
The silence that followed was strange but not exactly uncomfortable; it hung in the air like a light mist.
“But tell me, Harry... how do you feel when this happens?” Dumbledore asked, his voice as serene as the surface of a lake. “Before the magic comes out?”
Harry hesitated, frowning as he tried to find words for something he barely understood himself. Finally, he spoke, his voice cautious:
“It's... it's like a strange feeling, inside. I can't really explain it.” He looked at his hands, clenching them in his lap. “It starts with a tingling... first in my hands, sometimes all over my body if it's stronger... and then... it just happens. Comes out.”
Dumbledore's brow furrowed slightly, but his eyes continued to shine with their usual patience and wisdom.
He nodded slowly, absorbing Harry's every word, and leaned back a little further in his chair, folding his hands over his knees.
“I believe we'll still need to wait and see how your magic develops over time,” he said tranquilly. “For now, have patience. Answers tend to reveal themselves as we grow to understand them.”
Harry bit his lip, his throat tight.
“I just want to be like everyone else,” he murmured, so quietly it was almost inaudible. His fingers clenched tightly in the sheet, as though trying to anchor himself there.
Dumbledore watched him silently for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. When he spoke, his voice sounded even gentler, carrying an almost paternal tenderness.
“I understand, Harry. More than you might realise.” He paused briefly, his eyes resting carefully on the boy's tense face. “Sometimes fate places burdens upon us that we didn't ask for... and it can feel profoundly unfair. But it's precisely in these moments that we discover what we're truly made of.”
Harry gripped the sheet even tighter, the feeling of helplessness washing over him anew.
“I don't know if I can handle this...” he confessed, his voice so faint he seemed afraid to be heard. “Sometimes it feels like I'll lose control again and... I don't want to hurt anyone.”
Dumbledore smiled—one of those soft smiles that warmed the chest without entirely dispelling worry.
“The mere fact that you're concerned about this, Harry, already shows you're more capable than you think,” he replied in a serene tone that brooked no doubt. “Control doesn't come from an absence of fear, but from the ability to recognise it... and to work every day to overcome it.”
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the quilt, absorbing each word like drops of rain on parched earth. He didn't want to be the boy who lost control. Didn't want to be a threat.
Dumbledore rose slowly, his robes fluttering gently with the movement as though obeying an invisible wind.
“Don't rush to find all the answers at once, Harry,” he said, adjusting his half-moon spectacles on his nose. “Time—more than anything else—will be your greatest ally.”
Harry watched as the headmaster prepared to leave, and for a moment, he felt a sudden urge to ask more, to understand what was happening to him.
But the words stuck in his throat.
Instead, he simply nodded, trying to show some semblance of understanding, even as his mind remained in turmoil.
Dumbledore paused at the door, casting one last look at Harry.
“And remember,” he said softly, “you'll never be alone. There are many who support you, who believe in you. And I am one of them.”
With that, he was gone, leaving Harry alone in the growing silence of the room.
He lay his head back on the pillow. Tried to process the conversation he'd had while contemplating the weight of what was happening to him.
The image of the defeated troll was still fresh in his mind, but it was what came after that haunted him more deeply.
He'd been saved... but how?
Whatever power he'd unleashed in that moment of panic had been enough to bring down the troll. But... that wasn't all, was it?
He'd killed it.
Like it or not, he knew he'd killed that creature.
He turned his face to the window. The November wind swayed the curtains gently, but the cold air made Harry shrink under the blanket. He closed his eyes for a moment, but the questions continued buzzing in his head, restless as a swarm of bees.
What if this had happened with the Dursleys?
His chest tightened at the thought. He didn't like his aunt and uncle or his cousin, truth be told, but the idea of having... killed them... left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The memory of Vernon flying across the room from his magical outburst still haunted him. At the time, he'd just wanted them to stop treating him like rubbish, just wanted them to leave him alone. And as if he'd wished upon a genie, it had happened.
But what if it had been more?
If that... ball of energy, that force he'd felt building inside him in the bathroom with the troll, had appeared there, at the Dursleys' house?
His stomach churned at the thought. No, he couldn't bear the idea. He hated the Dursleys, of course. Hated how they treated him, how they made him feel insignificant, but he didn't want to... hurt them. Never like that.
Harry clenched his fists against his chest, trying to suppress the anguish rising in his throat.
And Malfoy?
The image of Draco Malfoy also loomed over him like an uncomfortable shadow. Harry hated him. Hated the arrogance, the sneering smile, the constant taunts.
But even Malfoy... didn't deserve that, didn't deserve to die.
Harry was alone, but the quiet made his words almost a whisper within his own mind.
The hospital wing suddenly seemed larger than usual. The shadows on the walls now made him feel exposed, small. As though the weight of what had happened with the troll, and what could have happened to his aunt and uncle or Malfoy, was crushing him.
A hot tear threatened to escape before he could stop it.
He wiped his face hastily with the back of his hand, annoyed with himself for it. He couldn't afford to be weak.
Not now.
But what if he really was dangerous? What if that force inside him, this thing he didn't understand—this Wild Aura—escaped again? He had no control over it yet, and even with the headmaster's advice, it frightened him more than anything else.
He felt a growing pressure in his chest, as though he'd been holding his breath too long. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm his breathing, but the images kept coming.
The troll lying motionless on the floor... its body blown apart... the Dursleys, harmless now, but who might have been dead if he hadn't controlled himself...
Harry curled up further in bed, hugging his knees as he stared ahead, trying to find some comfort in the cold, empty room. He wanted to just be... normal.
Wanted to just be Harry.
But he couldn't be.
And the truth, slowly seeping into his mind, was that perhaps he never would be.
Several hours had passed since the headmaster's visit.
Madam Pomfrey had administered more potions—each more bitter than the last. Harry wrinkled his nose at every dose but, to his chagrin, couldn't deny he was feeling better.
With a long sigh, he removed his glasses and rubbed his face, exhausted from unsuccessfully trying to decipher a dense chapter about the complementary theory of Flitterby jinxes when improperly administered in potions.
The words danced before him, scrambled and meaningless.
“I'm so screwed,” he muttered to himself, casting a gloomy look at the stack of parchment he still needed to review.
The hospital wing door creaked, and Harry looked up just in time to see Professor McGonagall striding in with purposeful steps, her robes billowing with haste.
Harry's heart gave an uncomfortable leap, and he swallowed hard, already anticipating what was coming.
When McGonagall saw him awake, her shoulders seemed to relax—just for a brief moment—before tensing again. Her expression closed into a stern line, her lips thin and tight as though holding back a torrent of emotions.
“Mr. Potter, have you any idea of the fright you gave us?” she said, her voice sharp and laden with tension, though the concern in her eyes betrayed her.
“Yes, Professor,” Harry replied quickly, lowering his head, feeling his face grow warm. “I saw the troll entering the bathroom and... heard Hermione scream. I thought about calling for help, but...” His voice faltered, choked. “If I'd done that, maybe... maybe she wouldn't be here now.”
He clenched his hands in the blanket, trying to push away the horrible images haunting his mind.
For a moment, McGonagall was silent. Then she approached the bed, the hem of her robes brushing softly against the stone floor.
“Mr. Potter,” she said, calmer now, “your decision was reckless. Running to face a troll armed only with your wand and youthful bravery... is the sort of folly I'd normally expect from... from someone with no notion of the danger they were in.”
She pressed her lips together, visibly wrestling with something—anger, worry, or perhaps pride.
“But,” she continued, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, “it's also the sort of courage we value greatly in Gryffindor.”
Harry looked up at her, surprised.
“Don't think, not for a moment,” McGonagall said sternly, “that your actions were correct. You could have suffered permanent injuries. You could have... died.”
She paused, taking a deep breath, before adding in a quieter tone:
“But Miss Granger is alive thanks to you. And for that, Mr. Potter... you have my gratitude.”
Harry gaped, unable to respond. He'd never imagined hearing such words from Professor McGonagall like this; in his mind, she'd have given him a detention worthy of the twelve labours of Hercules for this.
But instead of reprimanding him harshly, she looked at him kindly, her eyes shining with something that seemed like... restrained pride.
“Know that for having considered your classmates' welfare in this way, three generations of Gryffindors would have been proud of you.”
The praise made Harry blush to the tips of his ears. He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, the hospital wing door swung open with a creak, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed off the stone floor.
“If I don't finish that essay for Snape, I'm done for,” came Ron's exasperated voice.
“Professor Snape,” Hermione corrected automatically.
“Same difference,” Ron grumbled. “He's a pain in the arse either way.”
The conversation ceased abruptly as Ron, Hermione, and Neville came into view, stopping mid-stride upon noticing Professor McGonagall's imposing presence behind the privacy curtain.
Ron turned deathly pale in an instant, his eyes widening as if he'd just encountered a Boggart.
“Mr. Weasley,” said McGonagall, raising an eyebrow in reproach. “Do you know where you are?”
“Y-yes, Professor McGonagall,” Ron replied hastily, his ears turning as red as his hair.
Neville remained quiet, watching the scene with wide eyes, while Hermione merely rolled hers discreetly at Ron's lack of tact.
“I trust you'll lower your voice,” McGonagall continued sharply. “And preferably refrain from referring to your Professors as 'pains in the arse'.”
“Yes, Professor. Sorry,” murmured Ron, swallowing hard.
“Very well,” said McGonagall, turning back to Harry. “I was just leaving, but before I go, I want you to know you'll still serve detention for the corridor fight, Mr Potter. Mr Filch will be expecting you—see him tomorrow without fail. Understood?”
Harry nodded with resigned acceptance.
“Good. And let me make this clear,” she continued, and to everyone's surprise, a slight smile escaped her normally rigid lips, “for your efforts in facing the troll and, above all, for caring about another student's life, I award fifty points to Gryffindor.”
Hermione merely watched in silence while Ron and Neville exchanged excited glances, grins spreading across their faces, and Harry felt a pleasant warmth rise in his chest. A genuine smile lit up his face.
“Thank you very much, Professor,” he said sincerely.
“Don't thank me,” McGonagall replied, her expression returning to normal. “I simply hope this doesn't happen again. What occurred was serious and cannot be undone.”
She sighed deeply before turning to Madam Pomfrey, who had just entered.
“Ah, Poppy, how are you?”
Madam Pomfrey approached, carrying a tray with three small potions. “Quite well, Minerva. And Mr Potter? How are you feeling?”
“Fine, thank you for everything. I don't think I thanked you yet, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said politely.
“Oh, no need to thank me, dear,” Pomfrey smiled slightly. “I'd do whatever was needed to see you well. And speaking of which, you're now discharged from the hospital wing.”
She placed the tray beside the bed and indicated the potions.
“These you must take before bed for the next three days, without fail. Understood?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And yes, they taste dreadful,” she added with a slight smirk. “But you'll thank me later.” The matron administered one last dose of horrible medicine before bidding farewell and withdrawing.
The professor wished them all good night and, in her typical authoritative tone, ordered them to go straight to the common room. Curfew was approaching, after all.
They all agreed silently, and Professor McGonagall left the hospital wing with purposeful steps, the door clicking shut softly behind her.
“Next time, keep your mouth shut, Ronald. You nearly got us in trouble!” hissed Hermione, shooting her friend a furious look, her eyes flashing with frustration.
Ron merely shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, though his voice carried a hint of regret.
“Came to nothing in the end... But maybe I was a bit too loud... And I've told you to just call me Ron—Ronald makes it sound like I've done something wrong.”
“Which you just did.” Hermione retorted quickly.
Ron clicked his tongue and waved his hand dismissively as if it were nothing.
Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes, but when she turned to Harry, her expression softened immediately. All irritation seemed to melt away, replaced by a warm glow in her eyes.
“Ready to go back?” she asked with a gentle smile. “We came to walk with you.”
Harry, feeling the weight of exhaustion crashing over him like a wave, let out a resigned sigh.
“Just want my bed, to be honest.”
“What? But you've been in bed the whole time!” exclaimed Ron, frowning, before being silenced by a sharp look from Hermione.
Even Neville raised an eyebrow in silent disapproval, making Ron shrink in his chair as if poked by a wand.
Harry laughed, feeling light for the first time in days.
“Ron's right, actually,” he said, straightening his pillows. “Maybe an armchair by the fire wouldn't be a bad idea. Fancy a game of something?”
Hermione, however, remained serious.
“Harry, you've got two weeks of lessons to catch up on!” she said, already gathering the crumpled parchments from the bedside table and stuffing them into her bag with determined movements. “We could start today, if—”
“Hermione,” Neville called, his voice calm and slightly hesitant.
“Yes, Neville?” she replied, pausing her packing.
“What if... what if we let Harry do what he wants?” suggested Neville, nervously fiddling with his sleeve cuff. “I mean... he's just out of the hospital wing, after... after all that, right? And... well, no one really rests properly in a hospital... even if, technically, that's what it's for, and...” He trailed off, shrugging, visibly defeated. “Sorry, I'm rubbish with words.”
“We get you, mate. You're right,” said Ron, giving Neville a sympathetic pat on the back.
Hermione stood still for a moment, her eyes darting from Neville to Harry and back, as if fighting an internal battle. Finally, she stammered:
“Right. Of course. I... I just didn't want you falling behind in your studies,” she said practically. “But if you'd prefer, we can do something else.”
Harry smiled. “No need to worry, with what you've already given me I know I'll catch up quickly. We can rest today, yeah?”
“Agreed,” Ron responded promptly, the idea of studying at this hour seeming like an affront.
“Alright,” Neville agreed, and Hermione merely nodded.
Harry shifted under the blankets and slipped on his shoes, still dressed in the uniform he'd put on earlier. His clean scarf around his neck, imbued with a faint lavender scent, wrapped him in familiar comfort.
“Really needed a wash...” he thought to himself.
Harry liked his own comforting scent on his clothes, but never to the point of stinking as he had been.
Then, with gentle movements, Neville and Ron helped Harry to his feet.
“Need help walking?” Neville asked, watching attentively as Harry nearly lost his balance.
“I'm fine... I think,” Harry replied, his voice hesitant.
He felt weakness in his legs, something that had been with him since starting the hospital wing's potions. Each step felt like a monumental effort, and the journey seemed longer than it should be.
When they picked up Harry's bag, Ron promptly slung it over his shoulder, offering help without hesitation.
Harry went to take the bag but the redhead moved it away from him.
“Let me carry this,” he said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.
“Alright... thanks,” Harry responded hesitantly, unaccustomed to this sort of assistance.
As they began walking slowly down the corridors towards the staircases.
While ascending the stairs to the third floor, Harry felt a strange shiver down his spine—one of those inexplicable premonitions he'd learned not to ignore after so many ambushes by Peeves and other unpleasant Hogwarts surprises. Without thinking, he acted on pure instinct.
Before Hermione could step onto the next stair, Harry stretched out his arm and pulled her back sharply. She stumbled and collided with his chest, letting out a muffled squeak, her eyes wide with shock.
“Harry!” exclaimed Hermione, quickly stepping back and shooting him an angry look.
For a moment, she seemed ready to deliver a proper scolding, but her gaze shifted to the staircase. The moment Harry had pulled her back, the steps where she would have trodden slid away with a treacherous creak, disappearing into the darkness below.
The group froze, watching the now out-of-reach staircase. A silent chill ran through them, as if the castle, pleased with its mischief, murmured in approval.
“Blimey, Hermione, you nearly ended up back in the hospital wing that time,” said Ron, wiping his brow with an expression of relief mixed with a nervous smile.
Hermione, still recovering from the shock, turned to Harry, bewilderment alive in her brown eyes.
“How did you...?” she began.
“Know that?” Harry finished, guessing her question as she nodded slightly. “Dunno... When this castle gets too quiet, it feels like it's plotting something. Best not get too close to the edge.”
He took a few cautious steps back, casting a suspicious glance at the now unstable stairs.
“I can handle myself,” huffed Hermione, adjusting her bag strap with an irritated gesture.
Without waiting for a reply, she turned to descend another way.
“We should try another—”
But before she could finish, Harry grabbed her again, pulling her back.
The stairs below them began to creak and move as well, as if the castle, frustrated at not catching Hermione the first time, was making another attempt.
This time, Hermione looked visibly irritated. Her face flushed—and Harry couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or anger—but from the look she gave him, he feared being thrown down the stairs without ceremony.
“Sorry,” Harry said hastily, releasing her. “Didn't mean to hurt you.”
Hermione let out a long sigh, crossing her arms and positioning herself firmly between him and Ron like a shield.
“Blimey, Hermione, you're attracting bad luck today, aren't you?” teased Ron, raising an eyebrow with a cheeky grin.
“Shut it, Ronald,” she fired back, not even looking at him. “Has no one noticed how dangerous this is? What if someone falls?”
“Don't want to find out what happens if we fall, honestly,” Neville murmured, shrugging. “But seems we're stuck here either way.”
There was clearly no way out—both staircases had decided to move at that moment, leaving them trapped.
“Isn't this the third floor?” Harry asked, looking around. “The one where entering means a horrible death?”
“So they say, yeah,” Ron began, “Dumbledore—”
“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Hermione corrected with a stern look.
“—can be a bit scary sometimes,” Ron continued, ignoring the correction, shrugging. “He's got some odd tastes.”
“Odd? I'd say eccentric. He likes bowling,” commented Harry, laughing slightly.
“Bowling?” Ron's eyes widened in surprise. “That's weird... and random.”
“Haven't you read the Chocolate Frog cards?” Hermione looked at him incredulously. “Saw you swapping three of Dumbledore's with Seamus this morning.”
“I collect the cards, don't read the blurbs,” Ron replied carelessly. “Who reads those?”
Hermione merely sighed in disappointment.
The group fell silent for a moment, watching the stubbornly unmoving stairs.
Neville, with a weary expression, decided to sit on the floor.
“I'm sitting down,” he announced, shrugging. “Since we have to wait, might as well be comfortable.”
Harry shrugged and joined him. Soon, Ron and Hermione settled down too.
As they sat in uncomfortable silence, Harry decided to break the ice.
“So... might be a strange question, but what are your wands like?” he began, pulling out his own wand.
It had a rudimentary shape, the handle appearing to be made of rough wood, and its tip tapered as if it were unfinished timber.
“When I bought mine, I noticed they were all different. Mine's holly with a phoenix feather core.”
He hesitated to mention that his wand was the twin of You-Know-Who's, a detail he preferred not to share.
“Might scare them...” he thought to himself.
“Phoenix feather? That's brilliant!” Hermione exclaimed, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. “It's the rarest core. Plus, wands with this core are known for being highly versatile, capable of performing a wide range of spells. But they also tend to act on their own sometimes. Many wizards don't appreciate that.”
“Yeah, noticed that a few times,” Harry replied with a low laugh. “Honestly, I like when it does something without me asking. Feels like we're talking, somehow... I sort of understand it.”
If past Harry knew that months later he'd be discussing pieces of wood and how wands could seem to have minds of their own, he'd have laughed at himself and checked into the hospice.
“Yeah, I get you,” Ron said, making a face. “Mine feels like it's always telling me off, honestly.”
Hermione, excited about the academic topic, straightened up and pulled out her wand. It was light wood with what appeared to be vine detailing running along its length.
“Mine's ten and three-quarter inches,” she said politely. “Dragon heartstring core. Of the three supreme cores, it's the most powerful, and I've read it can perform quite extravagant spells.”
Ron also took out his, which had a simple, practical shape.
“No idea how long mine is...” he shrugged, seeming uninterested. “Think the core's unicorn hair. Was a gift from my brother Charlie. He gave me his when I started.”
“Yours is unicorn hair? Well, among the three supreme cores, it's the weakest—” Hermione began.
“Wow, good evening to you too!” Ron mocked, crossing his arms pretending to be offended.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“I'm not insulting your wand, Ron! Just because it's weaker doesn't mean it's worse.” She retorted quickly. “Remember, the wand is only as powerful as the wizard who wields it... and for your information, unicorn hair cores tend to give less trouble.”
“Give less trouble? Have you seen me in class?” Ron retorted, a mischievous smile on his face.
“I don't think that makes much sense either,” Neville said quietly, somewhat hesitantly. “No offense, but mine's unicorn hair too.”
“How odd...” Hermione frowned, her expression becoming thoughtful.
She knew what she'd read about cores and felt something didn't add up.
Neville, encouraged, took out his wand.
Harry thought it quite handsome; made of dark wood with a wavy pattern on the handle.
“My wand I got from my father... when—well, anyway, I got it from him,” he said, swallowing hard, not elaborating. “Like I said, unicorn hair core, ten inches. And I don't think we get on very well... probably me.”
“Or maybe yours is unique in its own way,” Harry said. “In the end, what matters is how we use them... you two will understand each other someday.”
They continued chatting about other subjects until Neville looked down the dark corridor ahead.
“What do you think they taught here?” Neville asked, pointing to the deserted corridor.
“Here?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. “Probably nothing. Lessons happen inside classrooms, after all.”
Ron snorted a laugh.
“This one's got Peeves' spirit today,” the redhead joked.
“Don't say that name out loud,” Harry whispered with a shiver. “He stalks me at least four times a week.”
“Four times?” Neville asked with a sad expression. “Five for me. And some days he just laughs in my face and leaves.”
“Competition for who's unluckiest with the poltergeist, is it?” Ron laughed. “I've never had problems with him.”
“Wish I had that luck,” murmured Neville, looking dejected.
Hermione, who had been thoughtful, bit her lower lip, hesitating before speaking.
“Is that why you came back soaked to the common room that day, Harry?”
Harry immediately remembered the terrible day.
How could he forget? He'd taken a kick to the ribs from Draco, and to top it off, Peeves had hit him with a magical water balloon. A miserable day.
“Yeah,” he sighed, his shoulders slumping. “That day was awful.”
“I remember,” said Neville, frowning sympathetically. “You looked ready to hex the first person who crossed your path.”
“True,” Ron agreed, letting out a chuckle. “You drenched the whole room—looked like it had rained inside the tower. Percy came right after, all indignant, wanting to know who'd clean up. But George and Angelina explained what happened, and they ended up fixing it with drying charms.”
“I was going to clean,” Harry said quickly, shrinking a little on the floor. “Just... didn't know the right spell. And the water wouldn't come off me no matter what, felt like I'd be wet forever.”
“Tergeo,” Hermione informed promptly, chin raised. “It's the spell that removes liquids and ingrained dirt. Very useful, actually.”
“Don't sweat it, Harry,” said Ron, giving him an unconcerned pat on the shoulder. “Everyone could see how you were. Made it clear something really wrong had happened.”
Silence hung over the group for a few more moments, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire.
“If it's any consolation,” said Hermione, shrugging somewhat awkwardly, “that day was bad for me too.”
Harry looked up, surprised.
“What happened to you?” he asked curiously. “Remember seeing you talking to the Fat Lady.”
Hermione cleared her throat, her voice wavering.
“It was my birthday... and, well, it was a rotten day too.”
Harry felt a painful tightening in his chest. Now that he thought about it, he remembered seeing her that day, but had been so consumed by his own anger and loneliness that it hadn't even occurred to him to pay attention to anyone else.
“I... I didn't know,” he said sadly, staring at Hermione with a mix of guilt and sorrow.
“Don't worry,” she replied quickly, forcing a casual tone that fooled no one. “I wasn't exactly kind to you back then either, and anyway, I didn't tell anyone. There was no way you could've known.”
But Harry knew that wasn't the whole truth. On the first day of term, someone had posted all Gryffindor students' birthdays on the noticeboard—he vaguely remembered seeing it. And if Hermione had been talking only to a portrait that day... it meant no one had stayed with her, as usually happened. Maybe no one had even wished her happy birthday.
The weight of this realisation fell on him like a stone, leaving him speechless. Beside him, Ron and Neville exchanged uncomfortable glances, unsure what to say. Hermione, meanwhile, pretended to examine the folds of her skirt, nervously fiddling with the fabric as if that could hide her embarrassment.
Finally, Harry broke the silence, his voice firm though laden with emotion.
“Well... next time, I'll do differently,” he said, offering her a warm smile. “Know what it's like to have a horrible birthday, and... it's really not nice. Won't let you have another like that.”
Hermione gave a shy smile that lit up her face.
“That's very kind of you, Harry,” she said, her voice slightly tremulous but full of gratitude.
“Let's think of something fun, eh, Neville?” added Ron, giving their friend an encouraging pat on the back.
“Right!” Neville agreed quickly, his face lighting up with determination.
Ron stood up, brushing dirt off his trousers with a decisive gesture as he looked at Neville, who nodded.
“Why are you standing? The stairs haven't returned,” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow and looking suspiciously at the redhead.
“This floor must have another exit, right? I mean, can't be there's only one staircase leading to other floors,” Ron argued, gesturing to emphasise his point.
“You're suggesting entering the one forbidden place in the school that the headmaster himself warned is dangerous? Seriously?” Hermione crossed her arms, her expression indignant and eyes flashing with a mix of worry and frustration.
Ron raised his hands in surrender, shrugging.
“George told me this floor isn't very big. Maybe we can find a way out quicker. We're past curfew by now.”
Harry, deciding to act, drew his wand and cast Tempus Revelio.
The magical clock confirmed the argument.
“Ron's right. If we stay here waiting, we'll get in trouble anyway... Doubt there's anything that dangerous on a school floor. I mean, it's a school with kids in it,” he finished, trying to sound logical.
“You fought a troll two weeks ago, want to discuss safety now?” Hermione replied dryly, somewhat sceptical.
“But he wasn't supposed to be there,” Neville interjected, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “Professor Quirrell showed up during dinner saying there was a troll in the dungeons. After he fainted and everyone panicked, Dumbledore—”
“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Hermione corrected with a disapproving look.
“Right, Headmaster,” Neville agreed, somewhat embarrassed. “He sent us all back with the prefects, and the Professors went to the dungeons.”
“But the troll wasn't in the dungeons,” Harry frowned, confused. “It went to the second-floor bathroom!”
“Maybe it walked there. Who knows? It had two legs after all.” Ron shrugged, not particularly committed.
“Now you mention the Professors went to the dungeons...” Harry thought aloud. “I saw Snape heading straight for the stairs while hearing the troll's footsteps... He just ignored the noise and kept going somewhere.”
“Why didn't he go with the others?” Neville asked, standing and stretching his legs slightly.
“Because he didn't face the troll, that's the point!” Hermione exclaimed, her expression indignant and cheeks slightly flushed. “If he'd had the decency to go after it, maybe Harry wouldn't have been hurt!”
“Dunno... this smells fishy, worse than the chicken coop back home.” Ron said, scratching his chin with a distant, thoughtful look. “He was limping the next day. You didn't see, Harry, 'cause you were in the hospital wing, but he wasn't walking as fast as usual. Looked like he was in pain dragging his leg.”
“I remember!” Hermione said excitedly. “I clearly saw him limping on his right leg. Something got him when he went up the stairs!”
“If it wasn't the troll, what could it be?” Neville wondered, intrigued.
“Dunno, but back to the point, you lot staying there?” Ron asked, looking down the corridor.
“You're mad,” Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes.
“I'll go with Ron,” Harry stood too, smiling. “If he gets hurt, someone needs to bring him back.”
“Harry, you just got out of the hospital wing! Want to go back again?” Hermione gave him a severe look, standing quickly, her expression mixing concern and frustration.
“Don't think there's anything bad, and the more of us, the better, right?” Harry argued, determined.
“Truer words never spoken,” Ron responded, giving Harry a friendly pat on the shoulder as he picked up his bag.
“Coming, Nev?” Ron asked, looking at their friend.
Neville sighed resignedly but nodded.
“Alright, no point staying here alone anyway.” He shrugged. “How long until the stairs change?”
Hermione rubbed her face, letting out a tired sigh.
“Boys,” she murmured, shaking her head in disapproval.
“You coming or not?” Ron asked, already moving away from them and looking at Hermione with a challenging smile.
“Fine!” Hermione surrendered, with heavy steps as she followed the boys down the dark, abandoned-looking corridor.
The group advanced down the dusty corridor.
The further they got from the entrance, the darker and quieter the place seemed. The corridor was long, lined with ancient statues, and the slightly vaulted ceiling increased the oppressive feeling. Various classroom doors were closed, some as old as the castle itself. The sound of footsteps echoed deeply, and the visible tension on every face made it clear no one felt comfortable there.
At the fork, the right corridor ended at a dirty, closed window. The left plunged into darkness.
The silence was broken when, suddenly, two torches lit up on the sides, casting a flickering light on the cracked floor and the cobwebs dominating the ceiling.
The effect was immediate: everyone stopped for a second, eyes wide.
Harry drew his wand as a shield, holding it close to his body.
“Hate spiders, why always spiders? Bloody spiders...” Ron groaned, looking at the ceiling and hunching his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable.
Harry, walking at the front, frowned and pointed to the end of the corridor.
“The corridor ends there?” He narrowed his eyes at the single thick wooden door ahead.
“Maybe the door leads to the stairs,” Hermione suggested, looking at Ron. “Did your brother say if there were other staircases on this floor, Ron?”
Ron hesitated, shrugging.
“Well... he didn't exactly say that, I sort of... assumed,” he replied, his voice shaky as he averted his eyes from the ceiling webs.
Harry stepped forward and tried to open the door.
“It's locked.” He huffed, slightly jiggling the wand in his hand as he thought of a solution.
“Excuse me,” said Hermione, her chin held high, taking the wand from Harry's hand.
With a natural air as if the wand were her own, she performed a practised movement with her hand, as if she were in Professor Flitwick's class.
“Alohomora!” she said in a firm whisper.
Click!
A subtle click sounded from the other side.
“Brilliant, Hermione!” Harry exclaimed, smiling in admiration.
“Thank you, Harry,” she replied with a smile, returning the wand to him.
“Well, never been easier,” Ron sniffed.
Without much thought, Ron pulling the door open, and the group entered.
It was so dark they could barely see anything. An earthy smell mixed with blood assaulted their nostrils, making them wrinkle their noses.
“Am I the only one smelling that?” Neville asked, looking queasy.
Hermione scrunched her nose.
“No, it's properly foul,” she said, crossing her arms as she peered into the enveloping darkness.
“Brilliant... the place reeks worse than a dirty unicorn's arse and there's nothing even—” Ron began complaining.
“Shh! Did you hear that?” Harry whispered.
A low, deep growl reverberated faintly, seeming to come from the far end of the room.
“Heard it too...” Neville murmured quietly.
Ron frowned, confused. “Hear what?”
Before Harry could respond, they all saw it.
An enormous eagle's head emerged from the shadows, the creature's eyes blazing with rage, its size comparable to that of a very tall horse. With a threatening snarl, its wings spread wide, filling the entire room, as it advanced with sharp talons clicking against the stone floor.
“AAAH!”
All four screamed in panic and bolted as fast as they could toward the entrance.
The creature charged after them with terrifying violence.
Harry, who'd been last to leave, felt the cutting wind of its long, sharp claws pass dangerously close to his back.
“SHUT IT!” he bellowed, his voice echoing down the corridor.
The four threw themselves against the door, pushing with all their might, fighting against the weight of the creature forcing its way from the other side. By a hair's breadth, they managed to close it—Ron slammed his shoulder against it, making the wood shudder, but the door still wouldn't latch completely.
“Can't get it shut!” Neville panted, struggling to push the bolt. A stubborn gap remained, just wide enough to keep the lock from clicking into place.
“What do we do?!” Hermione asked, her voice shrill with desperation.
“A bloody spell!” Ron shouted, red-faced from exertion. “The one that locks things! Dunno the name!”
As if his words had triggered an alarm in her mind, Hermione yanked her wand from her pocket in one sharp motion.
“Colloportus!” she exclaimed, flicking her wrist swiftly.
At once, the door locked with a loud, definitive snap, sealing the noisy creature on the other side.
Gasping, the four stumbled back, pressing themselves against the opposite wall, their hearts hammering in their chests.
“Bloody hell... who put that thing in there?” Ron said, his voice breaking as he stared horrified at the door.
Harry, still trying to catch his breath, shook his head.
“Wasn't just a thing... it was a griffin. Pretty sure.” He tried to recall the details in his mind, still breathing heavily. “Given the size... had to be.”
“Why would they have a griffin here? Breeding it?” Neville asked, visibly nervous, his hands and legs trembling.
Hermione, caught between fear and disbelief, looked at the others.
“Didn't you see? There was a trapdoor beneath it!”
“Oh, right,” Ron replied sarcastically, “'cause obviously I was focused on the trapdoor and not the massive claws and beak!” He shook his head. “Why would that matter?”
“Haven't you read Fantastic Beasts? It's a required book,” Hermione retorted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“I-I read some of it,” Neville said, his voice shaky with adrenaline.
Ron clicked his tongue and waved a dismissive hand.
“Haven't even cracked mine open yet,” he grumbled.
“I've read it,” Harry interjected. “But there's like two hundred creatures catalogued—how'm I supposed to remember details about one?”
She rolled her eyes as if this were a stupid question.
“Griffins are known for being excellent treasure guardians,” Hermione said as they began making their way back down the corridor. “It was guarding something under that trapdoor!”
“D'you reckon...” Harry began, his eyes widening as he connected the dots. “They're hiding whatever was taken from the vault!”
“Vault?” the three asked in unison, stopping to stare at Harry.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to recall the details.
“When I went to buy my school things in Diagon Alley with Professor McGonagall and Hagrid, we stopped at Gringotts. After getting everything, we went to a vault. There was a small bag with something inside, really tiny.”
He made a small gesture with his hands to indicate the size.
Hermione frowned. “Harry, people take things from the bank every day—that's not unusual.”
“Did you see the robbery news in the Daily Prophet?” Harry asked.
Neville nodded slowly. “Yeah, everyone did... you think it was that vault?”
“Positive!” Harry said quickly. “The robbery happened on my birthday, July 31st. We took that stuff in the morning, and the robbery was in the afternoon. The vault was already empty because we'd cleared it out. And it was a high-security vault, just like in the article.”
Ron frowned, curious. “What the hell was in there that needed so much security? And why would someone steal it?”
“No idea,” Harry replied, grimacing. “When I asked, they said it was 'Hogwarts business'. Nothing I should worry about.”
When they reached the staircases again, to everyone's surprise, the stairs had returned to their original positions.
Without wasting time, they began climbing quickly.
“D'you reckon Snape—” Ron started, panting from the brisk pace.
“Professor!” Hermione corrected sharply, shooting him a pointed look with her eyebrows raised.
“—got caught by the griffin, then?” Ron continued. “Harry said he saw him going up the stairs, ignoring the troll. What if he wanted to steal whatever's under the trapdoor during all the commotion?”
“Why would you think that?” Neville asked, his face slightly apprehensive. “Not defending him, obviously,” he added quickly, gesturing nervously with his hands.
“Think about it,” Ron paused for a second, scratching his head. “A troll that shouldn't be in the castle just appears out of nowhere... someone must've put it there, right? Doubt that great lump just waltzed in through the front door on its own—from what I heard, it was massive.” He shrugged, giving a small ironic smile.
“They're actually too stupid for that,” Harry added.
Hermione frowned, biting her lower lip slightly as she processed the information.
“So you're suggesting Professor Snape planted the troll as a distraction, to have time to go to the third floor and steal whatever's there? And the griffin slashed his leg in the process?” She finished the sentence in a doubtful tone.
“Makes sense,” Harry murmured, his eyes widening.
Suddenly, an idea seemed to strike him.
“What if he was the one who tried to rob the vault at Gringotts?”
Hermione huffed slightly, crossing her arms.
“Harry, I think you're going too far,” she said, her tone almost clinical. “We don't know any of this for certain. No proof. It's all pure speculation.”
Neville, with a slight smile on his lips, shook his head.
“Isn't that what we've been doing from the start? Speculating about everything?” he asked, his brow furrowed in thought. “After all, we don't know anything for sure... except that we now know there's a griffin in the school.”
“Well, yes, but—” Hermione began, then stopped.
Her eyes wandered to the floor, as if searching for answers in the cold stones.
“I mean, a professor wouldn't steal from his own school... would he?” Her voice wavered at the end, betraying a hint of uncertainty.
Ron let out a sarcastic laugh.
“I wouldn't trust Professor Snape to mow my lawn,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You really think he wouldn't get mixed up in this? He's a Slytherin, after all.”
“Okay, but how can you be so sure the vault was the same one that got robbed later?” Hermione pressed, her eyes fixed on Harry. “Could've been a coincidence.”
“Two reasons,” Harry replied, more serious now. “First, like I said, the vault was already empty. And we left it empty. Second...” He paused, looking at his friends. “Hagrid told me.”
Ron frowned, surprised.
“Hagrid? That massive bloke who lives in the hut outside?” Ron asked, frowning.
Harry nodded. “That's him.”
“Just out of curiosity... how does someone get that big?” Ron pressed, with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “Never seen anything like it.”
Harry scratched his head, trying to recall the explanation he'd heard.
“He's half-giant, if I remember right.”
Ron's eyebrows shot up and he pulled a face, as if he'd just caught a whiff of something foul.
“Blimey... A wizard with a... a giant?” he murmured quietly, horrified.
Neville, who also looked surprised but not as disgusted as Ron, leaned forward slightly.
“It happens, I think,” he said hesitantly.
Hermione arched a critical eyebrow.
“Got a problem with that?” she asked, her voice slightly sharp.
“It's just… weird,” Ron replied, shrugging. “Might be normal for you lot but... dunno.”
He looked at Harry, wanting to return to the subject.
“But why would he tell you that anyway, Harry?” His expression softened slightly. “No offence.”
“None taken,” Harry responded, shrugging. “Actually, he didn't mean to. But Hagrid's rubbish at keeping secrets. He let slip that they took 'that thing' from the vault before the thieves tried to rob it. And he called them idiots for trying.”
Neville scratched his chin thoughtfully. “So he knows what's being hidden.” His eyes shone with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.
“What if we ask him about it?” Ron suggested, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Worst he can do is not tell us.”
“We can try,” Harry said, sighing as they arrived before the Fat Lady's portrait.
They gave the password and entered the Gryffindor common room.
Even so close to curfew, the room was buzzing with life. Students of various ages were scattered about—some scribbling frantically on parchment, others lounging on sofas in relaxed conversation. In the corners, a few couples murmured in private exchanges.
Fred and George were near the fireplace, laughing with Angelina. When they spotted the four entering, they immediately stood up, clapping and whistling loudly.
One by one, the Gryffindor students turned and began applauding too, all eyes fixed on Harry.
Harry froze in place, his face instantly flushing under the attention.
“Look who it is! Harry, the troll-slayer and witch-saver!” one of the twins exclaimed, stepping forward with a mischievous grin, casting a playful glance at Hermione, who averted her gaze, suddenly very interested in her shoes as her face turned scarlet too.
Harry, still stunned, looked around, gaping at the applause, whistles, and cheers coming from the depths of the room.
“What... what's all this?” he asked quietly, addressing the nearest twin.
“Celebration, Harry!” Fred or George—they were dressed identically—replied with a broad grin. “You took on that troll—the whole school knows by now.”
“And we made sure all of Gryffindor knew,” the other added, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Punching Malfoy—”
“—throwing him to the ground and punching him again—”
“—even a kick—”
“—and threatening the little ponce to leave our housemates alone—”
“—you did what everyone's been wanting to do—”
“—but never had the guts,” they finished, exchanging knowing looks.
“But... I lost forty points for that!” Harry whispered, still looking uncomfortable at the smiling students.
“And got fifty back for the troll!” Ron interjected, giving him friendly pats on the back. “You're in the positive, Harry.”
“Fred and I have lost way more points for way less, Harry,” George said, waving it off. “What you did was for a good cause.”
When the applause finally died down, the room's atmosphere returned to normal as the twins casually returned to their seats. Harry, feeling the day's exhaustion weighing on his shoulders, rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.
“I think I'd really appreciate some sleep after all that,” Harry murmured as he began climbing the stairs, his friends following closely.
“Probably for the best,” said Hermione, pressing her lips into a thin line of concern. “So you lot can think properly before making another stupid decision that might get us killed. Or worse, expelled...”
She shot them a sharp look and turned on her heel, marching up the girls' dormitory stairs, her bushy brown hair swaying furiously behind her.
“She really needs to sort out her priorities,” Ron muttered, shaking his head.
Harry and Neville exchanged glances and nodded silently before heading to the boys' dormitory as well.
Upstairs, Harry decided he needed a bath before crawling into bed. With a yawn, he peeled off his crumpled uniform and left it in a corner of the bathroom, his Gryffindor scarf carefully coiled atop the clothes. He stepped under the shower and let the hot water run over his tense shoulders, feeling his muscles begin to relax under the steady stream. When he finished, exhaustion finally hit him full force.
Back in the dormitory, he quickly pulled on his pyjamas and bid goodnight to Ron and Neville. Before drawing his bed curtains, he reached out to stroke Hedwig, who gave his finger a gentle nip—an affectionate gesture from the owl—before settling back into her feathers.
Harry lay down, pulling the covers up to his chin, and stayed there for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the sleeping dormitory: the distant creak of ceiling beams, the low whistle of wind through the windows, and Neville's heavy breathing in the next bed. His thoughts, however, were far from restful.
It was astonishing how quickly things could change—and with such force.
And where to even begin? His mind went straight to his bushy-haired friend with books in her lap.
Hermione.
Despite sometimes being absolutely exasperating with her rule-loving ways and endless corridor lectures, she was also one of the brightest—and after returning to speak with him so attentively and genuinely concerned—people he knew.
Her sudden distance had hurt more than Harry liked to admit, and the fact that he'd never gotten a clear explanation at the time had only made it worse, like a wound he'd been forced to ignore.
But now... now that uncomfortable feeling that had haunted him—a bitter mix lodged between his chest and stomach—had finally dissipated.
Since they'd reconciled, it was as if a shadow had lifted from within him.
He vaguely recalled one of their Charms lessons, when Professor Flitwick, standing atop his usual pile of cushions, had explained something about an invisible plane everyone carried within themselves—something situated between the chest and stomach—where, according to him, auras resided.
Harry hadn't understood much at the time, but now he began to wonder: was it possible that all that discomfort he'd felt looking at Hermione—when they were still at odds—had somehow been affecting his own aura?
Probably. He just couldn't quite explain it, even to himself.
And why did it only happen with her?
That was another question without clear answers.
Harry remembered the lonely days when his only company had been Hedwig.
When he wasn't buried in library books, studying into the late hours, Slytherins would stalk him through the corridors like malevolent shadows. He'd needed an escape—and then Quidditch had emerged as a light at the end of the tunnel. Not just a chance to honour his father's legacy, but also to prove himself to Professor McGonagall, who, against all rules, had put him on the team in first year. It was his opportunity to break free from solitude.
Determined, Harry threw himself into it like never before.
The jealous whispers from other houses—outraged at the exception made for him—only motivated him further. Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Fred, George, and Oliver welcomed him enthusiastically, though Katie and Alicia had kept some distance at first, perhaps because of the rumours surrounding him. But soon, very soon, even they loosened up, teasing and joking with him at every practice until his cheeks burned with embarrassment.
He remembered when Angelina, Katie, and Alicia cornered him in the changing room after practice, while he was finishing getting dressed after his shower.
“Hey, Harry,” Katie said, leaning on her broom with a smile. “Gotta say, you fly well for someone half our size.”
Harry looked up warily. “Was that a compliment?”
“'Course it was,” Alicia replied, tossing a towel over his head. “We just don't get how you don't get blown off your broom in the wind. Do you weigh more than a Knut?”
“I don't—that doesn't even make sense!” Harry protested, emerging from the towel with his hair wilder than ever.
Angelina laughed, brushing past him as she gave his shoulder a light squeeze.
“Relax, it's just envy,” she said. “We've been training for years, and you're already nearly flying circles around us.”
“It's true,” Katie agreed, feigning a dramatic sigh. “Think I might cry. Oliver's gonna replace all of us with a first-year.”
Harry hovered between laughing and blushing, hiding his face as he pulled his jumper over his shirt. “You're all unbearable.”
“Ah, but you love it,” Alicia said, drawing a half-smile from him.
“Did I mention he looks cute when he's flustered?” Katie remarked casually, before the three of them walked off laughing toward the showers.
Harry, flushing more, muttered under his breath about “not being cute” and “girls' nonsense” as he buried his face in his scarf, tightening it around his neck, which only made the girls laugh harder.
Despite the camaraderie, Quidditch wasn't exactly what he'd expected. As Seeker, he spent long periods alone, hovering above the pitch searching for the Golden Snitch, or training separately while the rest of the team pored over strategies under Oliver's relentless command.
“The Seeker's the lone wolf of the team, Harry,” Oliver had explained once, pointing at a diagram full of arrows and scribbles. “No one but you chases the Snitch. It's a unique responsibility.”
And unique was the right word. Oliver was tireless, demanding extra practice rounds even when everyone was exhausted.
“Keep this up, and I'll yank you off your broom before the next match!” Angelina had complained once to Oliver, rubbing her sore arms.
But despite the fun, Harry still felt out of place.
Being the youngest on the team created an invisible barrier. While the others discussed advanced spells or mocked Professor Trelawney's predictions, he could barely keep up. And when Fred, George, and even Oliver shot discreet glances at older girls, Harry would roll his eyes.
“Don't need to be as pathetic as them,” he thought, as Angelina and Alicia whispered about makeup and sighed over some wizard named Gilderoy Lockhart—a famous bloke whose white teeth supposedly sparkled even in photos, according to them.
Harry longed for friends his own age, someone he could talk to without being “the rookie”.
Neville, then, had been an unexpected relief. It all started after a Potions lesson—and, in a way, Harry had Snape to thank for that. If not for the sarcastic professor, they might never have grown closer.
With Neville, conversations were easy, pressure-free. They studied together, laughed at silly things, and for the first time, Harry felt light.
It was different from his friendship with Hermione—more study-focused and mainly concerned with termwork—and also from the one beginning to blossom with Ron, whose unpretentious humour and unfailing jokes made him laugh like no one else.
And suddenly, things seemed to be falling into place. His heart warmed like the blankets enveloping him in bed, and he remembered Hagrid's words:
“Things'll get better with time. Just don' lose heart, eh?”
The half-giant couldn't have been more right.
Turning over in bed, his eyelids heavy, Harry had only one concern left: his detention the next day.
“What's Filch got in store for me?” he wondered, yawning. “Scrubbing toilets? Trimming the hedges?”
Well, only one way to find out.
And really—how bad could it be?
Chapter 9: A Change of Destiny
Chapter Text
The Gryffindor boys' dormitory was wrapped in the kind of deep silence that only exists in the dead hours of night, when even the ghosts seem to rest. The stars still twinkled stubbornly in the night sky, their pale glow filtering through the cracks of the Gothic windows.
Harry was fast asleep in his four-poster bed, tangled in a nest of blankets that shielded him from the biting cold making his ears tingle. The heavy red curtains formed a barrier against the outside world, turning his little space into a padded refuge.
Then, he felt something shaking his shoulder.
In his drowsy stupor, he imagined it was Hedwig—perhaps demanding a midnight snack or displeased about something. But his owl would never wake him for something so trivial... unless it was time to get up, as she was his handy alarm clock, and she knew precisely when to start pecking his fingers to jolt him from sleep so he wouldn’t be late for class.
“Piss off, Hedwig…,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, as he burrowed deeper into his pillow and yanked the blankets over his head.
The shaking, however, grew more insistent, almost frantic, until Harry finally opened his eyes, blinking against the darkness. His bleary vision could barely make out the figure leaning over his bed.
“Harry! Wake up!” The voice was an urgent whisper, laden with that peculiar intensity of someone announcing an emergency.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the fog of sleep, and then saw—with a mix of shock and horror—that it wasn’t Hedwig disturbing him.
It was Oliver Wood, shaking his shoulders with the vigour of a man attempting to revive a corpse.
“O-Oliver…?” Harry spluttered, his mind still clouded with sleep. His eyes darted around the dormitory, searching for his owl. “Why are you in my room? Where’s Hedwig?”
Oliver completely ignored the question, his face alight with near-fanatical determination.
“Forget the owl, Potter! Training time!” he declared, as if announcing a wartime mobilisation.
Harry blinked slowly, as though his brain refused to process the words.
“Uh?” was all he managed.
“Come on, up! Two weeks without training is far too long. We can’t let you go rusty!” Oliver pressed on, his tone suggesting the fate of the world depended on this early-morning practice. “In that time, your muscles have already atrophied and gone lazy, and your broom’s probably forgotten you! We need to train!”
Harry peered around the dark dormitory, where the silence of night was broken only by Ron’s ear-splitting snores. The sound resembled a lumber mill in full swing. Across the room, Seamus was giving him a run for his money—the noise akin to propeller planes circling the dorm.
“Training?” he repeated, scrubbing at his eyes. “What time is it?”
Oliver puffed out his chest proudly, like a general about to lead his troops into battle.
“Half four!” he proclaimed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“HALF FOUR?!” Harry whisper-shouted, hastily adjusting his glasses on his nose. “You’ve gone mad! The whole school’s asleep!”
“Exactly!” Oliver exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with manic enthusiasm. “The pitch is free, no one to get in the way. The air’s fresh, the sky’s still dark but—”
“The sky’s dark because it’s still night!” Harry shot back, though he might as well have been arguing with a brick wall.
Oliver waved a dismissive hand, as though Harry didn’t know what he was on about.
“Ever felt the dawn breeze? It’s invigorating!” the captain countered. “But never mind that—get dressed, let’s go!”
Harry stared at him with an expression caught between disbelief and despair.
“Are you sleepwalking?”
Oliver frowned, scratching his head in confusion.
“No, why?”
“Then it must be some sort of mental illness! Go back to bed,” Harry ordered, pointing at the door. “We’ll talk after breakfast.”
Oliver let out a deep sigh, clearly disappointed by his Seeker’s lack of enthusiasm.
“D’you want to win the Cup this year or not? No time for laziness! Two weeks is an eternity!—Train while they sleep, that’s what I always say—now come on, the team’s already waiting on the pitch.”
Harry seriously doubted that last claim—he knew his teammates well enough to be certain none of them would be daft enough to wake at this hour.
Before he could formulate a proper response—or simply flop back into bed and pretend this was a nightmare—Oliver was already marching toward the door, dressed in his full Quidditch kit as though it were the most reasonable time of day.
Harry let himself collapse back onto his pillow, staring up at the canopy for long seconds as sleep slowly ebbed away, replaced by mounting indignation.
“Half four…,” he muttered to himself, as if repeating the absurdity might somehow make it make sense. “Half—four—in—the—morning… mad Scottish git…”
His eyes flicked to his friends’ closed curtains, blissfully unaware of the chaos. For one tempting moment, Harry considered ignoring Oliver and going back to sleep—but he knew Wood well enough to be sure he’d return, if necessary, to drag him out by his ankles personally—pyjamas and all.
With a sigh dredged from the depths of his soul, Harry buried his face in the pillow.
“There ought to be laws against this…,” he grumbled, mustering the will to face the day—or rather, the night that refused to end.
Moving heavily and clumsily, he began to shift, dragging himself from the warm blankets and finally sitting on the edge of the bed, the shock of the cold drawing a quiet hiss of profanity from him.
His body seemed to protest every motion, muscles still weary and mind sluggish. The idea of facing a Quidditch practice before the sun even rose felt cruel, even by Oliver Wood’s standards.
As Harry shoved his shoes on with as little enthusiasm as possible, the morning chill seeping into his skin, he couldn’t help but think that if this kept up, he might start daydreaming about Oliver being whacked straight in the bollocks by a Bludger. That’d certainly bring some relief.
“Maybe if we pooled some money and paid the twins… reckon an ‘accident’ might do the trick…” he mused as he crept out of the dormitory without a sound.
The sun had not yet fully risen over Hogwarts’ spires when Harry made his way through the silent corridors toward the Quidditch pitch. The quiet was so profound that even Peeves—assuming poltergeists slept—seemed far from his usual mischief.
“At least he won’t show up to bug me this early,” Harry thought, keeping his lips tightly sealed, as if fearing any stray word might summon the troublemaking spirit out of thin air.
His new Gryffindor uniform, received just days ago, fit him perfectly. The short-sleeved scarlet-and-gold jersey bore his surname:
POTTER
In golden letters across the back, the number 7 gleaming faintly under the torchlight. Beneath it, a second, long-sleeved shirt shielded him from the morning chill. The white trousers clung to his legs as standard Quidditch gear did, seemingly tailored for him, and the high-top black boots, fastened with golden clasps, completed the look with a touch of practical elegance.
Harry felt strangely imposing, yet plagued by a nagging doubt.
How could he—the boy who’d always been last picked in his Muggle school’s P.E. lessons—now be one of Hogwarts’ starting players?
It still baffled him that, in just two months, the wizarding world had surprised him more than all his previous years combined.
As he descended the stairs, his thoughts turned to how Quidditch players were viewed—especially through the eyes of the opposite sex.
Wizards from other houses—the older ones, fifth year and up—drew admiring glances wherever they went. It didn’t matter if they wore Slytherin’s green-and-silver, Hufflepuff’s yellow-and-black, or Ravenclaw’s blue-and-bronze. The witches seemed to melt at the sight of them, whether before training—immaculate in their uniforms—or after, sweaty and dishevelled but glowing with post-practice satisfaction.
“Girl stuff,” Harry mused, shrugging.
He got looks too, but not those looks.
The ones directed at him still carried that familiar mix of curiosity and wariness. When he wore his uniform, there might’ve been a hint of pity mixed in—after all, he was still a scrawny first-year next to the older, taller, more muscular players. He’d rather not think about soon being on the same pitch, trying to survive a barrage of Bludgers and ruthless opponents without breaking every bone in his body.
But it wasn’t just the wizards who commanded admiration.
The older witches on the teams had their own devoted followers—and they were far from few. The boys, especially, seemed to leave their brains in the Black Lake whenever one of them passed by, their long hair billowing as they strode like they were on a catwalk.
They acted as if standing before goddesses worthy of worship. And the witches? They didn’t spare those gawkers a single glance, breezing past as if they weren’t worth their time.
Harry had never quite understood it.
Take Hermione—since she was the closest girl he’d had any real contact with—she was nice, sure, but he didn’t see the point of drooling like a hypnotised idiot over her.
Then again, maybe that was because she didn’t have whatever made others go weak-kneed over witches.
Once, in the locker room, he’d overheard Fred and George discussing the "impressive curves” of some rival players, debating whether it was fair to hit them with Bludgers since they might get cross—of course, they’d only said it after Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had left, to avoid certain death.
The twins were just two in a sea of boys who seemed hypnotised by ample backsides, snug jumpers, and challenging smirks. Likewise, when Angelina and the others started going on about toned muscles and older players, Harry preferred to keep a safe distance.
When he stepped out of the castle, heading for the pitch, the biting November cold made him curse the absence of one crucial item.
His fingers burned with the icy chill.
“What I wouldn’t give for a pair of gloves right now…” He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them as he trudged forward, huffing with every gust of wind that lashed at his face.
Harry mounted his broom and—instead of walking like any sensible person would—decided to fly to the pitch to save time. Or maybe just to impress himself.
The dark sky made it hard to see the path clearly, but the towering stands were unmistakable. As he neared the locker room at the base of the pitch, however, muffled arguing reached his ears. Frowning, Harry landed and hurried to the entrance to see what was happening.
Fred and George intercepted him with wide grins and eyes gleaming with pure mischief.
“You’ve got perfect timing, Harry,” said Fred, rubbing his hands together like he was about to witness something spectacular.
“This’ll be good,” added George, jerking his thumb toward the locker room.
Harry peeked inside and saw Angelina Johnson standing there, arms crossed, with an expression that promised imminent violence. Oliver, to his shock, was hiding behind a wooden support beam of the tent, his face as pale as if he’d just spotted a mountain troll in Hagrid’s hut.
“OLIVER!” Angelina’s shout echoed across the silent pitch. “What, in Merlin’s name, am I doing here at HALF FOUR IN THE MORNING?!”
Oliver tried to stand his ground, but Harry noticed his knees trembling slightly.
“Well… we need to be prepared if we want to win the Cup!” he said, overemphasising the word as if it justified dragging the team out for a midnight training session on a Saturday. “It starts with… enthusiasm!”
Angelina scoffed, marching toward him. Oliver retreated further behind the beam, as if hoping the wood might absorb him and save him from her wrath.
“Enthusiasm? ENTHUSIASM?!” Her voice rose with every syllable. “Half four in the morning, in this bloody freezing cold?! You’ve got to be joking! I thought that orb was a reminder for normal training days!”
“It was!” Oliver protested, forcing a desperate smile. “Only… now it also alerts us for extra sessions!”
“THAT’S A RUDDY ALARM CLOCK IN DISGUISE!” She looked ready to hex him on the spot.
Harry, who’d been fighting to keep a straight face, let out a muffled snort—which was all it took for Fred and George to dissolve into laughter before the situation even peaked.
“If you don’t want it anymore, you can give it back—” Oliver tried, pleading.
“Hahaha!” Angelina laughed, hollowly. “Good luck fishing it out of the Black Lake!”
“Blimey, I paid good money for that!”
“TOUGH!” she snapped, eyes blazing. “That’s the price for waking me up in this freezing dawn! Consider it a lesson!”
Oliver, desperate, raised his hands in surrender.
“It’s not even that cold… it’s… bracing! You’re overreacting, Angelina.” His Scottish brogue thickened, as it always did when he was nervous.
She stared at him like she was calculating the best way to launch him off the pitch.
“Bracing? BRACING?!” She took a step forward, and Oliver stumbled back. “It’s NOVEMBER, OLIVER! And you want us training in the dark, freezing, with no bloody common sense?! What progress will that get us?”
Oliver, sweating despite the morning frost, made one last attempt.
“We need to be ready for the match against Slytherin! It’s in days! And we can’t lose… again.” His tone darkened at the mention of their last defeat.
Angelina closed her eyes, breathing deeply like someone counting to ten to avoid murder.
“You know what’s going to happen?” She levelled him with a look, her voice low and dangerously calm. “This time, I’ll let it slide… BUT if you wake me up again, on a Saturday, at four in the morning, in this arctic cold…”
She grabbed his broom, which was leaning against the wall.
“I swear on Merlin’s name, I’ll take this broom and shove it up your arse!”
That was the final straw for Fred and George.
The twins collapsed to the ground, howling with laughter as if they’d heard the world’s funniest joke. Harry, who’d tried to hold it in, doubled over, tears streaming down his face as he braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
Oliver, relieved to still be alive—though visibly traumatised—took a hesitant step forward.
“Er… right, right, got it, Angelina. Let’s… just start training, yeah?”
She threw her hands up in exasperation.
“Someone control these three!” She pointed at Fred, George, and Harry, who were still cackling like hyenas. “And let’s get this over with!”
Katie and Alicia, who’d been watching with deep bags under their eyes, looked too exhausted to even laugh but exchanged knowing smiles before dragging themselves onto the pitch. After all, Katie had spent the night in Astronomy lessons at the highest tower, and Alicia had just finished an endless Potions essay, barely getting any sleep.
Harry finally composed himself, wiping tears of laughter before heading out.
“This training session… is going to be unforgettable,” he muttered, still breathless.
Fred and George sidled up, still snickering.
“If Oliver keeps this up,” said Fred, eyes gleaming, “Angelina’s gonna do more than threaten.”
“Might wake up with a broomstick somewhere… and not how he’d like it,” added George, the two exchanging wicked grins.
The training that frosty morning was a complete disaster.
Fred and George could barely focus between uncontrollable laughter and terrible jokes to lighten the mood, Katie and Alicia were so exhausted they nearly dozed off mid-flight, and Angelina took every chance to pelt Oliver with powerful Quaffle throws.
But for Harry, it was one of the most lighthearted sessions he’d ever witnessed. Even in the biting cold, with the pitch shrouded in thick mist, nothing could extinguish the warmth of their laughter—after all, it was better to laugh than cry. And in a way, he’d done well, despite two weeks without practice.
If this was “enthusiasm,” Harry thought, maybe it was worth it.
The team had been in the air for nearly two hours now, their stomachs growling violently from lack of a proper breakfast.
Sweat and exhaustion mingled with November's biting cold, and a faint mist formed with every breath. Oliver, as ever, was determined to ensure perfect synchrony for their match against Slytherin at month's end.
His assessment, however, remained unchanged: “It's decent, but you can do better.”
Though this time, he'd praised Angelina's performance more than usual—not that it stopped her from shooting him smouldering glares, clearly still furious about being dragged to dawn training on a weekend.
Once they'd all showered in the team's locker room, the seven players regrouped in the nearly empty Great Hall—typical for a Saturday this early.
The cold seemed to stalk them even indoors. Harry shivered, noticing he wasn't the only one affected. The nearby fireplace, its flames leaping waist-high, barely warmed his fingers, which felt more like blocks of ice. Without delay, he piled his plate with eggs and bacon and poured himself a generous mug of steaming tea.
After breakfast and bidding farewell to the team, Harry headed to Mr Filch's office.
The caretaker, notorious for his cantankerous demeanour and perpetual scowl, seemed to hold no fondness for any student, treating all with a brusqueness that bordered on—and often crossed into—outright contempt. Accompanied by his ever-faithful cat, Mrs Norris, he became something of a spectral, intimidating presence at Hogwarts.
Harry knocked.
“Enter...” came Filch's drawn-out voice from within.
The moment the door opened, a potent musty dampness assaulted Harry's nostrils, nearly making him grimace. The office was, at best, bizarre and mildly terrifying. Chains and manacles dangled from the walls, and a large blackened wooden cupboard stood near the back.
Filch sat at an ancient desk, scribbling on parchment. The scratch of his quill was the only sound breaking the oppressive silence. Mrs Norris, with her bulging eyes and skeletal frame, watched Harry from the desktop.
“Mr Filch?” Harry called hesitantly from the doorway.
“Ah, Mr Potter,” the old caretaker sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “Come to serve your detention, have you?”
He arched a brow, revealing a ghastly, gap-toothed grin as Mrs Norris fixed Harry with her penetrating stare.
Harry cleared his throat, steadying himself.
“Erm... yes,” he replied, edging toward the desk. “I was told to speak with you about it.”
Filch smirked derisively, as though relishing the situation.
“I've been told what happened—physically assaulting another student warrants proper detentions—though sadly we can't do things the old way anymore, hanging youngsters by their wrists in the Forbidden Forest. That's become... outdated.”
Harry swallowed hard. The thought of spending a night in that haunted forest unsettled him deeply. What sane person would leave students alone there?
“So... what do I have to do?” he asked, hoping to escape as quickly as possible.
“I've picked out a nice bit of work for you. Very satisfying.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Your detention starts with me tonight, after curfew.”
Filch leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously.
“Spoils the fun to say what it is beforehand... best you just meet by that painting at midnight. I'll take you where you need to go.”
Midnight? What on earth could possibly require him to be out of the common room at that hour? And how was this even allowed?
Arguing with the caretaker seemed unwise—it might worsen things, and his record was already spotty after the Malfoy and troll incidents.
“Alright,” Harry replied with a shrug. “Can I ask something?”
Filch arched a brow, feigning curiosity.
“What was Draco Malfoy's detention?” Harry ventured, steeling himself.
“Ah... Mr Malfoy?” Filch pondered a moment. “Had to scrub a locked dungeon room the old-fashioned way—no magic, just mops and rags.”
Harry wasn't sure if that was better or worse than whatever awaited him. The dungeons were grim regardless. But still—Malfoy scrubbing floors as punishment, while he'd be meeting Filch at midnight for Merlin-knew-what?
“Was that all?” Filch cut through his thoughts.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then off with you. I'll expect you tonight... and don't be late, or matters will grow considerably worse,” the caretaker warned as Harry withdrew, an icy shiver trailing down his spine.
Still on that Saturday morning, Harry, accompanied by Hermione, struggled to catch up on two weeks of missed lessons while Ron and Neville worked on their regular assignments. Occasionally Hermione helped them too, though not as often as Harry—she seemed to have made him her priority for obvious reasons.
Later, they made their way to Hagrid's hut in the cold, damp weather—the kind that seeped into your bones and refused to leave. The overcast sky gave a constant sense of moisture, and a thin layer of mist hung over the Hogwarts grounds, shrouding the trees and lake in an almost ghostly veil.
The biting wind whistled through the castle towers, making the students' clothes flap as they walked. Since it was the weekend, no one was required to wear school uniforms.
Harry, wearing the least frayed light grey hoodie he'd inherited from his cousin, adjusted his faithful scarf around his neck, trying to shield his face from the gusts. He glanced back to check if his friends were following. Hermione was right behind him, arms wrapped tightly around herself in a heavy brown jacket, doing everything to stay warm. Ron wore a knitted jumper made by his mother—this time in glaring orange that contrasted sharply with the gloomy surroundings. He walked with hands shoved in his pockets, face scrunched up against the cold. Neville trailed slightly further back, attempting to shield himself from the wind in what appeared to be a dark yellow wool coat slightly too big for him. His face showed worry, but also a determination Harry rarely saw in him.
“You sure he'll be there?” Neville asked, his voice muffled by his coat collar. “I heard Hagrid's out a lot collecting... you know, Forest things.”
“He'll be there, don't worry,” Harry replied. “If there's one thing Hagrid loves, it's good company. Especially with tea and conversation involved.”
Harry knocked on Hagrid's door and immediately heard heavy footsteps approaching from inside.
The door opened to reveal Hagrid who, despite his intimidating size, was illuminated by a warm smile hidden within his thick beard and wild hair. His bulbous nose was red, likely from the hut's warmth, and he wore a dark brown wool jumper that looked incredibly cosy.
“Harry! Good ter see yeh!” he boomed before casting a kindly look at Harry's friends. “Brought company, I see! Brilliant! Come in, come in!” He opened the door wider and stepped back to let them enter.
The four friends crossed the hut's threshold. Harry had visited Hagrid's small home several times before and always found himself fascinated by stories of his Forbidden Forest adventures. He watched Hermione, Ron and Neville's curious eyes scanning the cluttered yet cosy interior.
They were enveloped by the comforting warmth of the hut's crackling fire.
Fang lay by the fireplace but immediately stood and wagged his tail upon seeing Hermione. Unfazed by the dog's size, Hermione began patting his head with a smile. Meanwhile, Harry, Ron and Neville settled at one end of the table.
“You must be Fang, right?” Hermione asked, leaning down to stroke him. Fang responded with a short whine, clearly enjoying the attention.
“You're a big one, aren't you?” she said in a silly voice to the dog as she sat. Fang rested his head on Hermione's lap, making her grimace as drool seeped into her jeans. Still, she just sighed, making the boys laugh.
“So how're things?” Hagrid asked while moving to check the kettle over the fire. “Been worried about yeh, Harry. Right relieved when I heard yeh were alright after all that business... how'd a mountain troll get in the castle, anyway?” The last part seemed more like a reflection than a direct question.
“I'm fine, Hagrid, thanks,” Harry replied, trying to sound reassuring.
“Good ter hear it!” Hagrid exclaimed, bringing the kettle to the table. He then set out teacups and saucers for each of them.
“Know Miss Granger here, o'course,” he continued, giving Hermione a warm look, “but who're you two?”
“Neville Longbottom, sir. Pleasure to meet you,” said Neville with a timid smile.
“Ron Weasley,” the redhead added, slightly more at ease.
Ron had seemed hesitant entering the hut but quickly grew comfortable around Hagrid. It was impossible not to like him, after all.
“Pleasure's mine!” Hagrid chimed, winking. “Any friends o' Harry's are good people in my book, no doubt about that!”
Harry returned his friends' smiles, noticing how welcome and animated they looked.
Hagrid turned toward a counter across the hut. “Got some fresh rock cakes too! I'll just put 'em out.”
Harry exchanged a meaningful look with Ron, Neville and Hermione. He knew exactly what to expect from Hagrid's “rock cakes”, but his friends remained oblivious to the culinary disaster about to unfold.
Hagrid placed a large teapot on the table, then dumped some stone-like cakes onto a plate beside it.
Harry suppressed a grin, nudging Hermione's knee and elbowing Neville in warning. He shot a cautious look at Ron, but the redhead had already grabbed a cake before anyone could intervene.
“Thanks, Hagrid! I'm starving!” Ron exclaimed before enthusiastically biting into the cake.
The moment his teeth met the rock-hard dough, a loud crunch echoed through the hut. Ron froze, eyes widening as he swallowed a groan.
Hermione subtly tugged Harry's hoodie, trying not to laugh.
“D'you think he'll break his teeth?” she whispered.
Neville watched the scene nervously, clutching his teacup with both hands as if for protection.
“Thanks Hagrid, but... think I'll save mine for later,” he murmured anxiously.
As Ron tried disguising his pain from what might've been a cracked tooth, Hagrid carried on obliviously.
“So what brings yeh here on such a chilly day?”
Harry sensed the tension and knew he'd need to tread carefully. He spoke first, trying to sound casual despite his racing thoughts.
“Just came for a chat, really.” He began. “Got out the hospital wing yesterday, and well, we were supposed to go straight to the common room like Professor McGonagall said. But... we had a bit of an adventure last night.” He shot his friends a quick glance, hoping they'd follow his lead.
“Adventure?” Hagrid's bushy eyebrows shot up, interest evident. “What've yeh been up ter?”
Hermione, ever the pragmatist, forced a smile.
“Well, nothing too dangerous, of course...” She tried sounding casual, but Ron's sceptical grunt betrayed disbelief.
Before he could protest, Hermione discreetly kicked his shin, making him wince.
She cleared her throat and continued. “We ended up on the third floor and... saw something... interesting.”
Hagrid frowned, suspicion crossing his features. “Third floor? Yeh know yer not meant ter be there, right?” he said. “Professor Dumbledore made that right clear.”
Neville, sitting in the corner, shifted uncomfortably, trying to appear relaxed. “Yeah, course! Wasn't planned... sort of... accidental. The stairs moved and suddenly we were stuck there.”
“Ah, well that explains it.” Hagrid scratched his beard. “The stairs can be right cheeky, like they've got minds o' their own sometimes. Reckon they do it on purpose.”
“Ron thought there might be another staircase to take us back to the common room. We were already late for curfew...” Hermione looked at Ron, who abandoned his attempts to chew the rock cake with poorly concealed disgust.
“And instead of stairs, we found a bloody great griffin!” Ron exclaimed, still aggrieved by the memory.
Harry felt a shiver down his spine just recalling the griffin, while Hermione looked ready to slap Ron for his lack of subtlety.
“A griffin?” Hagrid asked, concern now evident. “Yeh mean Popcorn?”
“Popcorn?” Ron's eyes bulged incredulously. “Who'd name something like that... that... thing, Popcorn?”
Before he could continue, Harry kicked him under the table, having a very good idea exactly who'd choose such a name. Ron shot him a dirty look, to which Harry responded with an apologetic glance.
Hagrid ignored Ron's comment, continuing with nostalgic warmth.
“Me, o'course! Needed a name, didn't he? Popcorn's special. Saw him hatch from the egg meself, tiny little thing.” He gestured with his hands, almost paternal. But his expression soon turned serious again. “But he wouldn't've been friendly ter yeh—not his nature when he's guardin' somethin'. Doesn't change that yeh shouldn't've been there.”
The friends exchanged glances—Hagrid was terrible with secrets. Luckily he didn't seem to notice his slip-up.
“He made that pretty clear with the welcome we got...” Neville remarked, swallowing hard.
“The thing is...” Hermione said, carefully choosing her words. “I saw a trapdoor... right under Popcorn. And everyone knows griffins famously guard treasure, like you said.”
Hagrid huffed, shifting uncomfortably.
“Listen, whatever's down there ain't yer business.” He tried dissuading them. “Professor Dumbledore knows what he's doin', an' yeh should trust him.”
“And we do,” Harry replied quickly. “It's just... I remember you and McGonagall collecting something from a vault on my birthday—same one that got broken into at Gringotts later. Someone's trying to steal whatever it is!”
Hagrid gave a short laugh, waving his hand dismissively as he held his teacup. “Good luck ter 'em, I say! Hogwarts' security'd make Gringotts jealous. Yeh don't need ter worry 'bout it.”
Hermione, seizing the moment, leaned forward slightly. “You know more about magical creatures than anyone, Hagrid, right?”
Hagrid shrugged. “Well, I know a thing or two... dealt with my fair share.”
“In that case, you must know how dim mountain trolls are. How'd one get into Hogwarts and wander the corridors alone?” She petted the now dozing Fang beside her.
Hagrid scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Yeah, no one's quite figured how it got in...”
“So someone could've brought the troll in on purpose, right?” Hermione raised an eyebrow.
Hagrid narrowed his eyes at her, growing suspicious.
“Right...”
“Meaning,” Hermione pressed on, “someone might be trying to steal what you brought from Gringotts, using the troll as a distraction.”
Harry, anxious, leaned forward. “Someone wants to steal whatever's under that trapdoor, Hagrid! If you can't tell us, fine, but at least warn someone!”
Hagrid hesitated, his gaze shifting between the four. He sighed deeply before speaking.
“Look, everythin's fine, no need ter fret. An' if yeh must know, best not meddle with Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel's business.”
The name landed like a stone. The four exchanged confused glances.
“Nicolas Flamel?” Hermione repeated, leaning further forward, curiosity overflowing.
Hagrid seemed to realise he'd said too much.
“I shouldn't've said that...” he muttered.
He stood abruptly, pretending to busy himself at the counter.
“Don't ask me more 'bout it, alright? I... just remembered me jam needs tendin', that's it!” he said, terrible at excuses. “Best get back ter the castle 'fore the weather turns.”
Harry knew they'd hit a dead end. He stood, giving his friends a meaningful look.
“Alright, Hagrid. We'll go.”
The others followed, the silence between them heavy with unanswered questions.
“Thanks for the tea, Hagrid,” Hermione said, trying to ease the tension.
“Pleasure seein' yeh,” Hagrid smiled, though worry was plain in his eyes as he saw them out.
Once outside, Ron finally broke the silence.
“Nicolas Flamel? Who's that?”
“No idea,” Harry frowned. “But he's connected to whatever's under that trapdoor.”
Hermione was already strategizing. “The library must have something. I'll start researching.”
Neville, quiet until now, spoke up nervously.
“D'you think it might be really dangerous?” He shuddered. “Even Hagrid wouldn't talk about it...”
Harry, despite his doubts, felt determined. “I don't trust Snape. Something's going on, and I want to know what.”
Ron was muttering to himself, low enough that Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"What?" She asked.
“Think I broke my tooth,” he said, probing his mouth with a finger.
They had to stop by the hospital wing to fix it.
The afternoon in Hogwarts' library dragged with the peculiar slowness of a homework-laden day. Harry rubbed his tired eyes and stared at the stack of parchment still awaiting completion.
Explaining how to transfigure a table into a pig proved far more complicated than actually performing the magic, and he hadn't even started the endless History of Magic essay on Circe—who oddly favoured turning sailors into swine—or his potions report on the side effects of pig kidneys in healing draughts.
“Why is everything about pigs today?” he wondered as he wrote.
Across the table, Hermione flipped through book after book with fierce determination, her brown eyes gleaming under the soft glow of floating candles.
The silence between them was comfortable, broken only by the faint whisper of turning pages. Their chosen table stood at the library's heart, overlooking both the Restricted Section and Madam Pince's desk.
As hours passed, Hermione's frustration became evident. She turned pages with unnecessary force, her once-focused face now pinched in irritation.
“Nothing! There's nothing here!” She slammed the book shut with a dull thud that made Madam Pince snap her head up furiously from across the room. “Who is this Flamel? If he's important enough to work with Dumbledore, there should be some mention of him!”
“Shhh!” the librarian hissed.
Hermione shrunk back and resumed silent reading.
When they finally decided to return to Gryffindor Tower, Harry felt nearly palpable relief. The common room's roaring fire and lively chatter provided a welcome contrast to the library's austere silence. Neville, Ron, Seamus and Dean were playing Exploding Snap by the hearth, laughter erupting whenever a card detonated, leaving someone's face sooty.
To Harry's surprise, it was Seamus who waved them over.
“C'mon, Harry! Hermione!” he called with an easy grin.
Hermione declined with a polite nod, preferring to sink into a nearby armchair with one of her borrowed books. Harry, however, gladly accepted. It was a pleasant change. He hadn't interacted much with Seamus and Dean, but with Ron as relaxed as ever, any lingering tension dissipated like smoke—the sort of casual friendship where you occasionally joined in without commitment. Soon, Harry was laughing loudly and even winning three out of five games, earning an approving smirk from Ron.
As night deepened, yawns grew frequent. One by one, the boys retired until only Harry and Hermione remained. Exhaustion weighed on Harry like an invisible cloak—between the brutal 4:30 AM Quidditch practice and his impending midnight detention, he was running on fumes.
When he mentioned this, Hermione—stubborn as ever—refused to bed down before him.
“I'll stay until you need to go,” she said simply.
“You should get some sleep, Hermione,” Harry croaked, his voice rough with fatigue. Now he fully understood Angelina's earlier fury. If Oliver appeared at that moment, Harry wouldn't hesitate to shove a broomstick up his arse for that insane dawn training.
Hermione, however, crossed her arms and fixed him with a no-nonsense stare.
“Don't even think about it. I'm not letting you wait alone. Rest if you want, I'll wake you when it's time.”
Harry sighed in resignation, knowing argument was futile.
“Alright, but if you get tired, just wake me early,” he replied, not wanting to burden her.
“I won't. Sleep, I'll wake you later.”
Harry merely nodded and leaned back into the sofa, the fire's warmth wrapping around him like a blanket. His muscles felt leaden, and before he knew it, his eyes slipped shut, exhaustion finally overwhelming him.
“Harry...”
A soft voice and gentle shake roused him. Hermione leaned over, calling him carefully.
“Harry... it's time.”
He blinked, disoriented, as the common room gradually swam into focus. Hermione watched him with an understanding smile, though her eyes held quiet concern.
“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, rubbing his face. “But you should sleep... must be as knackered as I am.”
Hermione tilted her head, her smile softening.
“I will... goodnight, Harry.”
“Night, Hermione... don't expect me at breakfast,” he joked, masking weariness with humour.
Hermione gave a quiet laugh that seemed to lighten the heavy air around them.
“Wouldn't dream of it,” she replied with levity.
As Harry walked out, he felt her gaze still on him before the door closed.
Harry couldn't explain the feeling, but there was something strangely comforting about Hermione, Neville and Ron's company. Despite their friendship being so new, he already felt they were the best companions he'd ever had—as melancholy as that sounded, given his lonely years with the Dursleys.
He pushed these thoughts aside as he adjusted his scarf, deliberately leaving one end longer out of habit—this time trailing behind.
The corridor sent shivers down his spine. Deserted, with only Filch's distant lamp casting eerie shadows on stone walls. The caretaker, with his sallow skin and straggly hair, looked like a nightmare spectre refusing to fade.
“You're a minute late,” Filch rasped, as Mrs Norris gave a hoarse mewl at his feet, her eyes gleaming malevolently.
“Sorry, Mr Filch,” Harry replied, steadying his voice. “Had to tie my shoe before leaving.”
Filch stared directly at Harry's feet, eyes narrowing.
“Your shoes don't have laces!” he crowed triumphantly.
“Said I tied my shoes, not that I was wearing them. There's a difference,” Harry retorted sarcastically, feigning innocence with pursed lips.
Exhaustion and irritation had eroded any fear of the caretaker—why did he have to serve detention at midnight?
Filch snorted, his face twisting in disgust.
“Ill-mannered brats...” he muttered before turning heel. “Follow me.”
Their footsteps echoed oppressively through darkened corridors. Wind howled outside, its whistles carrying malicious whispers. Harry quickened his pace, fighting growing unease. The castle at night felt entirely different.
More... sinister.
Even the ghosts who usually roamed seemed friendlier than the stretching shadows.
They were heading toward the castle exit, and Harry's stomach knotted. Memories of Filch's tales of old punishments resurfaced as he swallowed dryly.
“Where are we going?” he asked, feigning calm. Cold seeped into his clothes, his breath's vapour accentuating the moment's silent dread.
“You're assisting Hagrid tonight,” Filch replied with cruel satisfaction. “He's got... tasks to handle, and you'll help.”
The lantern in his hand swung, its glass clinking unnervingly.
The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, darker than ever. Harry wouldn't lie—fear prickled his spine. Only Hagrid's presence made this bearable.
“At least I'm not alone...” he thought.
By day, the forest already seemed a place where nightmares took form. At night... it was something else entirely. The air felt heavier, thick with unseen dangers.
“What would Hagrid need to do at midnight?” Harry murmured, more to himself.
“You'll see with him... No more questions.” Filch snapped sharply. “Just delivering you. Insufferable children...” he grumbled as Mrs Norris mewled in eerie agreement.
When they reached Hagrid's hut, Filch knocked forcefully and stepped back, his lantern casting grotesque shadows. The door swung open to reveal Hagrid aiming his crossbow at the entrance, his face grim and almost unrecognisable in the flickering light.
Harry froze at Hagrid's uncharacteristically dark expression. Fang growled low beside him, equally alert. Distant howls pierced the icy air, making Harry shiver. Wind tousled his hair and made his scarf flutter like a tattered banner.
Hagrid blinked in recognition and lowered his weapon.
“Oh... it's you, Filch,” he said, though tension lingered in his eyes.
“Brought the boy for detention,” Filch announced, thrusting his lantern toward Harry's face as if exposing him.
Hagrid stared at Harry, confused.
“Harry? What're yeh doin' here this late?”
“Struck another student—that Slytherin ponce,” Filch answered with sadistic glee.
Hagrid shot Filch a concerned look, stepping closer.
“When yeh said yeh had a student ter help, I thought yeh meant a sixth year!” Hagrid exploded. “He's just a kid, Filch! What's he doin' out here?”
“You know how it is, Rubeus. The sixth year... got caught with a witch, or his 'friend' apparently, in my broom cupboard in the hallway. Disgusting, youth these days...” he muttered.
Filch jerked his head at Harry.
“This one hit someone—worse offence than swapping spit, I'd say.” His smirk was vile.
“Next time, bring an older student,” Hagrid said darkly. “Kids shouldn't be in the forest this late.”
“That's what everyone says now. Punishments were harsher in my day,” Filch waved dismissively.
Harry swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably as his breath fogged in the cold.
Filch turned to Harry, eyes glinting maliciously.
“Good luck, Mr Potter...” With a crow-like cackle, Filch retreated toward the castle, Mrs Norris slinking beside him like a shadow.
A chill ran down Harry's spine as he faced the forest's vast darkness. What in Merlin's name would Hagrid need to do at midnight? And why must he be involved?
“Bloody hell...” Harry gritted his teeth. “Malfoy just had to scrub a room!”
He omitted that it was in the dungeons, but that detail hardly mattered—Malfoy was safely indoors mopping floors while he stood armed beside Hagrid in the dead of night.
The half-giant sighed, lips pursed.
“Look, Harry, it's nothin' terrible, alright? Nothin' ter worry about.” He handed Harry a lantern. “Follow me. I'll explain on the way.”
Harry cast one last glance at the distant, shadow-cloaked castle. What once seemed cold and intimidating now felt safe compared to the forest. Following Hagrid and Fang, they passed the hut's path leading straight into the trees. Nervousness washed over Harry as the forest closed around them like a living prison. Starlight barely penetrated the dense canopy.
Hagrid marched ahead, his heavy footsteps echoing as he carried his massive crossbow in one hand and a swaying lantern in the other, casting dancing shadows. Fang trotted beside him while Harry, heart pounding, struggled to keep pace. The forest's silence, broken only by wind rustling leaves, created a ghastly atmosphere.
“We're doing a night patrol through the forest,” murmured Hagrid, his deep voice like muffled thunder in the silence. “Strange things have been happening round here, always at these late hours.”
Harry, trying to maintain composure, watched Hagrid step over a gnarled, twisted root. He heard rustling in the bushes to their left—the sound of something moving, watching.
Hagrid raised his crossbow and Harry moved behind him.
A rabbit darted out, scurrying past.
Harry relaxed his shoulders while Hagrid simply kept walking.
“What sort of... strange things?” Harry asked, trying to mask the tremor in his voice. He didn't want to seem weak, but the surrounding darkness felt suffocating.
Hagrid sighed heavily.
“Remember our talks about unicorns?” he asked.
“Yes, I remember bits,”
“That's the trouble...” Hagrid said grimly.
Harry arched an eyebrow.
“How d'you mean?”
“Somethin's killin' the unicorns. A centaur mate o' mine warned me the herd near the border's moved into Hogwarts territory, an' somethin's started pickin' 'em off... Poor creatures.”
Unicorns?
The thought made Harry's blood run cold. He remembered reading about them one night before bed—pure creatures, the embodiment of innocence in the wizarding world.
And now they were being hunted.
“What's killing them? And why?”
“Good question, that's why we're here, eh?” Hagrid remarked. “Ter find answers.”
They walked for a long while at a steady pace, Hagrid leading him along various routes he knew well.
“So about those centaurs...” Harry tried changing the subject. “They live round here?”
“Oh, aye,” Hagrid replied, his voice respectful. “But they're private, keep ter themselves. Live deep in the forest, but don't much care fer humans. Not that they're dangerous, mind, just prefer their own company.”
"Something that doesn't seem dangerous here looks... odd. They don't attack anyone?"
“Nah, not if yeh don't give 'em reason ter attack or offend 'em,” Hagrid answered, staying alert.
As they ventured deeper, Harry strained to see ahead, his lantern casting flickering light over the uneven ground.
Then something caught his attention.
An unnatural shadow—a colour that didn't belong. A flash of snow-white amidst the darkness.
“Hagrid, there's something over there,” Harry whispered, fear tightening his throat.
Hagrid stopped, his gaze narrowing.
“Stay close,” he murmured, moving slowly toward the shape Harry had indicated.
As they approached, a chill seized Harry's body.
What he saw made his stomach lurch. On the ground, lying on its side, was the body of a unicorn, its white coat gleaming in the moonlight, its neck oozing a viscous, silvery liquid. Its eyes, open and frozen in a final moment of terror, stared blankly. Its slightly parted mouth seemed to silently scream for the life that had been torn away.
“Morgana's curse...” Hagrid muttered, his normally warm face now grave.
He knelt beside the creature, gently running a hand along its neck as silver blood coated his fingers.
“Still fresh... Looks like it's been sucked dry, like a vampire would... This is worse'n I feared.”
Harry fought the urge to look away.
Something was terribly wrong.
“What does this mean?” Harry said quietly, barely above a whisper, struggling to keep the lantern steady despite his trembling hands.
“Unicorn blood...” Hagrid began, looking at Harry with a seriousness he'd never seen before. “It's the purest there is, but... usin' or drinkin' it curses yer life. Whoever did this... they're desperate.”
Harry vaguely remembered a passage from Fantastic Beasts.
“Whoever drinks unicorn blood will stay alive, even if an inch from death... but they pay a terrible price, right?” he murmured, completing Hagrid's thought.
“Aye. A half-life, cursed forever,” Hagrid looked around as if expecting the forest to reveal more dark secrets.
He then bent down, picking something up near the unicorn's body.
“An' what's this?” he murmured, his voice thick with suspicion.
Harry leaned in to see better.
Amidst the leaves and dirt, a scrap of black fabric clung to the vegetation, torn as if ripped away forcefully. The cloth shimmered in the lantern light—evidence of something, or someone, that had passed through.
The sight made Harry's stomach drop. Whoever had been here, hunting unicorns, was still lurking nearby.
Hagrid stood, his eyes darkening with worry. “This ain't good, Harry... not good at all.”
Harry swallowed hard, his mind racing to process the surrounding darkness.
He glanced uncertainly at the scrap of silk Hagrid held.
“It was a wizard who did this, wasn't it?” he whispered hesitantly. He couldn't imagine any forest creature wearing something as refined as silk.
Hagrid nodded grimly.
“Reckon so... no ordinary creature could catch a unicorn, they're wicked fast. Whatever killed this one's gotta be... clever an' sneaky.”
Before Harry could ask more, Hagrid held the fabric out to Fang.
“Here, Fang, whose scent is this?” The dog sniffed intensely at the cloth, then began urgently scenting the ground.
“He's got a trail,” Hagrid said tightly. “C'mon, Harry. Stay close.”
Harry's heart pounded as he followed Hagrid closely. The giant hooked the lantern to his belt, gripping his crossbow with both hands. The forest seemed to grow more oppressive, and Harry, sensing danger, instinctively drew his wand, clutching it tightly.
The forest's silence, broken only by Fang's sniffing, amplified the tension. A shiver ran down Harry's spine, cold seeping into his bones, erasing any prior fatigue. Every fibre of his being was on high alert.
If this was what Hagrid called “nothin' terrible,” Harry didn't want to imagine what “somethin'“ would entail.
Adrenaline coursed through him, his senses razor-sharp. He began doubting whether Hagrid's crossbow would be enough protection—it held just one shot. If he missed, they might not live to tell the tale. Especially since Harry knew precious few defensive spells.
Suddenly, Fang stopped, his hackles rising before emitting a deep growl that echoed through the trees.
The sound was a warning, as if he'd sensed something foreign in the forest.
Then, without warning, Fang bolted into the undergrowth, barking with such urgency that Harry's heart leapt to his throat.
“C'mon!” Hagrid barked, his voice rough with tension. “Fang's found somethin'!”
Hagrid quickened his pace, his massive frame moving with surprising agility. He gripped the crossbow tightly as the lantern swung from his belt.
Harry struggled to keep up, his shorter legs working double-time, senses on high alert as he tried ignoring the mounting fear making his palm sweat around his wand.
The forest seemed to close in further, shadows taking shapes Harry dared not imagine. Every snapped twig or rustled leaf conjured images of lurking creatures. Fang's barking ahead was his only tether to focus.
“Who could do something like this?” Harry thought, pushing away darker notions.
Slain unicorns, silver blood... what kind of wizard was capable?
Cold sweat trickled down his neck as he tightened his wand grip, pulse racing, trying to recall any useful spells. But what if it was something darker than a wizard? Something his wand couldn't fight?
Hagrid stopped abruptly, raising a hand to signal Harry.
They'd reached a small clearing where the silence was so thick Harry heard his own heartbeat. Fang stood ahead, growling continuously at something in the shadows, his neck fur bristling.
Harry swallowed hard, peering into the darkness that seemed to coalesce into suffocating blackness.
Fear swelled within him until something took shape ahead.
Crouched grotesquely over another dead unicorn was a hooded figure, feeding on the silvery blood like a vampire, a parasite.
The nauseating sight choked Harry with a sudden adrenaline surge.
What the hell was that? His stomach twisted as his hands trembled.
Before he could react, Hagrid's heavy hand gripped his shoulder.
“Who's there?” Hagrid boomed, his deep voice echoing.
His tone was firm, but Harry detected rare concern.
The hooded figure raised its head slowly with inhuman movement.
Harry's scar burned like hot iron, making him clutch his forehead.
The creature's face remained hidden, but its aura of malevolence was palpable—a radiating evil so profound Harry wanted to flee. A thin, disturbing hiss escaped its unseen lips, chilling Harry to the core.
Fang whimpered in pure terror and bolted into the trees.
Hagrid had said he was a coward.
Harry barely processed Fang's flight when the creature began floating toward them.
Bony hands emerged from the black robes, reaching sinisterly. The cloak billowed as if shadows themselves were its extension.
“BACK!” Hagrid roared furiously.
He raised the crossbow determinedly, aiming squarely at the creature. Harry felt the tension in Hagrid's heavy breathing, but the thing didn't even acknowledge the threat.
It kept advancing, floating like a spectre of death.
Hagrid, finger on the trigger, squinted to aim—but before he could fire, two enormous figures emerged from the shadows.
They were nearly Hagrid's size, their forms outlined in the faint light. Human torsos topped powerful equine bodies, hooves planted firmly.
Centaurs.
Brandishing ornate spears, they positioned themselves between Hagrid and the creature with a thunderous cry that shook the forest.
The hooded figure emitted another hiss, sharper and more desperate this time, before retreating into the darkness with supernatural speed, leaving only the whisper of fluttering robes.
Following would be impossible.
Harry's breathing was ragged, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Adrenaline still pulsed through him as he tried processing what he'd witnessed.
The shadows seemed darker, more oppressive, as if the forest itself conspired to keep them in darkness. He looked to Hagrid, who sighed and relaxed his tense shoulders in relief.
“Yeh alright, Harry?” Hagrid's gruff voice broke the silence, thick with concern.
“Yeah... I'm alright,” Harry replied with a lump in his throat.
His gaze quickly fixed on the two imposing figures who turned toward them.
The younger one had long blond hair that shimmered in the pale moonlight, his light blue eyes reflecting a calm Harry didn't feel. The other, with tight black curls, wore a stern expression, the tension in his posture visible as if ready to attack at any moment. Both had powerful equine bodies with chestnut coats.
“Hello, Rubeus,” the blond centaur spoke with icy calm, his hand still firm on the spear. Though he appeared relaxed, the tension in his muscles was evident.
“Firenze!” Hagrid laughed nervously, clearly relieved. “Thanks for that. Nearly gave me a heart attack! And Bane, good ter see yeh too.” He waved at the other centaur, who only responded with a severe look.
“Who's this?” Bane cut in coldly, his voice almost disdainful as he pointed at Harry with a piercing stare. “We don't accept outsiders on this side of the forest, gamekeeper, and you know that.”
Harry's stomach churned. He swallowed dryly, still feeling the remnants of adrenaline coursing through him.
“Introduce yourself, human,” Bane growled.
“S-sorry,” he stammered. “I'm Harry... Harry Potter. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Harry Potter?” Firenze repeated, exchanging a glance with Bane, who shrugged indifferently. “You're the human who defeated Voldemort, correct?”
Hagrid visibly flinched at the name, but Harry held his gaze steady despite his discomfort.
“Yeah... that's me,” he murmured, his eyes blinking nervously between Hagrid and the centaurs.
The air felt heavier, charged with invisible tension.
“Apologies fer the rudeness,” Hagrid muttered, not hiding his embarrassment. “Harry, these are Firenze an' Bane, two centaur friends. They're the ones who warned me 'bout the unicorns.”
“Unicorns that keep dying because of that... thing,” Bane snarled, stepping closer to the dead unicorn's body. His eyes, full of contempt, fixed on the slain creature. “Another one gone to his greed. We can't catch him like this—not even the Guardian is that fast, and she can't approach such concentrated dark force.”
Harry blinked. Whoever this Guardian was, she sounded important.
Bane looked at Firenze, his expression hardening.
“Come, Firenze. We must continue. They know the way back.”
Firenze, however, ignored his companion.
He approached Harry, his steps slow and deliberate as if studying the boy.
Harry felt his body stiffen—the centaur seemed larger and more imposing with each second, easily towering over two meters tall. Firenze's eyes locked onto his, seeming to search beyond the surface.
Harry tried to look away, but it was useless. It felt like Firenze could see into his very soul.
The centaur arched his eyebrows in surprise, then quickly turned to Bane, murmuring something in their language—a combination of whistles and guttural sounds Harry couldn't comprehend.
“K'rathis, ilun marag êhnar vel ornân, varon shan var kharûh, Mêrlyin illen,” Firenze said quietly.
Bane frowned in disbelief.
“Sha'lan? Ner sathar vos!” he retorted incredulously.
Firenze gestured toward Harry, his eyes still fixed on the boy.
“Rethra zhen sorí aran'thar, vaylûk isos eilûn shan velûm...”
Harry had no idea what they were saying, but the intensity of their exchange made his heart race anew.
Bane, still suspicious, approached Harry, his appraisal far less subtle than Firenze's. Their eyes met briefly, and Harry saw the same flash of surprise in Bane's gaze.
The two centaurs exchanged looks, then raised their eyes to the starry sky. They knew something.
Hagrid shrugged at Harry's confused expression and motioned for him to stay quiet.
“The planets,” Firenze finally broke the silence, his voice grave and distant. “The destiny truly shifted that night. Your presence here proves it.”
Harry blinked, perplexed.
“What do you mean, sir?” He tried keeping his voice calm despite the growing discomfort in his chest.
“Come, Firenze! This isn't our concern!” Bane snapped, frustration evident. “How many times must I repeat myself?”
Firenze looked at the ground, his eyes half-closed in contemplation.
“They... asked us not to tell you. You don't need to know this yet, human.” His voice sounded distant.
He stepped back, nodding toward the clearing.
“Return to the castle,” he said pragmatically. “He may still be lurking.”
Harry's confusion intensified. He exchanged a glance with Hagrid, who scratched his head, clearly as bewildered as he was.
“Right, c'mon Harry, best be off.”
As they walked away, once sufficiently distant from the centaurs, Harry broke the silence.
“What was that about?” he asked. “That creature... and what were the centaurs saying? Why couldn't they tell me?”
“Look, Harry, I've no idea...” Hagrid sighed deeply, his face serious. “But that monster... didn't smell right. Weak, starving. Needed unicorn blood for some reason. And the reason's never good, never.”
Harry shuddered. “I felt... like it was pure evil. Like it had an aura of... darkness around it.”
Hagrid snorted, tightening his grip on the crossbow.
“Unicorn blood... only someone truly cursed would do that,” he muttered. “Bloody bastard.”
“It felt more than cursed, Hagrid. It was... repulsive,” Harry tried to explain, but words felt inadequate.
As they trudged back toward the castle, the forest's silence felt heavy and unsettling, almost as if the trees were watching. The air seemed colder, and Harry's mind still reeled from the disturbing images—the malevolent creature feeding on the unicorn's blood, its grotesque approach. He could barely organize his thoughts—the cruel deaths, the forest's oppressive darkness, the centaurs whispering in that strange tongue about Merlin-knew-what. Truthfully, he was exhausted and just wanted it all to be a nightmare, some fabrication of his overtaxed mind.
Fatigue was beginning to overwhelm him. He realized they'd walked an enormous stretch of the forest's interior with Hagrid.
Harry felt the weight of exhaustion settling on his shoulders like a lead blanket. He'd been awake nearly twenty-four hours, and now his body ached—muscles tense, thighs and feet burning from the day's strain, his eyes blinking longer than normal. The adrenaline that had sustained him in the forest was fading, replaced by crushing weariness.
As they approached Hogwarts' gates, Hagrid sighed deeply, his large warm hand resting briefly on Harry's shoulder.
“It's... well past two in the mornin', I reckon,” Hagrid's voice sounded as tired as Harry felt. “Straight ter bed, Harry. An'... remember, don't tell anyone what yeh saw. Don't need gossip 'round the castle 'bout this, could cause trouble.”
Harry nodded, but the weight in his chest persisted.
“Yeah, Hagrid,” he murmured.
Even if he wanted to, he knew he couldn't explain tonight without sounding mad—especially to Hermione, who'd never accept anything less than the full truth.
He simply waved at the half-giant before watching him lumber toward his hut.
Now alone, Harry moved slowly through the cold silent corridors, his lantern swaying, casting elongated shadows on the stone walls. Hogwarts' empty vastness at night was nearly frightening, but Harry was too tired to care.
All he wanted was his cozy four-poster in Gryffindor Tower. When he finally reached the staircase to the common room, a familiar high-pitched laugh echoed through the dark corridor. His heart sank.
“Not now,” he muttered through clenched teeth, irritation rising like lava. “Just what I needed.”
Peeves materialized with a crack, somersaulting through the air with his most malicious grin.
“Ooooh, look who's back from his nighttime adventure!” the poltergeist sing-songed, hovering upside-down before Harry. “Old Four-Eyes himself, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Entertain-Me!”
Harry pressed his lips together and quickened his pace, trying to ignore him.
“Go bother someone else, Peeves,” he grumbled. “Just wanna sleep.”
But Peeves zoomed ahead, blocking his path with a graceful twirl.
“na-na-na, not so fast!” he taunted, doing a midair backflip. “Think I'd let the famous 'troll-slayer' pass without a welcome gift? No chance!”
Before Harry could react, something cold and slimy crashed onto his head, dripping over his glasses and soaking his face and hair.
“MERLIN, NO!” Harry yelled, tearing off his fogged spectacles as thick white foam obscured his vision.
The acrid smell of soap filled his nostrils while bubbles formed on his robes.
Peeves cackled hysterically, spinning like a deranged top.
“Cleaner than a freshly scrubbed gnome!” he squealed with delight. “Looks like someone needed a wash!”
Harry felt anger surge like a volcano.
The day's exhaustion, his frustration with this clown—everything erupted in a burst of fury.
His hands shook as strange magical energy seemed to pulse around him, making the torches flicker. The red aura threatening to intensify around him made his green eyes take on dangerous reddish hues.
“YOU BLOODY INFERNAL MENACE!” Harry roared, punching the stone wall so hard his knuckles ached.
Peeves, who normally feared none but the Bloody Baron, visibly recoiled.
“Such language!” the poltergeist said, pretending to cover nonexistent ears. “Professor McGonagall—”
“FUCK OFF, NOBODY ASKED YOU, YOU INSUFFERABLE GIT!”
Harry took a step forward, his red-tinged eyes blazing through the foam. Peeves began slowly fading into the wall.
“Well... my work here is done,” he said, his voice losing some cheer. “Sweet... sudsy dreams!”
With a final twirl, he vanished down the corridor.
“GO TO HELL!” Harry shouted at the emptiness, still shaking with rage.
Taking deep breaths to calm himself, his aura began stabilizing as he looked at his drenched robes. The sticky foam dripped onto the stone floor, forming small white puddles.
“Brilliant,” he muttered sarcastically. “Now I need another five-year bath instead of five minutes.”
Groping through dark passages, he finally reached the common room, gave the correct password to the Fat Lady, and stumbled into the Gryffindor bathroom.
The hot water helped wash away not just the foam—which, as Harry predicted, was stubborn—but also some of his anger. Yet even under the soothing stream, his mind kept churning through the day's events—the insane dawn training, the hours lost in detention, and now this.
Clean and dressed in dry pajamas, Harry quietly ascended to the dormitory. Hedwig's perch was silent, the owl sleeping deeply with her head tucked under a wing. Moving slowly, Harry collapsed onto his bed with a sigh that seemed to come from his soul's depths.
His final effort was closing his bed's curtains, which felt Herculean.
His muscles ached as if he'd wrestled a dragon, and his eyes burned with exhaustion. As comforting darkness enveloped him, his last conscious thought was a solemn vow:
If Oliver Wood dared drag him to another dawn training session, Harry silently swore he'd help Angelina with whatever she needed—Slytherin match or not.
And what a match it promised to be.
The entire castle seemed to vibrate with peculiar electricity since the game was announced. Even the ghosts whispered about it, and Harry had seen Ravenclaws making secret bets in the corridors. There was something in the air—something beyond the usual Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry—that made Harry's neck hairs stand up.
Whatever was coming, he'd need to be ready. But for now, as his body finally relaxed and his mind surrendered to sleep...
Chapter 10: When the Lions Face the Serpents
Chapter Text
The Gryffindor boys' dormitory was wrapped in rare peace. Golden sunbeams filtered through the high windows, painting luminous patterns on the four-poster beds. The distant song of the Black Lake’s birds barely disturbed the morning quiet.
Harry lay face-down on his bed, exactly as he’d collapsed onto it hours earlier in utter exhaustion.
The only change in his position was the thin duvet now covering his head, leaving just a small gap for his ragged breathing. His feet, still clad in striped socks, were exposed to the air, but the sun’s warmth kept the chill at bay. A soft snore—unusual for Harry—echoed into his saliva-damp pillow. Whether his dreams were haunted by shadows of the Forbidden Forest he’d visited the night before, no one could say. His brain seemed so exhausted that not even nightmares had the energy to frighten him.
“Harry!”
A vigorous shake of his shoulder made him flinch. He mumbled something unintelligible and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
“Wake up, Harry!” The voice grew more insistent, and this time the covers were yanked off with determination, flooding his face with blinding morning light.
“Not training, Oliver…” Harry croaked, his voice hoarse with sleep. “You can shove your broomstick right up your arse.”
Ron exploded into laughter from across the dormitory. “Did he just—did he tell Oliver—?” he managed between choked giggles.
“I heard, Ron!” Hermione replied, exasperated and incredulous.
Neville gave a nervous chuckle. “I think he’s dead. Dead tired, I mean.”
“Near a magical coma, at least,” Ron joked.
Hermione planted her hands on her hips, examining the human mound that was her best friend.
“What time did he get back last night?” She arched an eyebrow, only to see Ron and Neville shake their heads cluelessly. “He never sleeps in like this.”
“Dunno,” Ron shrugged, still grinning. “Must’ve been bloody late. Usually, he’s the first one up.”
“Midnight detentions should be banned!” Hermione exclaimed indignantly. “Look at the state of him!”
“He’s just sleeping, Hermione,” Ron argued pragmatically.
“Well, he's slept enough,” she declared, determined. “It's nearly lunchtime, and detention can’t have lasted more than an hour — they wouldn’t have kept him up all night. So, doing the maths, he’s had at least the eight hours he needs.”
Harry, oblivious to the debate, merely grunted and buried his face further into the pillow, which now bore a damp patch the size of a Galleon.
Hermione took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing as she studied the tangle of limbs and pyjamas that was Harry Potter.
“That’s enough,” she announced with a determination that made Ron instinctively step back.
Before anyone could protest, she whipped out her wand with a precise flick.
“Accio blankets!”
The blankets flew across the dormitory as if alive, revealing Harry in all his dishevelled glory. His pyjamas were so twisted that one leg had completely escaped, while his shirt had ridden up to reveal a strip of pale skin on his torso. He writhed like a worm exposed to light, uselessly shielding himself from the chilly morning air.
“What the fuck?” he groaned, blind without his glasses, hands flailing desperately.
“Language, Harry!” Hermione scolded, though her voice faltered slightly when her eyes inadvertently landed on her friend’s exposed torso.
Ron, watching from his bed, doubled over in fresh laughter.
“Merlin, Hermione, swallow a Pepper Imp?” He pointed at her face. “You’re red as a Quaffle!”
“Shut it!” Hermione snarled.
Her ears now matched the deep scarlet of the dormitory’s four-poster curtains. She fixed her gaze determinedly on the far wall, as if suddenly fascinated by the tapestry of Godric Gryffindor.
“Harry, could you… fix your shirt?” Hermione murmured, eyes locked on a point somewhere past Harry’s left shoulder, her cheeks as pink as rose petals.
Harry, still bleary-eyed, adjusted his glasses and blinked at Hermione’s flustered expression. With a quick tug, he yanked his pyjama shirt down, feeling heat rise in his face to match Hermione’s scarlet hue.
“What… what time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “And what’re you doing in the boys’ dormitory?” Suddenly, realisation dawned. “And why the hell did you wake me? It’s Sunday!”
Hermione, still avoiding eye contact, tucked a rebellious curl behind her ear and crossed her arms sternly.
“It’s nearly noon,” she said in a tone eerily reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. “And the professor asked us to wake you.” Her voice strained for authority, but the tips of her ears still betrayed her embarrassment.
Ron, finally recovering, clapped Harry on the back.
“We tried everything, mate,” he said, eyes still teary from laughter. “Even considered asking George for one of those Dungbombs he’s been testing.”
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard Harry feared they’d stick.
“That’s why they called me,” she explained, “because I’m the only one with common sense here. And I’m certainly not using a Dungbomb.”
“Pity,” Ron remarked, his face twisting into another fit of giggles. “Would’ve been hilarious.”
Neville, quiet until now, stepped forward.
“There’s a package for you in the common room,” he said timidly. “Looks important.”
Harry frowned. “A package? But it’s not my birthday…”
Ron nodded eagerly. “Yeah, but Hedwig was trying to deliver it—got distracted getting scritches from the Gryffindors. Don’t be jealous—your owl’s popular when she wants to be.”
Harry snorted, shaking his head.
“Traitor,” he joked. “Just because I forgot her extra bit of sausage yesterday.” Then, curiosity piqued: “D’you know who sent it?”
Hermione huffed impatiently.
“Harry, for Merlin’s sake, stop dawdling. Get dressed and come down,” she ordered in her best prefect voice, turning to leave.
Ron shrugged at Harry.
“Better hurry,” he warned. “If you take too long, Fred and George’ll rip it open and turn it into something that explodes… or flies… or bites.”
With that, Ron sauntered out, humming a tune Harry didn’t recognise—probably some Weird Sisters song he’d overheard.
Neville, ever the sensitive one, lingered.
“They won’t open it,” he assured Harry. “Professor McGonagall made it clear only you can.”
“Small mercy,” Harry sighed, finally hunting for a clean shirt.
As he dressed, Harry glanced around the messy dormitory.
“Lucky Hermione didn’t spot the pants lying about,” he muttered, pulling on his trousers. “I always said we should lock the door, but no one believed a girl could waltz in here.”
Neville scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Well… she can unlock doors, can’t she?” he murmured. “Remember the third-floor door? She knows more spells than any of us… if she wanted, she could march in here whenever she liked…”
Harry paused mid-trouser-pull.
“Wait… so they can barge into our dorm, but we can’t enter theirs? How’s that fair?”
“Technically they’re not supposed to,” Neville explained hesitantly, “but they can, right? There’s all that privacy charm business… If we try their stairs, they turn into slides and McGonagall gets notified… and well, she goes spare. But why there’s a difference… blimey, that’s a good question…”
“So any girl could just waltz in here whenever?”
“Er… if Hermione managed, the others probably could too…”
“Merlin save us,” Harry muttered, yanking his trousers up with finality.
Harry and Neville descended the spiral staircase from the Gryffindor common room, the welcoming warmth of the fireplace fading as they approached the portrait hole. On that quiet Sunday morning, the common room would have been deserted if not for Ron and Hermione waiting near the exit, engrossed in lively conversation.
“So what’s this gift, then? And who sent it?” Harry asked, frowning as the Fat Lady swung open to let them through.
“No idea,” Neville replied, rubbing the back of his neck in bewilderment. “Hedwig was flying around the Great Hall looking for you. When she couldn’t find you, she just… dropped the package right in my lap during breakfast.”
“It’s a long, heavy box,” Ron cut in, eyes gleaming with excitement. “The twins started a betting pool on what’s inside—there’s at least fifteen Galleons in the pot already!”
“Betting pool?” Harry’s eyes widened.
“Fred and George, of course,” Hermione grumbled, crossing her arms with her usual disapproving look. “Gambling is strictly against school rules, but no one seems to care.”
Ron shrugged indifferently. “I put in a Galleon that it’s a new broom!” he announced, shaking Harry’s arm enthusiastically. “If it is, you’ll finally have your own for the match against Slytherin!”
Harry raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Why would I get a broom?”
“Because you’re the only one on the team who doesn’t have one yet!” Ron exclaimed as if it were obvious. “Fred said you’ve been waffling between three models for weeks!”
“Hey!” Harry protested, failing to sound offended. “Each one has pros and cons! It’s an important decision!”
Ron let out an exasperated snort. “You’re more indecisive than a girl picking out clothes.”
“What do brooms have to do with girls changing clothes?” Hermione snapped, her eyes narrowing dangerously.
“It’s the same thing! Changing their minds, never satisfied...” Ron explained with a vague gesture.
“That’s the most absurdly sexist thing I’ve ever heard!” Hermione exploded, her cheeks flushing.
Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, Hermione, it’s just an expression!”
“A stupid expression!”
“Merlin’s beard, you get worked up over nothing...”
Neville exchanged a weary look with Harry, clearly communicating, “They’ve been like this since I woke up.”
“Can you not?” Harry interrupted before the argument escalated. “I just woke up. If you could save the bickering for after lunch, Neville and I would appreciate it.”
Neville nodded in silent gratitude.
“Fred says he’s been on your case about this for four practices,” Ron continued, ignoring the interruption. “And you still can’t decide between the Comet 220 and the Cleansweep Seven!”
Harry laughed. “Which would you pick?”
Ron frowned, genuinely considering it. “Well… the Comet’s faster on straights, but the Cleansweep handles tight turns better...”
Hermione let out a sigh that echoed down the corridor. “Honestly, they’re just brooms! What difference does it make?”
Ron gaped at her as if she’d blasphemed. “Just brooms? Hermione, each model has unique specs! It’s like comparing—”
“Girls changing clothes?” Hermione finished sarcastically, making Neville choke back a laugh.
“Blimey, no hope with you,” Ron shook his head. “Girls just think all brooms are the same, no helping it.”
“Not all girls are Hermione, Ron,” Harry pointed out, amused. “Say that near Angelina, and she’ll show you exactly what she wanted to do with Oliver at practice yesterday.”
Ron shuddered. “So she’s the one who said to shove the broom up his—Merlin’s pants...” he muttered, stunned.
“Merlin’s got nothing to do with it, Ron,” Neville chimed in. “This is between Angelina, a broom… and Oliver.”
Harry and Ron burst out laughing while Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the corridor air as if praying for patience.
She hurried down another staircase, her short legs moving quickly, footsteps echoing in the corridor as her curious eyes fixed on Harry once more.
“What made you sleep so late?”
Harry pressed his lips together, the memory of the previous night settling over his shoulders like a heavy cloak.
“They took me into the Forbidden Forest.”
“WHAT?!” Hermione almost stumbled, her eyes wide with shock.
Neville and Ron, walking just behind, stopped abruptly, their mouths falling open in perfect unison.
“What do you mean?” Neville asked, his voice trembling slightly.
“But Malfoy only had to clean a room!” Ron burst out, indignation burning in his voice. “It was meant to be fair!”
“Exactly! That’s what I’d like to know!” Harry replied, anger throbbing in his veins. “Filch had nothing better to do and sent me down there. I spent the whole night in that place.”
“Bastard…” Ron growled, clenching his fists.
“You spent the NIGHT there?!” Hermione looked on the verge of hyperventilating. “But… but that shouldn’t even be allowed!”
“See?” Ron jabbed Hermione with his elbow, eyes blazing with reproach. “Never underestimate Filch’s ability to come up with detentions he would think cruel.”
Hermione felt a knot of guilt twist in her stomach. She’d been so strict with Harry that morning, not knowing he’d been forced to spend hours in that dangerous forest — especially after such an exhausting day.
“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry I woke you up… it was just because the professor asked me, but if I’d known, I’d have explained—” Her words came out in a rush, fingers twisting nervously.
“It’s all right,” Harry replied, offering a tired smile. “I had to get up anyway. If not, I probably wouldn’t sleep tonight.”
Hermione wasn’t satisfied. Her eyes flashed with the quiet determination of someone already planning a formal complaint to the Headmaster. But for now, she kept her thoughts to herself, merely quickening her pace beside Harry, as though her very presence could shield him from any further injustice.
“So what… what did you have to do?” Neville asked, worry etched on his face.
Harry exhaled deeply, the memories still fresh.
He pictured the slain unicorns and the sinister presence he’d sensed in the forest.
“Went with Hagrid on a night patrol… and it wasn’t pretty.”
“What happened?” Hermione leaned forward, curiosity overriding her usual caution.
Harry looked at his friends, his expression grim.
“Two centaurs—Firenze and Bane—told Hagrid about unicorns being killed… and we found out whatever did it was drinking their blood.”
Everyone shuddered.
Hermione’s eyes softened with sadness. “That’s horrible...”
“Bloody hell...” Ron whispered, paling. “But why would anyone do that? Drink unicorn blood?”
Hermione answered quietly. “They say it keeps you alive even if you’re an inch from death… but you’ll live a cursed life.”
“And who was doing it?” Neville asked, his voice hushed as if fearing the answer.
Harry felt a chill.
“I saw it… a figure… like a shadow in a black cloak.” He squinted, as if it might sharpen the memory. “We didn’t see its face, but my scar burned for some reason.”
Hermione’s eyes widened further. “Your scar burned?”
Harry nodded, touching it absently.
“Yeah, when it looked at me… but only for a bit.” He shrugged. “Dunno why.”
Harry wondered if it could be related to his Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons, but he couldn’t see how dead unicorns and a shadowy killer connected to class. Maybe it was just his scar acting up—it wasn’t exactly normal to begin with.
“Did you fight it?” Neville fiddled nervously with his bag strap.
Harry shook his head, his voice calmer now, though the weight of the night still lingered.
“No… it was about to attack us, but the centaurs saved us. It fled too fast—barely saw where it went. We talked with them a bit, but… centaurs don’t seem to like humans much in general.”
An uneasy silence fell over the group as they continued down the staircases and through the corridors. The distant chatter of students echoed off the stone walls, but the four remained lost in thought. Harry carried the weight of unsaid details—the horror of the unicorns’ frozen, terrified expressions, the primal fear he’d felt from their killer. His friends didn’t need to know that part.
“There was something odd the centaurs said, though...” Harry murmured after a while.
“What?” Hermione asked, her gaze sharp.
Harry frowned, processing the memory.
“One of them looked at me like he was surprised. They said something in their own language, then stared at the stars and said the… the destiny had changed. That me being there was proof.”
Ron scratched his head, trying to recall something.
“Mum used to tell me bedtime stories about centaurs predicting the future.”
Neville tilted his head. “The one where the wizard saved the princess just in time before the Muggle villagers burned her?”
Harry and Hermione had no idea what they were on about, but having grown up in the wizarding world, it wasn’t surprising their fairy tales were different too. Though, judging by the context, this one sounded rather dark for a children’s story.
“That’s the one,” Ron confirmed. “Dad once mentioned a Ministry case involving centaurs—something about regulating their predictions, I think. They’re big on planets and stars.”
Neville looked puzzled, while Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully.
“What they did is a form of divination,” she explained. “Their knowledge of astrology is incredible. But honestly, I haven’t read much about it—centaurs are very private. They don’t share their customs with wizards.”
“So they saw your future?” Neville asked, intrigued. “And said destiny changed? What changed it?”
“Good question,” Harry replied, rubbing his nose as they neared the Great Hall. “The centaur said ‘they’—whoever they are—didn’t want me to know yet.”
The massive oak doors of the Great Hall creaked open solemnly, releasing a wave of chatter and laughter. Harry felt the warmth and energy of the place before even stepping inside. The Hall buzzed with life—some students already seated, others clustered in animated groups.
As usual, Harry noticed the glances sent his way, though fewer than at the start of term. Maybe he was getting used to it, or maybe people had found more interesting things to stare at. Either way, he did what he always did—lifted his chin slightly and kept walking.
Approaching the Gryffindor table, he saw it was far rowdier than the others. A crowd had gathered around something at the centre. As he got closer, Harry spotted the source of the commotion: a rectangular box, wrapped in red gift paper with gold ribbons, resting on the polished wood.
It was clearly a present—and by the size and shape, something special.
Fred and George were at the heart of it, as always.
One was collecting coins while calling out names and odds like a professional auctioneer, the other laughing and cracking jokes. Their rapid movements and exaggerated expressions gave the scene an air of controlled chaos, as if they were running their own mad stock exchange.
“Stop this gambling at once!” Percy’s shrill voice cut through the noise.
The prefect stood rigid beside his brothers, his already-long face stretched further with disapproval.
“You know perfectly well this is against the rules!”
“Gambling? Us?” Fred clutched his chest in mock offence, his expression so convincingly innocent it would put professional actors to shame.
“Brother, you’re accusing us of gambling?!” George added, widening his eyes theatrically.
“Preposterous!” Fred continued, now oozing wounded dignity. “This is merely… an academic exercise in applied probability. Practising our Arithmancy, nothing more.”
“Quite right!” George chimed in, gesturing grandly. “A collaborative statistical inquiry, one might say.”
Fred looked around for support. “Isn’t that right, everyone?”
A wave of laughter and nods rose from the surrounding students.
Percy huffed loudly, his glasses sliding down his nose as he shook his head.
“You’ll land yourselves in serious trouble with these… these antics!” he spluttered, arms crossed tightly. “And when Mum and Dad find out—”
Without waiting for a reply, Percy spun on his heel and marched to the far end of the table, sitting down with an indignant thud. Fred and George exchanged identical shrugs, a move so perfectly synchronised it looked rehearsed.
“So you’re in on this, Ron?” Harry asked under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Ron grinned sheepishly.
“Me? If it pays off, maybe. But if it backfires, you know nothing… and Percy especially knows nothing.”
As the Gryffindors noticed Harry’s arrival, excited whispers rippled down the table.
Fred was the first to move, with George hot on his heels.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!” Fred announced, slinging an arm around Harry and dragging him toward the centre of the action.
“Morning... George?” Harry ventured, trying to guess.
Fred clutched his heart in mock offence. “Me? That ugly? I'm Fred, obviously!”
“Oh, sorry, Fred,” Harry laughed.
“Joke's on you, I'm actually Fred,” George interjected with a wink.
“Oh, sorry, George.”
“Actually, you were right the first time—I am Fred,” he replied with a playful grin.
“You're unbearable,” Ron muttered, coming to stand beside Harry.
“Noted, Ronnikins,” the twins chorused in perfect unison, their exaggerated tones making Ron roll his eyes.
“Can someone explain what's going on?” Harry asked, looking around.
“The mystery of the century, dear friend!” George exclaimed, eyes sparkling. “What's in the box?”
“Don't you lot have anything better to do on a Sunday?” Harry asked, amused.
“There's bets involved!” Seamus shouted from across the table, as if that explained everything. “I put ten Sickles on it being a telescope!”
“They're not bets, Seamus!” Dean corrected, prompting laughter.
“Arithmancy exercise,” Fred reminded solemnly.
“Could be broom care supplies,” suggested Alicia, examining the box. “Got a package like this for Christmas once.”
“It's clearly a painting. Probably from Quertz’s new art shop in Diagon Alley,” Katie declared with conviction.
“Who gives paintings as gifts?” Ron asked, pulling a face.
“Cultured people,” Hermione retorted coolly.
Harry and Neville exchanged pained looks. Sometimes, Hermione could slap someone without even touching them.
Ritchie Coote stood up, laughing. “A painting? Seriously, Katie?”
“What’s wrong with that?” She arched an eyebrow, hands on hips. “Come up with a better idea and put your money where your mouth is!”
The debate quickly escalated, voices overlapping with increasingly elaborate theories. Ron argued animatedly with Seamus while Hermione massaged her temples, clearly exhausted. Neville just grinned at Harry, looking thoroughly entertained by the chaos.
Ignoring the commotion, Harry stepped closer to the gift. His fingers traced the red-and-gold wrapping, landing on the small tag bearing his name in elegant script. The mere idea of receiving a real present—not some hand-me-down from the Dursleys—made his stomach flutter with excitement.
“Shhh!” George hissed.
“Quiet! He’s opening it!” Fred announced, and the entire Hall seemed to hold its breath.
A wave of students leaned in—even a few curious Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had gathered to watch.
With slightly trembling hands, Harry carefully unwrapped the box, revealing dark wood with two small golden clasps. As he opened it, deep red velvet lining gleamed in the morning sunlight.
But it was what lay inside that made his heart stop.
A Nimbus 2000. The fastest broom in the world.
The polished mahogany handle glowed, and engraved at the base in gold lettering was not just the model name—but also:
Nimbus 2000 — Harry Potter
“MERLIN’S BEARD! I KNEW IT!” Ron exploded, his eyes as wide as Harry’s.
“Harry’s got a Nimbus 2000!” Angelina shrieked, bouncing on the spot.
Harry felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned to find Oliver Wood grinning ear to ear.
“Every decent Seeker needs a proper broom, eh?” Oliver said, eyes shining.
“Oliver... was it you?” Harry asked, stunned and touched.
Oliver laughed and shook his head. “Wish I had that kind of gold, Harry! Wasn’t me.”
Harry scanned the Gryffindor table, searching for the giver. Whispers swirled around him, faces alight with curiosity. Then, as if pulled by a magnet, his gaze drifted to the staff table.
Dumbledore, serene as ever, sipped from his goblet with a faint smile. But it was McGonagall who caught his eye.
The smile she was failing to hide was unmistakable. When she gave him a discreet wink and the slightest nod, the truth clicked.
It was her. Of course it was.
Harry had respected and admired her from the moment they met—and she’d always returned that warmth tenfold. No wonder he was wearing the scarf she’d given him before term started, a gift he wore regularly.
A familiar warmth filled Harry’s chest, and he returned her smile openly, eyes brimming with gratitude.
“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but here you go, Ronnikins,” Fred sighed dramatically, dangling the heavy coin pouch between two fingers before handing it over.
He leaned in conspiratorially. “Spend it wisely.” A theatrical wink.
George, of course, couldn’t resist. “If I were you, I’d buy something special for a special witch,” he sing-songed, waggling his eyebrows.
Ron scowled but couldn’t suppress his grin. “Good thing you’re not me,” he sniffed, pocketing the coins with pride.
The Great Hall buzzed with excitement—laughter and chatter about Harry’s gift filling the air. Gryffindor table was the heart of the joy, but gradually, the atmosphere shifted.
Muttered disdain and venomous glares came from the Slytherin table like an approaching shadow.
“So, Gryffindors,” Marcus Flint’s grating voice cut through the noise as he and his team approached. “Ready to lose again? What’ll this be—your seventh defeat in a row?”
He smirked, his cronies laughing behind him. Other Slytherins—including a smirking Malfoy—joined the group like predators circling prey.
Flint was hard to ignore.
Tall, burly, and with a face that could scare a troll, it wasn’t just his ugliness that stood out—his greasy, close-cropped hair and crooked teeth only accentuated his ever-present sneer.
Harry wasn’t one to judge appearances, but Flint was... something.
Despite their imposing size, Harry didn’t flinch. He’d faced worse weeks ago—including the very same Malfoy now puffing his chest beside Flint as if he were part of the team.
“If you’re here to intimidate us, Flint, sorry, but it won’t work,” Oliver replied calmly, stepping forward to shield his team.
“Intimidate? In the Great Hall? Give me a break, Wood,” Flint laughed, the sound hollow. “You think I’m stupid?”
“We don’t think, Flint. We know!” George cut in, grinning provocatively.
Laughter erupted from Gryffindor’s table.
“Nobody asked you, Weasley!” Graham Montague, Slytherin’s surly Beater, snarled, arms crossed as if his glare alone could silence them.
“Nobody asked you, Montague,” Fred shot back, mimicking his tone. “How’s your arse, by the way? Still full of boils?”
Montague turned beet red, fists shaking with rage. More laughter exploded from Gryffindor.
“Bugger off!” Montague took a threatening step forward, but Flint yanked him back with a cutting look, silencing his friend before he could do something even more stupid.
“That's right, leash your little dog, Flint,” Fred laughed, leaning forward theatrically to watch Montague's furious expression. “All bark and no bite.”
Flint ignored the jab and turned to Oliver, his voice low and dangerous.
“We'll see how much you've got to say on the pitch. What—you lot think,” he jerked his head toward Harry, “this little brat here's your saviour?”
“Who? Potter?” Malfoy drawled, lazily pointing at Harry.
His malicious grin widened as he looked down his nose at the Gryffindor table.
“If you lot...” He made a sweeping gesture at the Gryffindors. “Actually think he's some sort of hero, then I truly pity you.”
The laughter that erupted from the Slytherins was a cacophony of mockery, echoing off the Great Hall's walls. Whispers spread across the tables, and most side conversations from other houses turned toward the confrontation.
“If you haven't noticed, Malfoy,” Harry spat, his voice icy, “this conversation's between the teams. It hasn't reached you yet... so I suggest you shut your mouth before that changes.”
The Gryffindors hissed in approval as if Harry's words had landed a perfect hit. It was almost a collective sigh of satisfaction, accompanied by knowing looks exchanged between the team members.
Had the Professors not been present, someone would've surely called for an outright duel by now.
Draco's smug expression vanished in an instant. Rage simmered behind his pale eyes, now narrowed dangerously. His jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck stood out. He glared at Harry with a look that promised vengeance but stayed silent.
The Hall seemed to grow colder.
Conversations around them quieted to distant murmurs. Every eye was fixed on the clash between the two houses. Even the Professors watched with graver expressions than usual. Dumbledore, over his half-moon spectacles, fixed them with a piercing stare that could've stripped the soul from anyone bold enough to meet it.
Angelina stepped forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with Oliver. She pointed firmly at the Slytherin table.
“If I were you, Flint, I'd turn around right now and crawl back into whatever hole you came from,” she said, her voice colder than Arctic ice. “This is getting pathetic—making a scene in front of the Professors.”
The silence that followed was thick with tension. Everyone seemed braced for action at the slightest provocation.
Flint's eyes narrowed, his anger palpable but restrained.
“You'll choke on that arrogance on the pitch. I'll make sure of it,” Flint hissed, his eyes blazing with hatred. Oliver, however, remained unshaken, his expression calm.
“We'll see about that,” Oliver replied coolly, his lips pressing into a firm line.
With one last venomous glare, Flint jerked his head at the other Slytherins, and the group began to retreat.
Before fully returning to their table, Terence Higgs, Slytherin's Seeker, paused and shot Harry a look as sharp as a blade.
“You won't last five minutes up there, Potter. Mark my words.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but the impact was direct.
Harry stared back silently, frowning and clenching his fists as Higgs walked away without breaking eye contact.
“Don't mind them, Harry. They're just gits,” Neville murmured, giving Harry's shoulder a reassuring pat. A small gesture, but it carried quiet comfort.
Harry relaxed his shoulders and exhaled.
“You're right,” he said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I'm starving—what's for lunch?”
“You'd better eat,” Oliver said behind him, already piling his plate with a generous serving of mashed potatoes and gravy.
The smell made Harry's stomach growl, but he barely noticed, still buzzing from the day's events.
“We've got extra practice today,” the captain continued. “That new broom changes our game—we need to rework that flanking play with Katie and Alicia.”
“Fine by me. I want to test this broom anyway,” Harry replied eagerly, his eyes alight with anticipation.
Just the thought of flying again made his heart race.
Before he could serve himself, Hermione approached, her face set in disapproval.
“You can't train every day!” she said sternly. “Need I remind you how much coursework you're behind on?”
Harry sighed and rolled his eyes, feeling his excitement dim momentarily.
Hermione's reminder was like a bucket of cold water.
He knew he had a mountain of overdue assignments, but he'd been so caught up in training that he'd forgotten entirely. Now, the exhaustion of the week seemed to crash over him all at once.
Blimey, he just wanted to fly... on his new broom! That was infinitely better than homework. At that moment, he wouldn't have cared if every last parchment in his bag caught fire—as long as he got to speed through the air first.
But before he could respond, George, seated further down, tossed in a teasing remark.
“Take the witches' advice, Harry. They're the future of the nation,” he said, winking mischievously.
Harry rolled his eyes despite himself, and Hermione, surprisingly, seemed to agree with the redhead.
She sat down quietly, still stern.
Angelina, who'd been chewing a piece of potato with unnecessary force, shot George a challenging look.
“Then why don't you ever take my advice, eh?” she asked.
George, caught off guard, blinked for a moment, visibly flustered.
“Er... I do listen,” he began, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Like that time when... no, wait, I ignored that one... and—”
He turned red and devolved into incoherent mumbling, clearly failing to dig himself out.
Angelina raised an eyebrow, watching him expectantly.
George squirmed in his seat, thoroughly embarrassed.
Harry, watching the exchange with amusement, caught Angelina's eye. She winked at him conspiratorially, and he returned it with a grateful smile.
It was nice seeing the twins get a taste of their own medicine for once.
The clatter of cutlery and laughter from nearby tables filled the air, but for a brief moment, Harry allowed himself to relax. Among friends, surrounded by teasing and banter, the weight of school seemed to lift—at least until training started and he'd have to spend the rest of Sunday with his arse glued to a library chair.
The days following that intense weekend settled into a surprisingly pleasant routine for the four Gryffindor friends. Harry often found himself buried in library books—more than he'd ever imagined possible—trying to catch up on his studies while battling the endless tide of assignments the professors seemed to delight in doling out with sadistic pleasure.
Hermione, of course, accompanied him without hesitation, always ready to clarify doubts or suggest additional readings with her characteristic enthusiasm. During rare moments when they escaped academic obligations, the four would gather for games of wizard's chess or Exploding Snap, sometimes joined by Seamus and Dean. Harry considered them good company—the conversations might not be profound, but they were enough to fill the hours with laughter and mischief.
Exploring the castle became one of their favourite pastimes. On calmer afternoons, they often strolled by the Black Lake, where on special occasions they were treated to the sight of the giant squid extending one pink tentacle across the mirror-like surface, creating gentle ripples that faded softly away.
“Did you know Hogwarts' giant squid is at least two hundred years old?” Hermione informed them during one such outing, her eyes bright with newly acquired knowledge. “Professor Kettleburn mentioned it was already here when he first came to Hogwarts as a student, long before he even taught Care of Magical Creatures!
Ron pulled a face. “Only you'd find it interesting to know a giant mollusc's age.”
“Actually, technically squid aren't just molluscs—that's too general—they're cephalopods,” Hermione corrected automatically, making Neville choke back a laugh.
Despite her noticeably improved sociability, Hermione always found herself drawn back to the library—whether by her own insatiable thirst for knowledge or to remind them—with clockwork precision—of looming assignment deadlines.
With this new routine established, Harry and Neville had quietly abandoned their plans to practice defence spells since the Halloween incident. The idea of spending hours in empty classrooms repeating wand movements seemed far less appealing than simply enjoying their friends' company. Malfoy and his taunts had lost some of their threat, and neither felt the same urgency as before.
It was Ron who became the chief architect of their leisure time.
The redhead possessed an extraordinary talent for inventing diversions—from expeditions through the castle's supposed “secret passages”—which they pretended to believe were real as part of the fun—armed with hand-scribbled maps that invariably led to dead ends or broom cupboards, to impromptu Colour-Changing Charm competitions that left Scabbers blinking fluorescent hues for days on end.
“Look at this!” Ron announced triumphantly one particularly creative afternoon, holding up the poor rat now glowing vibrant lime-green. “The twins taught me the 'Complete Chromatic Charm'! It lasts through seven colour changes before wearing off!”
Harry and Neville burst into laughter as Scabbers, utterly indifferent to his new appearance, continued gnawing a biscuit stolen from breakfast.
“You're sure that's not harmful to him?” Neville asked between giggles, watching the rat rapidly shift between purple and orange as if at a rave.
“Ah, Scabbers has survived worse from the twins,” Ron said with a careless wave. “Last year he spent a week singing Italian opera after accidentally drinking one of their potions.”
Ron's “secret” maps were works of art in themselves—covered in scribbles of imaginary corridors, annotations like:
Here Dwell Giant Spiders—KEEP DISTANCE!
or
Passage to Kitchens—maybe?
Though they never led anywhere truly secret, the thrill of possibility kept the three boys entertained for hours.
“According to my calculations,” Ron declared solemnly during one expedition, squinting at his map and turning it for different angles, “if we turn left down this corridor and take the spiral staircase, we should reach... er... the Trophy Room again.”
Neville shook his head, laughing. “Third time this week we've ended up here.”
“Well, but never this way, and at least the map's consistent!” Ron retorted, carefully folding his “treasure” back into his pocket.
Meanwhile, Colour-Changing Charms became something of a signature pastime. After Scabbers, it was Neville's socks that sported a psychedelic pattern persisting through three washes. Even Hedwig wasn't spared—her tail feathers temporarily turned shocking pink, much to her disgust.
“She's looking at me like she's planning my murder,” Ron observed, backing away as Hedwig fixed him with her golden, indignant stare.
“Well, you turned the proudest owl in Hogwarts into a flying rainbow,” Harry pointed out, stifling laughter. “Reckon you deserve what's coming.”
And come it did—when the redhead least expected it, she swooped down and delivered several sharp pecks to his head.
They never changed her colour again.
Trevor also ended up multicoloured a few times, which Neville found oddly practical since the garish hues made the toad easier to spot when he escaped.
The colour experiments only ceased when Hermione—discovering her Potions textbook now emitted tiny blue sparks with every turned page—threatened to report them all to Professor McGonagall unless they immediately stopped “treating magic like a kindergarten game.”
Still, in the following days, Harry noticed Hermione sometimes suppressing a quick smile when Scabbers scurried past, leaving faint pink paw prints on the stone floor.
Most of these adventures were shared only by the three boys.
Hermione, though occasionally joining initially—albeit scowling at their “childish” antics—always inevitably vanished into the library stacks, determined to maintain her impeccable academic standards.
She'd also set aside her relentless search for Nicolas Flamel to help Harry catch up and assist Neville with Potions—his most challenging subject by far—while keeping her own studies in order. Not that this posed much difficulty; Hermione always finished assignments weeks early, unlike Ron, who frequently remembered them the night before they were due.
It was one such evening.
Harry hunched over their usual table in the Gryffindor common room, his History of Magic essay sprawled before him. Through the window, Hagrid's hut was visible in the distance, its chimney releasing a thin wisp of smoke.
Harry imagined Hagrid was probably making tea.
He sighed, rubbing tired eyes and setting down his quill. Over half the lengthy essay was done, but it felt endless.
“Everything alright, Harry?” Neville asked without looking up from his massive Herbology textbook—the only subject where he didn't mind lugging around brick-heavy tomes. Its green-and-blue cover displayed the dull sheen of an unfamiliar pink flower as Neville turned pages with hypnotic focus.
“Just exhausted,” Harry grumbled, flexing his aching fingers. “Seriously, why do I need to know about the bloody Soap Blizzard of 1378?”
“Learning from past mistakes is essential to avoid repeating them in the future,” Hermione replied mechanically, her eyes glued to the thick book before her, One Thousand and One Useful Spells.
She frowned, clearly absorbed in reading, then without warning, drew her wand and pointed it at Harry.
“Hermione?” Harry straightened in his chair, alarmed as she studied him with a calculated expression, wand raised. “What're you doing?”
“Stay still,” she ordered, lips pressed in concentration while her eyes scanned a line in the book. “Just a moment...”
Before he could protest, Hermione flicked her wand precisely.
“Oculus Reparo,” she murmured.
Harry had cracked his glasses in two during one of the first Quidditch practices of the year when he'd dropped them, and too embarrassed to ask for help, had been holding them together with tape ever since.
But as Hermione cast the spell, Harry felt something shift on the bridge of his nose.
The adhesive tape dissolved into the air, and the lenses, previously slightly askew, now sat perfectly aligned. He blinked in surprise, then grinned in relief at his practically new glasses.
“Wow, thanks! That was brilliant!” Harry exclaimed, a grateful smile spreading across his face as he adjusted the freshly repaired spectacles.
Hermione smiled back, a mix of satisfaction and modesty, tucking her wand away.
“You're welcome. Thought you could use a hand.” She returned her gaze to the book.
Meanwhile, Ron, who'd spent the last minutes staring at his nearly blank History of Magic parchment, released a frustrated sigh.
“This is rubbish! How d'you stop a stupid blizzard like this?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Makes no fucking sense.”
“Language,” Hermione chided automatically, frowning without looking up. “Actually, you could study Magical Climates and get a certification in enchanted machinery to prevent magical catastrophes.”
“Like I'd want to do that,” Ron muttered, propping his chin on his hand.
Hermione continued tonelessly, as if reciting a manual:
“But it's a valid point. Controlling magical weather can prevent unintended disasters, like the Winter Blizzard at Hogwarts, largely caused by Professor Ludwig's misuse of weather charms—”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Sometimes, Hermione, you...”
She peered over her book. “I what?”
“You... you've always got an answer for everything,” he mumbled, waving vaguely. “I know it's important, but you don't need to lecture me all the time.”
“You asked. I answered. If you didn't want to know, you shouldn't have asked.” Hermione shot back, eyes flashing behind the pages.
Harry exchanged a look with Neville, both clearly weary of Ron and Hermione's bickering.
Lately, their squabbles had become frequent, usually over trivial things. Harry suspected part of the tension stemmed from Ron never properly apologising for the Halloween incident, where his hurtful words had left Hermione crying in the bathroom before the troll nearly crushed her.
“Nev, I'll go mad if I don't finish this soon,” Harry whispered, gesturing to his essay, ignoring Ron and Hermione.
“Tell me about it,” Neville replied. “If even they don't know the answers, how are we supposed to at eleven?”
Harry snorted. “Try telling that to Binns...”
“Rather not...”
Neville, noticing no one was watching, discreetly pulled a Chocolate Frog from his pocket.
No one noticed until the rustling wrapper drew attention.
“You keep Chocolate Frogs in your pocket?” Ron asked, amused.
“Well... you never know when you'll fancy one,” Neville said timidly, a faint blush rising.
Harry laughed. “Doesn't it melt?”
“Won't melt,” Ron explained almost proudly. “They're charmed to only melt when the box opens.”
Neville carefully unwrapped the frog, biting into it while gazing out the window. Trevor, seated on the table, crooned softly beside him, giving a disapproving look.
“Oh, don't worry, Trevor,” Neville said, patting the toad's head. “This one's not related to you.”
Ron guffawed as Harry added between laughs:
“Now he's got proper reason to run off!”
“What card d'you get?” Ron asked curiously after a moment. “If it's Morgana, I'll swap. I've got an Armando Dippet you're missing.”
Neville examined the card and grimaced. “Ah... Dumbledore... again.”
“Merlin's pants, do they only print him now? I've got about seven!” Ron exclaimed, throwing his hands up theatrically.
“Did you know he likes bowling?” Harry remarked, trying not to laugh at the image of the headmaster aiming for pins.
“Really?” Neville asked, genuinely curious. The idea of such a powerful wizard enjoying something so mundane seemed absurd.
“Says so on the card,” Harry shrugged. “Least it did on mine.”
“Let me see—” Neville's eyes widened as he read the back. “Blimey! It mentions Nicolas Flamel!”
“What?” Hermione squeaked.
She snatched the card from Neville, eyes racing over the text.
“How could I be so stupid?” she muttered, clearly frustrated. “They worked together in alchemy, of course! I think I know where to find the answer. If I hurry, I can still make it to the library before closing!”
She leapt up and bolted for the portrait hole.
“Hermione, wait!” Harry called, but she'd already vanished.
He sighed, returning to his parchment.
“That's her, mate. Best get used to it,” Ron said, shrugging.
Harry, however, frowned.
“She's still cross with you,” the words tumbled out.
Ron froze. “Cross? Why?”
Neville set his book down and looked Ron squarely in the eye.
“You never apologised for Halloween, did you? When she spent all day crying in the loo and nearly got squashed by the troll?” His voice was uncharacteristically firm.
Ron paled, his freckles standing out starkly. Discomfort flashed across his face as he averted his gaze.
“I... I thought it was fine,” he mumbled hesitantly. “She doesn't seem to be avoiding me...”
“Well, you thought wrong,” Harry said simply. “Nev was stuck with you after I was in the hospital wing—never saw you apologise. Dunno how much she's holding onto, but sometimes when she gets extra sharp... might be why.”
Neville nodded solemnly.
“The longer you wait, the more the wound scars over. And scars are much harder to fix.”
Ron exhaled heavily, rubbing his neck.
“Alright, alright... you're right. I'll... I'll talk to her.” His voice was quieter now, resigned, as if the weight of guilt had finally settled on his shoulders.
After a brief silence, Harry grinned and nudged Neville playfully.
“Where'd you get all that wisdom, eh?” he asked, amused. “Turning philosopher on us?”
Neville let out a timid chuckle.
“My gran’s always saying stuff like that... some of it sticks, I s’pose.”
After a while, Harry finally finished his essay. He let out a sigh of relief, glad to be done with the work, and began packing his things into his bag.
The common room was quiet until Hermione returned from the library, lugging an enormous book that looked nearly as heavy as she was. Gasping for breath—likely from sprinting up and down seven endless flights of stairs—she slammed the volume onto the table with a thud, startling Ron, who was still scribbling furiously at his own essay.
“Merlin’s pants, Hermione!” Ron exclaimed, leaping in his seat, eyes wide.
“It was—right—there—the whole time,” Hermione panted, visibly exhausted, as she flipped through the pages rapidly.
She found the chapter she was looking for and pointed at it with a satisfied smile.
“First, breathe,” Harry suggested, gesturing to the chair beside him. “Sit down, go on.”
Hermione obeyed without protest, collapsing into the chair and finally catching her breath.
“What’ve you found?” asked Neville, leaning closer to the book.
“Well, since we know Nicolas Flamel’s an alchemist, I went looking for more about him. Turns out he was quite famous in wizarding academia.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement, as they always did when she’d uncovered something important.
“Even more so for working with Dumbledore,” Neville added, scratching his chin thoughtfully, clearly intrigued.
“Exactly! So, it made sense to check this compendium of alchemical achievements,” Hermione declared triumphantly, spreading the book open, its pages nearly covering the entire table.
“Right... and where does Flamel come into it?” Ron asked, leaning in to peer at the book with renewed curiosity.
“Here.” Hermione pointed to a specific passage, cleared her throat, and began reading:
“‘Nicolas Flamel was also known for accomplishing one of the greatest feats of alchemy from the medieval era to the modern age... the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone.’”
“Bloody hell...” Ron ran a hand over his forehead, disbelieving. “So it’s real, then?”
Neville blinked, equally stunned.
“The Philosopher’s Stone? I thought that was just a legend.”
“What is this stone?” Harry asked, feeling slightly out of place as the only one who seemed clueless.
“It’s a magical artefact that can turn any metal into pure gold,” Hermione explained clearly, her eyes still fixed on the book. “And even more impressively, it can brew the Elixir of Life, which makes the drinker immortal as long as the effects last—though here it says you can brew the potion multiple times.”
“Immortality?” Neville murmured, shaking his head, still processing. “So... that’s what’s hidden here? Under Popcorn?”
“That name...” Ron snorted a laugh, and Harry had to agree with him.
“It’s just a theory,” Hermione shrugged, though she couldn’t hide her excitement. “But it fits, considering what we know so far.”
Harry grew thoughtful for a moment, while the other three watched his concentrated expression. “This stone... it can’t be very big, can it?”
Hermione quickly checked the book.
“It says here it’s no larger than the size of a hand.”
“So it’s small enough to be what was in that vault at Gringotts...” Harry concluded, the logic forming in his mind. “And it’s something everyone would want...”
“Wealth?” Ron suggested, frowning as he tried to follow the reasoning.
“Obviously. Who wouldn’t want to be rich?” Hermione agreed, crossing her arms. “That stone’s a ticket to a life of plenty.”
“Plenty... and eternal life,” Harry finished, his eyes lighting up suddenly. “That’s it!”
“That’s what?” the three asked in unison, leaning in closer.
“D’you remember what I said that thing in the Forbidden Forest was doing? Drinking unicorn blood... and that keeps anyone alive, right? What if whoever’s behind all this wants to be immortal? Wealth and eternal life... that’s what they’re after!”
Neville stepped forward, brow furrowed. “You think Snape’s behind it?”
“Maybe,” Harry replied darkly. “He’s a Potions master, and he’d definitely know how to make that elixir, so it’s not impossible he’d want that stone at any cost.”
The three exchanged glances, the mood growing tenser.
“We’d better stay alert,” Hermione murmured, unease clear in her voice. Her eyes were fixed on her closed spellbook. “A troll loose in the castle, a griffin guarding the third floor, unicorns being killed in the Forest, and now a stone that grants immortality and riches? This is getting out of hand.”
Neville visibly shuddered, pulling his robes tighter around himself as if the sudden chill was a response to Hermione’s words.
“This is getting beyond us,” he whispered, eyes frightened.
“Not while Dumbledore’s here,” Harry said.
“Given the Headmaster’s track record...” Hermione frowned, nodding slowly as Harry’s words sank in. “It’s hard to imagine anyone would dare try anything with him around.”
“But they have!” Neville exclaimed, his voice trembling slightly. “Was the troll not enough?”
Harry sighed, weariness showing not just on his face but in his slouched posture.
“You’ve got a point,” he admitted, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. “But either way, there’s not much we can do right now. At least we know what’s hidden.”
Sensing the conversation had died down, Ron—who’d stayed quiet until then—cleared his throat nervously.
He turned to Hermione, his expression slightly softer.
“Hey, Hermione...”
“Yes, Ron?” She looked up, confusion mixing with curiosity at his changed tone.
“Y’know... I know it’s been ages, but I wanted to say sorry for what I said on Halloween... after that Charms lesson. It was a right stupid thing to say and... well, you were only trying to help. I was a real git that day.” Ron looked genuinely remorseful, his ears turning slightly pink as he waited for Hermione’s reply.
For a moment, she just stared at him, surprised by the sudden apology. Then her eyes softened, and she gave him a tired but sincere smile.
“It’s all right, Ron. It’s in the past.”
Ron returned the smile, visibly relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
He nodded gratefully and turned back to his unfinished parchment.
“Erm... d’you reckon you could give me a hand with this essay? I’ve got no idea what to write,” Ron asked sheepishly.
“All right, let’s see what I can do.”
Harry, watching the friendlier exchange between the two, felt the mood lighten. He glanced at Neville, who smiled and shrugged.
At every Quidditch practice, Oliver grew more demanding, and Harry could tell his captain was getting increasingly nervous.
At first, the tension was limited to the pitch, but soon he noticed Oliver becoming more absorbed in his own thoughts—even during meals, his leg bouncing incessantly as he poked at his food without really seeing it.
Matthews—his friend—often had to snap him out of it, breaking the silence that clung to him.
Harry wondered if the upcoming match against Slytherin was affecting the Gryffindor captain more than anyone realised, but he hesitated to bring it up. Owning a Nimbus 2000 was any Quidditch player’s dream, but Oliver seemed to have twisted that joy into unbearable pressure.
“You’ve got the best broom on the pitch. I expect the best results,” he’d say during drills, his voice thick with urgency.
Spins, sharp dodges, record Snitch catches—nothing seemed enough. The relentless pursuit of perfection was starting to grate on Harry, but he understood the pressure Oliver must be under. After all, none of them wanted another humiliating defeat against Slytherin.
None of them did.
So, for now, he let it lie.
The tension between the Houses grew thicker with each passing day. In Hogwarts’ corridors, Malfoy and his cronies still muttered and shot nasty looks at Harry and his friends, but for now, it remained a game of cat and mouse.
It was the older students, though, who took the rivalry to another level.
Taunts echoed off the stone walls, and icy glares were exchanged like silent duelling strikes. It all came down to the colours on their robes.
Emerald green or scarlet red.
The divide was as clear as night and day—you were on one side or the other, with no grey area in between.
Harry shared that view without hesitation.
To him, anyone who wore Slytherin’s colours carried a mark of dubious character, as if the Sorting Hat itself had detected something inherently dark in their nature.
He still shuddered at the thought that he’d almost ended up there—thankfully, Gryffindor had been another option the Hat saw fit to offer.
After all, if the ancient Sorting Hat had peered into their minds and found unchecked ambition, ruthless cunning, and a wit as sharp as a dagger, how could they possibly be trustworthy?
“Just look at Snape,” Harry remarked once, watching the Potions master glide through the corridors like a living shadow. “Or Malfoy? Slytherins are all the same.”
No one in his circle disagreed. The conviction ran as deep as Hogwarts’ own foundations.
The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, however, were seen in a completely different light.
They simply had different qualities—perhaps less bravery than Gryffindors, but they made up for it with unshakable loyalty or an insatiable thirst for knowledge.
“At least the Ravenclaws have the sense to bury themselves in the library,” Ron observed during one of their courtyard strolls. “And the Hufflepuffs… well, they’re useful for knowing where to find the best plants in the greenhouse.”
“Hey… I’m also...” Neville murmured with a small smile.
“You are, definitely,” Harry laughed. “Just like Hermione’s in the library right now, but the Hat thought better for both of you.”
“Yeah… I can’t imagine being mates with Zacharias Smith…”
Ron wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something particularly foul.
“That bloke’s the black sheep of their lot,” he said matter-of-factly.
Harry and Neville had to agree.
As for inter-house dating? Perfectly acceptable—so long as it didn’t involve green-and-silver.
It wasn’t uncommon to see Gryffindors holding hands with Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws between classes, but a romance with a Slytherin? The mere idea made all of them—especially Ron—choke on their pumpkin juice.
“It’s like betraying your own House,” Ron declared vehemently as they watched a Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff couple stroll by the lake. “But a Slytherin? Never.”
The locations of the common rooms seemed to cement this irreconcilable divide.
While Gryffindor Tower stood proud, bathed in sunlight nearly brushing Scotland’s clouds, the Slytherin dungeons lurked deep within the castle—damp and cold as their inhabitants’ hearts.
Harry likened it to a villain’s lair, though without the benefit of a “bloody awesome Batcave.”
“They must be jealous,” Ron theorised one evening as the four friends—Hermione reading quietly in the corner—gazed out the common room window at the black lake. “Imagine waking up every day in a fish tank instead of a sunlit tower?”
Neville shuddered visibly. “Worse if there’s a Grindylow staring at you through the window when you wake up…”
“Or the giant squid,” Harry added, his green eyes widening at the disturbing image.
The three shuddered in unison, as if a snake had slithered down their spines. Some mental images, once conjured, were impossible to forget—and waking up beneath the glassy stare of aquatic creatures was certainly one of them.
And that, among many other reasons, was why no Gryffindor could stand a Slytherin—a sentiment returned in full measure.
After all, everyone knew Harry was their Seeker.
The cold glares and jeers from random, unfamiliar Slytherins became a constant in his routine. But what unsettled him most was what Neville confided during a quiet breakfast conversation.
His friend had been shoved and intimidated by two older students for no apparent reason.
“They Vanished all my books and said if I walked past them again without dodging, they’d jinx my trousers off…” he told Harry and Ron.
Obviously, those Slytherin gits needed dealing with. And when Ron told the twins what had happened, they were livid.
“Just wait till morning—they’ll get a taste of their own poison,” they promised.
The next day, with no warning, those two Slytherins found their trousers dropping in the middle of the courtyard—Fred and George, hidden in a bush, kept hexing them before they could pull them back up.
The idiots had to hop all the way to a corridor to fix themselves, earning the humiliating nickname “Tighty-Whities” for the rest of the week.
It made Neville’s day considerably brighter.
Then, after weeks of mounting tension, the fateful day arrived.
The first Quidditch match of the year. The date of the Gryffindor-Slytherin game hung in the air like a storm about to break.
The night before, Harry barely slept, tossing and turning as nerves twisted his stomach.
The Gryffindor dormitory felt tighter than usual, as if the weight of his thoughts was suffocating the room. The soft whistle of wind outside contrasted sharply with the tempest in his mind.
When he finally gave up on sleep and rose, the sky outside was paling into a cloudy morning.
Dean had already left, his bed neatly made and empty. The discordant snores of Seamus and Ron reverberated through the room—their usual messy cacophony—while Neville slept peacefully.
Harry, still groggy and with anxiety coiled in his chest, grabbed his clothes and headed for a quick shower.
The hot water loosened his tense muscles but did nothing for his worries.
Back in the dormitory, he pulled on a jumper he knew far too well—it was old and slightly frayed, its sleeves absurdly long, nearly swallowing his hands if he didn’t roll them up. He tugged the cuffs back to his wrists, adjusting them so they wouldn’t interfere with his movements.
His jeans, too loose on his skinny frame, hung awkwardly, but Harry secured them with an ancient belt hidden under the jumper. He gave them a final tug, idly thinking that of all Dudley’s hand-me-downs, these were maybe the least uncomfortable—though still far from fitting properly.
Today wasn’t about standing out—especially not today, when the castle buzzed with tense excitement and students were free from uniforms.
Harry preferred not to be the only one in robes in the common room or corridors, a silent way to avoid drawing attention—though it always found him somehow.
In the common room, Harry paced, not yet brave enough to head down to breakfast alone. He hoped one of his friends or teammates would appear. When the twins finally descended, relief washed over him.
Together, the three made their way to the Great Hall, Harry half-listening as Fred and George debated which Slytherin deserved a Bludger to the head and why.
Had he been alone, Harry might’ve skipped breakfast entirely from nerves. But as soon as the Great Hall doors swung open, a wave of euphoric energy hit him.
The atmosphere was electric.
Students from every House seemed livelier than usual, laughing and chatting as if already celebrating the match to come. When Harry reached the Gryffindor table with the twins, he was met with a whirlwind of cheers and good-luck wishes.
Dean greeted him enthusiastically, brandishing a massive banner he’d made—a roaring lion trampling a green serpent.
“Didn’t know you could draw this well, Dean,” Harry remarked, surprised, feeling a flicker of excitement despite the knot in his stomach.
“Lots of practice. Especially learning to animate the thing,” Dean said proudly.
Harry had never been clapped on the back so much in his life.
Strangest of all were the older girls—Angelina’s third-year friends, even some sixth and seventh-years—who looked at him with the sort of fondness usually reserved for a cute puppy or the team mascot.
He found it odd but tried not to dwell on it as he sat with the team—surrounded by older, much larger students—pushing his food around without much appetite.
Oliver noticed Harry’s unease and leaned across the table.
“Hey, Harry. You’ve trained hard for this. You’ll be brilliant,” he said with an encouraging smile.
“Easy for you to say,” Harry muttered, prodding at his stack of cream-and-strawberry pancakes. “I mean, everyone’s watching today. It’s not like practice, when it was just us.”
Katie Bell, sipping her pumpkin juice, nodded, gripping the goblet with both hands to keep them from shaking.
“If it helps, I’m nervous too,” she admitted with a wobbly smile.
This was her first real match as well—Harry wasn’t the only one on edge.
“We all are,” Alicia Spinnet added, glancing at the others. “But we’re in this together, right?”
“‘Course we are,” Fred said confidently, nodding. “Speaking of which, if anyone fancies a bet on who’ll end up in the hospital wing by the end—”
“You two aren’t taking bets today,” Angelina cut in sharply. “I knew you’d try, so I’ve already handled it.”
“Handled it? How?” George frowned, as confused as his twin.
“No betting for you two. Lee Jordan’s dealing with it,” Oliver said without looking up from his scrambled eggs. “As usual, he’s commentating—and managing the pots this time.”
“Lee?” Fred looked appalled.
“He’s got no head for business!” George added indignantly.
“How’s he running the bets?” Fred demanded
“I knew you'd say that, so I spoke to Professor McGonagall. She's helping Lee with it,” replied Angelina, shrugging. “You know how competitive she gets these days.”
“Professor McGonagall? Handling the betting?” Harry asked, incredulous. “But... how?”
The older team members exchanged glances, and Fred broke into a conspiratorial grin. He leaned toward Harry as if revealing a great secret.
“Ah, my friend,” Fred began dramatically. “Today’s the day you’ll see a whole new side of your dear professor.”
“She’s competitive in any game,” Oliver remarked, propping his elbows on the table. “But when it comes to Slytherin... it’s personal.”
“But why? I’ve never understood why she hates Slytherin so much in Quidditch,” Harry shook his head, confused.
“I don’t know the whole story,” Angelina replied. “But I heard she was a Chaser back in her school days. Think there was a match against Slytherin... that ended badly. Really badly. Like, properly badly.”
A curious silence fell over them, and Harry, distracted, spotted Hermione, Ron, and Neville entering the Hall and sitting in their usual corner.
“Anyway,” Oliver said, refocusing the team, “the important thing now is that you lot eat properly. In a bit, we’ll head to the changing room together, alright?”
“Yes, Captain!” Fred and George chorused in unison, giving an exaggerated salute with their wands pressed to their chests—something resembling the wizarding version of a military gesture.
Oliver rolled his eyes, clearly used to their antics.
Harry, meanwhile, allowed himself a small smile. If not for the growing nerves, he might’ve found it funny.
He was about to leave with the team when he saw his friends hurrying over.
Hermione, with that familiar look mixing concern and support, Ron visibly trying to mask his excitement, and Neville... well, Neville looked nearly as nervous as Harry, and he wasn’t even playing.
“Harry!” Hermione started, with a slightly strained smile. “You’ll do fine. Really.”
Harry tried to return the smile, but the knot in his stomach kept him from relaxing.
He knew Hermione didn’t care for Quidditch—she’d made that clear a few times—to her, it was more dangerous than interesting.
“Thanks, Hermione. I know it’s not really your thing,” he said, trying to sound confident.
Hermione shrugged. “Might not be my favourite sport, but you’re playing today, so I can’t miss it.”
Neville, standing beside her, gave a timid nod, but his eyes were full of determination.
“That’s it, Harry. You’ll... you’ll fly circles around them. I mean, not literally fly over them, but... you know, you’ll win... I’ve never been great with words,” he finished, flushing.
Neville’s support, awkward as it was, was comforting.
“Cheers, Nev,” Harry said, forcing a grin. “Glad you’re here too.”
Ron, meanwhile, looked ready to burst with excitement.
“You’re gonna crush Slytherin, mate,” he said, nearly bouncing. “They don’t stand a chance. I’ve seen you fly. It’s like you were born for it.”
Harry gave a short laugh, but the nerves still weighed on him. “Yeah... but they’ve got big players, and they look ready to rip my head off just for being there.”
Ron scoffed, shaking his head. “Let them try. Fred and George’ll sort them out. If any Slytherin gets near you, they’ll wish they’d stayed in bed.”
The redhead’s words sounded almost like a warning, because right then, Snape appeared behind him like a looming shadow.
Ron jumped slightly when he turned.
Snape’s gaze swept over the four of them, Neville paling the most under his stare.
“Good luck... Potter,” he said slowly, as though he didn’t mean it at all. “We’ll see if Minerva was quite so right about you. Your debut should be... interesting.”
“Thank you, sir,” Harry replied, straining to sound polite.
As Snape swept away, they all exhaled, unaware they’d been holding their breath.
“He gives me the creeps...” Neville gulped.
Hermione caught Harry’s attention with a light nudge to his shoulder.
“Just try not to overthink the pressure, alright?” She tried to sound calm and rational. “I know it seems scary, but you’ve trained. It’s just another match... with the whole school watching,” she finished, wincing as she realised that wasn’t the most encouraging note.
“Wow, that really cheered me up,” Harry muttered, scratching his arm.
Ron gave Harry a light thump on the back. “You’ll see, it’ll be easier than you think. Now go on, before Oliver drags you to the pitch by your ear.”
Hermione gave a reassuring smile, and Neville waved again, awkward but full of support. With one last glance at the three of them, Harry said his goodbyes and followed the team to the pitch.
Harry finished adjusting his team robes with a confidence he wasn’t entirely sure he felt—or if he was just forcing it.
Either way, he straightened his posture as he examined himself in the small mirror hanging on his private locker door. The reflection showed a boy who, despite the obvious nerves, had something warming him from within: he was the youngest Seeker in a century, and today, in his first official match, he’d prove he deserved that position.
There was something comforting in knowing his father, years ago, had also worn Gryffindor’s Quidditch robes. The silent connection made his heart beat a little faster—but in a good way, at least for now.
The echo of Oliver’s voice filled the room as he finalised last-minute tactical instructions, drawing circles and lines on the chalkboard as if orchestrating a battle.
Harry tried to follow, but Oliver’s words blurred together.
He’d heard it all countless times in practice, yet now, with the match so close, his mind felt blank. His palms were clammy, and he rubbed them nervously against his robes, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. Every tactical explanation passed through him like distant fog, and he only clapped along with the others by reflex when Oliver finished his speech.
Grabbing his Nimbus, Harry followed the team toward the changing room exit, walking the corridor leading to the pitch.
Above them, the noise was deafening.
The sound of hundreds of feet stamping on wooden bleachers, shouts, laughter, and muffled chatter. Students, Professors, even some guests packed the stands.
The echo of team chants reverberated, but right then, it all felt too distant to ease the knot of anxiety in his stomach.
He gripped his broomstick tightly, switching it from hand to hand, glancing around nervously, trying to absorb the atmosphere and steady his quick, shallow breaths.
The scent of fresh grass mixed with the damp wood of the corridor did nothing to dispel his mounting nerves.
“Nervous?” Oliver’s voice snapped him from his thoughts.
The team captain had placed a firm hand on his shoulder, smiling in a way meant to convey confidence.
Harry let out a shaky laugh.
“Yeah. Really.” He hesitated. “What was your first match like?”
Oliver chuckled lightly, as if revisiting a not-so-fond memory.
“Ah, I was nervous too. Really nervous, honestly,” he admitted with a grin before frowning. “But truthfully, I don’t remember much.”
“Why?” Harry asked, clearing his dry throat.
“Bludger hit me square in the head within five minutes. Spent a week in the hospital wing.”
Harry blinked, processing this.
“Wow, that… that definitely helps me relax.”
Oliver clapped his shoulder, laughing too, but was promptly interrupted by Fred and George’s excited shouts from behind.
“Relax, Harry, this is pure adrenaline! You’ll be begging to play every day!” Fred said with infectious enthusiasm.
“But remember…” George raised an eyebrow, grinning mischievously.
“Catch the Snitch…”
“Or die trying!”
The twins cackled as if it were the joke of the century.
Harry shook his head, laughing along, but his stomach still churned.
Oliver, looking exasperated, huffed at them.
“It’s a figure of speech, got it?” he said impatiently. “You two need to stop with that!”
Before Harry could say more, Lee Jordan’s amplified voice boomed across the stadium, reverberating through the stone stands and making the ground tremble underfoot.
“And now, give it up for the Slytherin team!” His commentary echoed across the pitch.
The stadium erupted in a cacophony of boos and cheers, but the jeers from the Gryffindor stands—right above Harry—were so loud it felt overwhelming.
The collective roar was a mix of taunting and excitement, every echo making Harry’s chest vibrate as if he stood at the eye of a storm.
Harry swallowed hard.
Oliver mounted his broom with a final rallying cry, his voice carrying the intensity of a commander leading troops into battle.
“This is it, team! Let’s crush these gits!” Oliver’s words electrified the team, a surge of energy immediately caught by the others.
Harry, feeling his nerves tighten his stomach like a clenched fist, tried to hide his discomfort as he swung onto his Nimbus.
Fred and George flanked him, whooping, slapping Angelina, Katie, and Alicia on the backs, all wearing fierce, battle-ready expressions.
It was a stark contrast to what Harry felt; while the others radiated pure confidence, he struggled to steady his breathing.
“And now, the Gryffindor team!” Lee Jordan announced.
The stadium exploded again, this time with screams so deafening Harry’s scalp prickled. The crowd’s roar nearly made him forget, for a second, the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.
He took a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs, and something inside him sparked—a flicker of excitement at being there. The world seemed to slow for a moment, as if the entire pitch was waiting just for him.
It was now or never.
Harry shot into the air with his team, cutting through the crisp morning air now surprisingly bathed in radiant sunlight. The dark clouds looming over the castle earlier had given way to a vibrant blue sky, as if even the weather had adjusted for this climax.
They formed the perfect triangle, a formation drilled endlessly in practice, and the crowd went wild.
The cheers from the stands seemed to propel them forward, every supporter screaming as if their lives depended on it.
Harry’s heart pounded so hard he wondered if others could hear it.
“GO GRYFFINDOR! GO GRYFFINDOR! GO GRYFFINDOR!” the crowd chanted at full volume.
“First up, the fabulous Chaser, Angelina Johnson! A true prodigy on the pitch. I’ve seen many players, never one so easy on the eye—”
“Jordan!” Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through Lee’s enthusiasm, making the crowd laugh.
Lee coughed awkwardly.
“Right, right… On the wings, we’ve got more shining stars—Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet! Fast as lightning, and besides being exceptionally skilled… I must say, they complete the trio’s beauty—”
“Jordan, please focus on the match, not the players’ personal attributes!”
“And now, the twins who need no introduction—Fred and George Weasley!”
The two performed acrobatic loops, sending the crowd into delirium.
“These two are the best Beaters Gryffindor’s ever seen. Their tactics are practically revolutionary. If Slytherin thinks they stand a chance, well… they’d better think again!”
“Remember to be impartial, Lee—”
“Impartial? I’m the most impartial commentator in this stadium, Professor! And now, ladies and gents… the living legend—”
“Jordan!”
“Fine, fine! Presenting… Harry Potter! Our sensational Seeker!” The Gryffindor stands erupted. “He may be the youngest player in a century, but we all know he’s got talent that puts veterans to shame. Come on, Potter!”
Harry felt heat flood his face, keeping his expression focused as cheers echoed around him.
Across the pitch, the Slytherin team stood lined up, their expressions cold and cruel.
Flint looked especially smug, whispering something to his teammates while shooting sly glances at Gryffindor.
That cynical smirk on Flint’s lips wasn’t a good sign—Harry could feel it.
Terrence Higgs hovered slowly, like a predator lying in wait. His icy eyes met Harry’s briefly, and the disdain in his glare confirmed Harry’s suspicions.
The threats Higgs had made days earlier still lingered in his mind, but he pushed them aside. Today, he had to focus.
“And now, Madam Hooch takes the pitch!”
“I want a nice, clean game!” she said sternly as the captains shook hands. She released the balls, and—
The whistle blew. The match began.
“And they’re off! Alicia Spinnet grabs the Quaffle first and is already charging down the pitch at incredible speed!” Lee’s voice thundered through the stands, brimming with energy.
From above, Harry watched the teams move like pieces on a magical chessboard—only far faster and more chaotic. Slytherin’s Chasers did everything to intercept Angelina as she sped forward, while Alicia and Katie covered with quick, agile manoeuvres. They were clearly faster than Slytherin’s Chasers, but the Slytherin players compensated with brute aggression and rough physical play.
Harry swallowed, his nerves coiling tighter in his chest.
His eyes darted across the pitch, searching for any sign of the Golden Snitch, but so far… nothing.
“Bole steals the Quaffle from Katie… and Slytherin scores another ten points,” Lee announced, his usual excitement dulled by clear disappointment.
“BOOOO!” Jeers erupted from Gryffindor’s stands.
Harry glanced down and saw Angelina narrowly dodge a Bludger that whizzed past her head. Slytherin’s Beaters were relentless, hammering the Bludgers with vicious force while Fred and George struggled to deflect them.
The pitch was a full-blown warzone, with Oliver shouting desperate orders and rehearsed tactics, gesturing wildly to position his teammates amid the chaos while defending the hoops fiercely.
“Montague aims a Bludger at Angelina’s head—she just avoids it! That’s dirty play!” Lee exclaimed indignantly as Gryffindor booed in unison.
Harry tightened his grip on the Nimbus.
He felt useless up there, watching the mayhem unfold below. If he could just catch the Snitch, everything would change.
But where the hell was it?
Then—he saw it.
Near the Slytherin stands, a fleeting golden glint flashed in his peripheral vision.
Harry’s heart leapt.
There.
He dove abruptly, clutching his broom as he accelerated.
“Potter’s seen the Snitch! Higgs is right behind him!” Lee’s voice was a mix of excitement and dread. “They’re racing along the stands, but the pitch is still on fire! Oliver makes another brilliant save against Flint!”
Harry was painfully aware of the score: 120 to Slytherin, 70 to Gryffindor.
The pressure on his shoulders was crushing. Wind whipped his face, his eyes squinting as he focused on the Snitch, which seemed determined to evade him, zigzagging wildly. He could feel Higgs closing in, almost sensing his presence beside him.
“PISS OFF, POTTER!” roared Higgs, closing in dangerously and forcing Harry to fly dangerously close to the stands.
The fabric of Slytherin banners brushed against his skin as he swerved, the mixed cacophony of cheers, jeers, and insults filling the air around him.
His palms were sweating, making it hard to grip his broomstick firmly.
“Higgs is targeting Potter! That's dirty play—someone tell Madam Hooch!” Lee exclaimed, his indignation crystal clear.
McGonagall remained in tense silence, her eyes fixed on the match.
Harry knew he couldn't match Higgs for strength. The Slytherin was bigger and heavier.
But he had speed and agility on his side.
When Higgs attempted a sideways shove, Harry reacted at the last second, shooting upward and narrowly escaping. It was obvious Higgs wasn’t focused on the Snitch.
He was far more interested in taking Harry out first.
The Snitch, as if spurred by the mounting tension, darted toward the centre of the pitch, where the real battle raged—red and green clashing in a medieval-style war for dominance.
Fred and George looked more serious than Harry had ever seen them, their expressions rigid as they blocked Bludgers with fierce intensity.
The girls on the team were starting to flag, sweating under Slytherin’s relentless pressure.
And Oliver was defending the hoops as if his life depended on it, darting from post to post with impressive speed and precision.
“TAKE THAT, YOU SLIMY GIT!” Fred bellowed, smashing a Bludger straight at Peregrine Derrick, who nearly lost control of his broom dodging it.
“SCREW YOU, YOU BLOODY GINGER!” Derrick shot back, his shout lost in the roar of the stands.
The tension was palpable—boos, swearing, and cheers swirling into a hurricane of emotion.
Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm as he skimmed past Slytherin’s hoops in a risky manoeuvre, nearly colliding in the process.
Higgs swerved around Katie, who was charging with the Quaffle, but Harry kept his focus on the Snitch, deftly avoiding Flint and a Bludger hurled by Montague.
“The Seekers are racing through the centre—and Higgs slams straight into Harry!”
The impact nearly knocked Harry off his broom.
He felt fury boiling inside him. His teeth clenched, and his patience snapped.
“Look at the nerve of that bastard!” he thought, eyes blazing with determination.
Ignoring Higgs’ size and without thinking, Harry used the Nimbus’ speed to retaliate, ramming upwards and catching Higgs off guard.
The Slytherin wobbled, clearly shocked by the force of the collision.
“SCREW YOU, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Higgs snarled, righting himself angrily.
“KISS MY ARSE, HIGGS!” Harry shot back, his voice sharp as they glared at each other.
“THAT'S IT, POTTER, SHOW HIM!” Lee cheered, fist pumping the air, caught up in the tension.
McGonagall didn’t correct his bias.
“POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!”
The Gryffindor stands roared his name.
In the crowd, Hermione—her face tight with worry as she watched Harry’s dangerous moves—was the most fervent, jumping and clapping with the rest.
Her piercing shrieks rose above all others, leaving Ron and Neville gaping.
“And she doesn’t even like Quidditch—look at her!” Ron exclaimed, stunned.
Neville just nodded, equally baffled by Hermione’s sudden intensity.
Dean proudly held his banner aloft while Seamus slung an arm over his shoulder, both jumping in support alongside older students.
“Wait, what’s happening?” Lee Jordan shouted, pointing to the pitch where Harry had suddenly stopped chasing the Snitch. “Potter—something’s wrong! He’s losing control of his broom!”
“HIGGS! HIGGS! HIGGS!”
The Slytherin crowd erupted in celebration, seizing the distraction to cheer their Seeker, while Gryffindor reacted with a mix of confusion and outrage.
“Bloody hell!” Harry swore through gritted teeth as his broom bucked violently, as if it had a mind of its own and was determined to throw him off.
He clung on desperately, trying to steady himself, but the broom jerked and spun wildly, nearly flinging him off multiple times.
In the stands, his friends watched in horror.
Neville and Ron squinted, shielding their eyes from the sun, while Hermione—ever prepared—used her Omnioculars to analyse every move with precision.
The mood around them was tense, murmurs of uncertainty spreading through the crowd.
“His broom! This happened to me in Flying class! Harry can’t control it—he might fall!” Neville said, his voice trembling.
“That doesn’t make sense!” Ron snapped, slapping his thighs, his ears turning redder by the second. “Brooms don’t just act up on their own!”
“Look—Snape’s jinxing Harry!” Hermione gasped, pointing at the Professors’ section.
“Let me see that!” Ron snatched the Omnioculars from her, frowning as he focused on Snape, who was muttering under his breath, his eyes locked on Harry. “That bastard! Is he trying to sabotage the match or kill Harry?”
“Both! He wants both!” Neville said desperately—he had good reason to fear that professor.
Without looking away, Ron passed the Omnioculars to Neville, who—though hesitant—peered through them, hands shaking.
“Wait! Quirrell’s doing something too! It’s both of them!” He pointed at each.
Hermione bit her lip, her mind racing as an idea formed.
“We’ve got to do something!” she said urgently. “Or Harry could really get hurt!”
“How the hell are we supposed to do that?” Neville asked, wringing his hands, fear written all over his face.
“I’ve got an idea!” Hermione said firmly, already standing.
“Lead the way!” Ron replied without hesitation, jumping up after her.
They sprinted through the stands, weaving through the distracted crowd, all eyes fixed on the chaos below.
“Hey, wait for me!” Neville called, scrambling after them while throwing worried glances at Harry, still wrestling with his rogue broom.
Meanwhile, on the pitch, the match raged on.
Alicia took a Bludger to the back but seemed fine, though George was clearly nursing a previous hit, massaging his shoulder with a grimace.
Slytherin’s Adrian Pucey collided with Katie Bell, who retaliated with a sharp elbow, shoving him off after he kicked her.
The score was tight—190 to 160 for Slytherin—but everything could change if Higgs caught the Snitch before Harry.
Oliver was hoarse from shouting, his face gleaming with sweat under the sun. His eyes never left Harry, worry etched across his features.
“What the hell’s happening to Harry?!” Fred yelled, whacking a Bludger with extra force.
“No idea!” Oliver shouted back, his gaze flicking between Harry and the pitch. “Keep pressing the centre!”
Fred and George nodded, while Gryffindor’s Chasers, Angelina and Alicia, charged forward with the Quaffle.
The tension was suffocating.
Katie was covering for them when Bole and Flint closed in from both sides—she couldn’t dodge in time and slammed straight into one of the stands’ towers, her impact cushioned by the stadium’s enchanted fabric.
She vanished into the tower’s depths.
As Gryffindor roared in outrage, Lee voiced their fury.
“Bole and Flint just ganged up and rammed Katie into the stands! The sheer filth of Slytherin’s tactics!” he bellowed, abandoning all pretence of impartiality.
Beneath the stands, Hermione led the way through the rows of seats, crouching to avoid notice.
The space was cramped, forcing them to squeeze between beams to reach the Professors’ section.
“Mind your head,” Hermione whispered.
“What?—OW!” Ron muttered, rubbing his forehead after smacking into a wooden beam. “Mind your head, mate.”
“I’m fine,” Neville panted, struggling to keep up. “But what exactly are you planning?”
“Shh!” Hermione hissed, shooting him a warning look.
They neared the Professors’ section, where Snape and Quirrell were fully engrossed in their spellwork.
Hermione could see them both muttering incantations, their lips moving in perfect sync, eyes fixed on Harry.
Without hesitation, Hermione drew her wand.
She aimed first at Snape’s trailing black robes and whispered:
“Incendio.”
A small flame licked at the fabric. Without pause, she did the same to Quirrell’s purple robes.
“Merlin’s pants! You set them on fire!” Ron whispered, grinning fiercely.
Hermione nodded briskly. “Let’s get out of here!”
Neville jumped, startled.
“This way!” he whispered, voice shaking.
Back on the pitch, Harry was flung violently toward the centre, still fighting his broom.
The players around him barely noticed his struggle amid the chaos.
Then, suddenly, Harry spotted thin wisps of smoke rising from the Professors’ seats.
Almost instantly, his broom steadied, and Harry seized control, gripping the handle with renewed determination, as if his life depended on it.
“Potter’s back in the game! He can still win—go on, Harry!” Lee Jordan shouted through the megaphone, the crowd roaring in response.
“Jordan, impartiality!”
Harry, now steady, frantically scanned for Higgs, determined to reach the Snitch before it was too late.
But hovering in place was his biggest mistake.
“HARRY, LOOK OUT!” Oliver suddenly bellowed.
Before he could react, a Bludger smashed into his shoulder with brutal force.
Pain exploded through him, and Harry was thrown from his broom, plummeting downward.
He was too high up—only glimpsed the stands shrinking below and the shadow of the pitch rushing up to meet him.
The world went black before he could even process what had happened.
Chapter 11: Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Cold
Chapter Text
Harry groaned as a throbbing pain exploded in his right shoulder.
His head felt as though it were filled with lead, and the voices around him blurred into an indistinct buzz.
With a Herculean effort, he forced his eyelids open—they felt glued shut—and blinked against the harsh light streaming through the infirmary’s tall windows.
The surroundings were painfully familiar; it was the same narrow bed he’d occupied weeks prior, after his encounter with the troll.
As he tried to move, another wave of pain wrenched a louder grunt from him.
When his eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, he realised he was surrounded.
The entire Gryffindor Quidditch team still wore their mud-and-sweat-stained uniforms, their once-white trousers now brown from skidding across the sodden pitch. Katie Bell, who’d also been knocked off her broom during the match, looked unharmed but exhausted.
Beyond them, Hermione, Neville, and Ron were clustered close to the bed, their expressions tense. At the back, Seamus, Dean, and other Gryffindors murmured quietly, but their eyes never left Harry.
“Quiet!” Hermione snapped with an authority that would’ve made Professor McGonagall proud. “He’s waking up!”
The chatter died instantly, and all eyes locked onto Harry.
“What… what happened?” he croaked, his voice rough and foreign to his own ears.
“You took a Bludger straight to the shoulder and fell off your broom,” Hermione replied at once, wringing her hands in that characteristic way she did when nervous. “Luckily, nothing’s broken.”
Harry frowned, trying to arrange his foggy thoughts.
“And… the match?” he asked, priorities firmly in order.
His gaze met Oliver’s, who stood by the bed with slumped shoulders, his face a mask of dejection.
“We lost,” Oliver sighed, frustration dripping from every word. “With Katie out and you in the infirmary, Higgs caught the Snitch right after. We never stood a chance.”
Harry gripped the white sheet with his fingers, a weight of guilt settling in his chest.
“I… I should’ve seen that Bludger,” he muttered, touching his aching shoulder.
He still wore his match uniform, as grubby and crumpled as his teammates’—the game must’ve ended recently.
“Wasn’t your fault, Harry,” Angelina cut in, offering a tired smile that briefly lit her battle-worn face. “I warned you, remember? They play dirty.”
Harry shook his head, irritation rising like lava.
“But it wasn’t fair! My broom… it wouldn’t obey me!” He stared at his friends, bewildered. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Never seen anything like it in all my years of Quidditch,” Oliver stated with a conviction that brooked no argument. “It was odd. If what Ron says is true, then it wasn’t your fault. Not one bit.”
“Those sons of a—” Ron began, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles whitened.
“Ron!” Hermione interrupted, shooting him a warning look.
“—deserve to be expelled!” Ron finished, rerouting his sentence under Hermione’s glare. “Snape and Quirrell, both of ’em!”
“We could try filing a complaint or a note of protest…” Neville offered quietly.
“They ought to be reported, Nev!” Ron countered, his ears turning red.
“Snape and Quirrell?” Harry repeated, incredulous.
His mind raced, scrambling to understand why the two professors would do such a thing.
An unpleasant suspicion began forming, but this wasn’t the time to voice it.
“I was waiting for you to wake to tell you,” Hermione said, leaning forward in her chair. “Neville and I took your broom to Professor McGonagall. If any spell was used on it, there might be magical residue… but proving it was them will be tricky.”
“Merlin…” Harry muttered, the bitter taste of frustration sharp on his tongue.
He already hated Snape—not just because the professor seemed to take pleasure in making him feel inferior and uncomfortable in his lessons, but also because his pale, greasy physique, wrapped in that dark cloak like some malevolent bat, did nothing to paint him as a man with good intentions.
Now he could add Quirrell to the list.
“So… can the match be voided?” Neville asked timidly, glancing at the players. “Sorry, I don’t know the rules.”
Oliver’s expression transformed instantly. His eyes shone as if he’d had an epiphany.
“Actually, yes! If interference’s proven, we could get a rematch!” He looked ready to burst with excitement. “Sorry, need to plan new strategies! See you at dinner!”
And before anyone could respond, Oliver sprinted off as if launched from a catapult.
“Well, that was predictable,” Angelina remarked, rolling her eyes. “If they can’t prove anything, he’ll mope for a week, curled up in bed like a foetus. Mark my words.”
“Is he always this… intense about Quidditch?” Hermione asked, arching a brow.
“Intense doesn’t cover it,” Fred began, exchanging a knowing look with George.
“He lives, breathes, and dreams Quidditch,” George continued.
“Every lesson—”
“—Eight days a week—”
“—Even on birthdays—”
“—And leap years.”
“If Quidditch were banned, Oliver Wood would simply cease to exist,” George proclaimed solemnly, as though delivering a prophecy.
“We get it!” Ron laughed, shaking his head at the twins.
Hermione ignored the banter, refocusing on Harry.
“And you? How’re you feeling?” she asked, her voice softening.
“Shoulder hurts, back too… but I’ll live,” Harry replied, attempting a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What about you lot? Anyone else hurt?”
“Ah, the usual,” Fred said, waving dismissively. “A Bludger here, a Bludger there. Madam Pomfrey’s patched us up.”
“She’s a specialist at fixing Quidditch players,” George added with a grin.
Harry sighed, exhaustion weighing on him. “That match was a bloody battlefield.”
“Don’t fret,” Angelina said, pushing a curl from her face. “Only Slytherins play like that. Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs keep it clean. It’s fun playing them—you’ll see the difference.”
The conversation carried on, but gradually the other Gryffindors trickled out until only his closest friends remained.
Harry’s stomach growled—the meagre breakfast he’d managed before the match was ancient history.
The sound of firm footsteps interrupted them. Madam Pomfrey approached with a tray of colourful potions that made Harry instinctively shrink back.
“Ah, Mr. Potter’s awake,” she announced. “Time for your potions and a proper look at that shoulder.”
“Right,” Harry muttered, resigned.
The potions tasted as dreadful as ever, and the thick salve she applied to his shoulder burned like fire.
When the nurse peeled back the bandage, even Ron grimaced—a massive purple bruise, edged with sickly yellow, marked where the Bludger had struck.
“Blimey…” Hermione whispered, covering her mouth.
“Looks worse than it is,” Madam Pomfrey said briskly, though Harry noticed her frown as she examined the injury.
Another defeat, more injured players, more humiliation for Gryffindor.
Harry stared at the ceiling, the bitter tang of disappointment sharp in his throat.
Some things, it seemed, never changed.
Harry didn’t stay in the infirmary.
As Madam Pomfrey had predicted, his injuries, though painful, weren’t as severe as they’d first appeared.
After a silent lunch at the Gryffindor table,
he’d even considered taking a walk, but the exhaustion and aches soon dissuaded him. Back in the common room, all he wanted was a hot bath and to spend the rest of the afternoon somewhere comfortable. The weather outside was pleasant, a gentle breeze tapping rhythmically against the windows, breaking the quiet hush of the room.
A few Gryffindor classmates greeted him half-heartedly, shoulders slumped and voices lacking their usual vigour.
They weren’t angry with him—just disheartened by the Quidditch loss. Harry heard the Slytherins’ victory celebration was in full swing, raucous and gleeful—no wonder they’d skipped lunch, the house had planned a private revelry in their dungeons.
At least he didn’t have to listen to them gloating; the dungeons were mercifully distant from Gryffindor Tower for good reason.
With his shoulder and back still throbbing from the fall, Harry sank into one of the common room’s squashy armchairs.
An introductory Transfiguration textbook lay open in his lap—supplementary reading recommended by Professor McGonagall—but he barely registered the words.
He sighed, relief flooding him as the fireplace’s orange glow warmed the room, its light comforting.
His feet rested on a small ottoman, relaxed.
Hermione lay sprawled on the sofa, legs bent over its arm as she pored over a book—noticeably thicker than his, something about comparative wizarding and Muggle governance in Britain.
Ron and Neville were playing Wizard’s Chess on the floor, and surprisingly, Ron was losing—a rare event in Harry’s eyes, though the redhead didn’t seem bothered.
Harry’s gaze drifted from his book to the crackling fire.
The Quidditch match still nagged at his thoughts, but what troubled him more was the business with Quirrell and Snape.
Why were they scheming against him? Why him specifically? Why did Snape loathe him so much, and what did Quirrell have to do with it?... Why did his scar sometimes burn during the stuttering professor’s dull lessons?
He barely noticed how long he’d been staring motionlessly into the flames until a soft voice interrupted his brooding.
“Thinking about the match?” Hermione asked, peering at him over her knee, curious.
“No... well, yes—I mean... I dunno, really,” Harry admitted with a tired sigh.
Instinctively, he touched his sore shoulder, but the movement sent a sharp twinge of pain through him, making him wince. He ought to keep his arm still.
“If it’s about the loss, we already said it wasn’t your fault,” Ron chimed in casually, moving a chess piece. “Snape and Quirrell messed it up.”
“That’s just it...” Harry muttered, frowning as he tried to order his thoughts. “There’s something I haven’t told you. I think... it makes sense to say it now.”
Hermione lowered her book.
“Haven’t told us what?” she asked, while Neville—back previously turned—twisted round to listen, curiosity plain on his face.
“Sometimes, in Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons...” Harry began, avoiding direct eye contact, “my scar starts burning.”
“What?” Neville’s eyes widened. “In Defence too?”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up, her gaze turning sharp.
“So it wasn’t just with that cloaked thing in the forest? Why didn’t you ever mention it?” she demanded, frustrated.
“I dunno, I just... didn’t think it mattered, but after today...” Harry sighed, wrestling with his thoughts. He glanced away, resentful he’d never spoken up. “But it only happens when Professor Quirrell writes on the blackboard...” He shrugged, then grimaced at the fresh stab of pain.
“That’s... odd,” Ron murmured, thoughtful. “I mean, Quirrell’s odd on his own, but why’d he make your scar hurt?”
“How long has this been happening?” Hermione pressed, now fully alert, sitting upright and leaning toward Harry.
“Thinking back... since the Sorting Feast. But aside from that, it’s only in Defence Against the Dark Arts... plus that thing in the forest,” Harry admitted, folding his arms carefully to avoid more pain. “I thought Snape might be involved. He stares at me weirdly, but I’ve never felt anything like it in Potions. He just hates me, apparently.”
Neville frowned, speaking slowly as if piecing together a puzzle.
“So... if Quirrell makes your scar burn, Snape wants the Philosopher’s Stone... and both tampered with your broom.” He hesitated. “What if they’re working together?”
“Working together?” Hermione’s eyebrow arched, visibly surprised.
“Yeah,” Neville pressed, gaining confidence. “I mean, remember when my broom acted strange earlier this term? Same as Harry’s today. And Quirrell’s mixed up in it too. Maybe Snape and him are plotting something together...”
“But what’s the Philosopher’s Stone got to do with a Quidditch match?” Ron countered, brow furrowed. “Doesn’t add up.”
Neville deflated when no one seemed to take his theory further.
“But what if one of them is that cloaked figure?” he suggested. “That thing drinking unicorn blood while going after the Stone?”
“You’re saying Snape or Quirrell is that... thing?” Harry scratched his head, trying to follow.
“Could be. I mean, Snape didn’t make your scar hurt, but Quirrell did—same as the figure. If Quirrell wants the Stone, maybe he’s after immortality, and unicorn blood sort of does that, right?” Neville explained haltingly.
“Didn’t think of it like that... makes sense, I s’pose,” Ron mused, scratching his chin.
Hermione didn’t look entirely convinced.
“But that still doesn’t explain why Quidditch would matter to the Stone,” she pointed out critically.
“Well, Hermione has a fair point. Not enough proof yet,” Harry sighed, cleaning his glasses.
Hermione nodded, setting her book aside. Her expression turned worried.
“But your scar burning like that isn’t normal,” she said quietly. “Look, that mark on your forehead... it’s always been peculiar. You’ve got a scar from surviving the Killing Curse—something no one should survive.”
Harry swallowed hard, discomfort crawling up his throat.
He hated talking about this – his scar was the reason he was here now, alive, but also why he'd lost parents he'd never have the honour of knowing, and that hurt more than anything.
“Where are you going with this, Hermione?” he cut across his own thoughts aloud.
“Perhaps the library has something... something that explains why your scar burns like this,” she suggested. “But most likely, that information would be in the Restricted Section.”
“The Restricted Section?” Neville questioned, wrinkling his nose. “We're not allowed in there till fifth year, and the punishment for getting caught is pretty severe from what I've heard.”
Hermione clicked her tongue in frustration.
“Yeah... forget it, it's a bad idea anyway,” Hermione sighed. “But you must tell us if it happens again, Harry. Promise?”
Harry nodded, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I will... but I don't think it'll change much.”
“Perhaps we'll notice something you missed,” Hermione countered softly, giving him a serious look.
Harry tried to focus on his book, but could feel his friends' gazes heavy in the air, each lost in their own thoughts.
His eyes skimmed the words, but the sentences floated without truly sinking in. He had to reread the same paragraph several times to grasp its meaning.
Finally, the silence was broken by Ron's command and the faint scrape of wood on the chessboard.
“Checkmate,” Ron declared with a broad, satisfied grin as his knight stomped Neville's king in a decisive move.
“What? How?” Neville exclaimed, staring at the board as if betrayed by his own pieces. “I was winning!”
“Not anymore,” Ron laughed carelessly, savouring the victory.
Harry looked up, observing the scene.
The board had become a chaotic battlefield, white and black pieces lying shattered like casualties of brutal warfare. Some were cleaved apart with swords or spears embedded in them, while others lay forgotten in corners, their expressions frozen in defeat.
Hermione, watching from the sofa, let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes, her disdain plain.
She turned a page in her book but couldn't resist a disapproving glance at the carnage.
“This game is utterly barbaric,” she remarked, voice tight with restrained frustration. “It's like a medieval brawl masquerading as strategy. I don't see how you lot enjoy it.”
Ron remained unruffled.
“It's the best kind of strategy,” he retorted, crossing his arms proudly, still basking in his win. “If you want to win, you've got to get your hands dirty and outthink your opponent.”
Neville, still processing his loss, shrugged with a resigned sigh as if he'd expected nothing less from Ron.
“Why do I even bother playing you...” He murmured, poking at one of his fallen pieces.
Hermione snapped her book shut with sharp finality, eyes fixed on the board as she watched one of Neville's pawns drag itself across the squares missing a leg, Ron's queen having run it through with a sword.
“You all seem to revel in the carnage,” she said coldly.
“It's just a game, Hermione. Not an actual battlefield,” Ron countered, rolling his eyes with a note of weariness.
She arched an eyebrow, shooting him a pointed look. “Tell that to the pieces you just slaughtered.”
Ron sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin give me strength, why must you be so impossible sometimes—”
Hermione opened her mouth for a biting retort, but Harry was quicker.
“Blimey, have you lot noticed how nice the weather is?” he interjected abruptly, forcing casualness.
His eyes darted to Hermione, who gave him a questioning look, but he feigned ignorance of the argument.
“Love a bit of blue sky with some clouds... proper peaceful, eh Nev?” He turned a page he hadn't read, straining to sound nonchalant.
Neville, seizing the lifeline, nodded eagerly.
“Oh, I love it too,” he agreed with perhaps excessive enthusiasm. “Dead calm, perfect for... not arguing.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry, seeing right through his painfully unsubtle diversion, while Ron exhaled but leaned back in his chair without another word.
Hermione said nothing more, returning pointedly to her reading.
The following morning, the Great Hall was packed with students eager for a hearty breakfast.
Apple, pineapple, and pumpkin juice circulated between the tables alongside the usual tea or coffee. Despite the comforting spread, the mood at the Gryffindor table was far from cheerful.
Outside, heavy rain fell, accompanied by thunder that rattled the castle windows. The wind lashed against the glass, creating a rhythmic tapping that only deepened the gloom.
Harry pulled his cloak tighter around himself, winding his scarf more firmly about his neck. The chill spreading through the hall seemed to seep into his bones, undeterred by the crackling fireplace in the corner.
He noted the weight of despondency hanging over the table—a shadow that had clung to his housemates since the bitter defeat the day before.
Neville looked particularly downcast, slowly chewing a piece of toast, his eyes fixed on his plate as if even attempting conversation was beyond him.
His face was drawn, and Harry knew why: the dreaded Monday morning Potions lesson with Snape.
Neville always looked like this on Mondays, but today seemed worse.
As the Gryffindors sank into silence, nearly every Slytherin did the opposite. They laughed loudly, exchanging jibes and provocative nudges about the match, their voices deliberately raised to carry across the hall. The taunts were pointed and biting, but none of the Gryffindors seemed to have the energy to retaliate. From what they’d heard from older students, this was always the way—they even claimed the Slytherins played dirty, that the match had been stolen, and that their cheating had injured at least one Gryffindor, but arguing never did any good.
At the staff table, Dumbledore, after dabbing his mouth with a white linen napkin, rose slowly. His calm gesture drew every eye, and the buzz in the hall faded until the only sound was the drumming of rain against the windows.
“May I have your attention, please,” the Headmaster’s voice echoed through the hall, soft yet commanding.
Students turned, the silence growing until the Great Hall felt as still as a graveyard on a moonless night.
“As you know,” he continued, “yesterday’s match between Gryffindor and Slytherin involved a... most unusual incident.”
His words hung in the air. The Slytherins exchanged glances, some with nervous smirks, while at the Gryffindor table, Oliver and Angelina were on the edge of their seats, eyes alight with hope.
“We received an anonymous request,” Dumbledore went on, “calling for an investigation into the broom of Gryffindor’s Seeker, Mr Potter, to determine whether there had been any tampering during the match.”
Harry exchanged a quick glance with Hermione.
She raised an eyebrow and gave him a small, satisfied smile, while Neville, beside him, nodded timidly, a faint grin appearing on his face.
The hall was tense, murmurs beginning to rise again. Harry caught snippets—students speculating. Some thought he’d simply played poorly, others that his broom had indeed been cursed.
“After a thorough examination...” Dumbledore paused, letting the suspense stretch, “...we discovered that yes, there had been external interference with the broom.”
The hall erupted into louder whispers.
At the Gryffindor table, previously downcast faces now brightened. Oliver looked ready to vault over the table, his legs bouncing impatiently, while Angelina clasped her hands to her chest as if in silent prayer.
“Unfortunately, we could not identify the culprit. The magical trace detected leaves no trail of the perpetrator. Thus, there is no evidence to assign blame.” Dumbledore raised a hand to quiet the whispers.
Harry’s shoulders slumped in disappointment.
Hermione caught his reaction and gave him a sympathetic look. He’d still hoped those two bastards might pay for what they’d done.
Quirrell was absent—as usual at meals—and Snape wore an unreadable expression, arms crossed.
“However,” Dumbledore continued, “despite being unable to hold anyone accountable, due to this unfair interference, yesterday’s match result is officially void. A rematch will be scheduled for the end of the term.”
The reaction was immediate.
Gryffindors burst into applause and cheers, the sound echoing through the hall. Harry felt a deep relief, as if an invisible weight had lifted from his shoulders.
At last, the guilt he’d carried—for failing to secure victory—seemed to lessen.
“That’s not fair!” an angry voice rang out from the Slytherin table, cutting through the celebration.
Other Slytherins quickly joined the protest, banging cutlery on the tables and shouting in outrage.
The Gryffindors weren’t silent either, turning on them.
“You lot cheated!” the lions roared chaotically.
“Your team’s just rubbish!” the snakes shot back venomously.
As insults flew between rivals, Dumbledore raised his wand to his throat.
“SILENCE!” he intoned, slow and deep, his voice magnified by the charm reverberating through the hall.
He fixed both houses with a stern look, and the effect was instant.
The once-chaotic room fell quiet under the Headmaster’s command. The protests withered, as if an unseen force had drained all rebellious energy.
“Now that we are all clear,” he said calmly, with a slight smile, “let us enjoy the remainder of this fine day with another dose of learning. Good lessons to all.”
Soon, the sound of chatter resumed. Harry watched Oliver talking excitedly with Angelina, hastily scribbling on a scrap of parchment torn from his bag, while she nodded and added her own ideas.
“I told you!” Hermione whispered triumphantly, leaning across the table. “You always ignore me when I talk about basic spell theory. See? Knowledge saved your sport!”
She wore a smug smile, clearly proud of herself.
“That was brilliant!” Ron laughed, nudging Harry with his elbow. “First setting fire to professors, now saving Quidditch matches!” He let out a guffaw, joined by Harry and Neville.
“Was that you?!” George asked in a hushed, surprised voice from across the table, leaning toward Hermione.
Fred choked on a sausage, startled that Hermione had done it.
George thumped him on the back, but just as Fred took a sip from his goblet, a jet of pineapple juice shot from his nose, eliciting disgusted groans from everyone nearby.
“Bloody hell, George!” Fred muttered, wiping his face with a napkin.
“I was helping,” George shrugged, not bothering to hide his mischievous grin.
“You set them on fire?” Fred asked, narrowing his eyes, still recovering from the attack.
“Shh!” Hermione looked around nervously. “Keep your voice down! I didn’t do anything.”
“You did!” Ron insisted, laughing. “And it was bloody awesome!”
“Language!” Hermione scolded him with a stern look.
The twins exchanged knowing smirks.
“Your secret’s safe with us,” George sang playfully, winking at her.
“Hermione, the rebel,” Fred added in a teasing tone.
Hermione flushed, crossing her arms and trying to maintain a stern expression.
“I am not a rebel! I just did what was right. Now drop it.”
“Alright, Hermione... the rebel,” Fred teased, earning a withering glare from her. He coughed, averting his gaze to the boys.
“Speaking of... rebellious acts,” George remarked, shooting a sideways glance at Hermione, who narrowed her eyes threateningly. “No pun intended, swear.”
“We were thinking of giving a little... celebratory gift to our lovely, green-and-silver, venomous rivals,” Fred whispered, leaning forward on the table with his elbows propped, his voice low and conspiratorial.
“What’ve you got in mind?” Ron said through a mouthful of food. “Don’t tell me it’s the old slippery-floor trick, ’cause that’s way too predictable,” his voice muffled by sausages and scrambled eggs.
Hermione wrinkled her nose, eyeing his plate with distaste.
“No, little Ronnikins,” Fred chimed with a wicked grin. “This time, we’re going big. Something no one’ll forget anytime soon.”
“Completely unnecessary,” Hermione said coldly, crossing her arms. “The match was rescheduled, and you could land yourselves in serious trouble.”
“Trouble’s for people who don’t know what they’re doing,” George shot back, shrugging.
“We’ve been planning this for ages. Those gits have had it coming for a long time,” Fred argued.
“And you think the best way to teach behaviour is by pulling pranks?” Hermione arched an eyebrow, her voice dripping with disdain.
Ron and Harry exchanged glances, rolling their eyes in sync.
She always pushed it with that impeccable rule-abiding attitude, and though it was part of who she was, Harry sometimes wondered if she didn’t take it too far.
Harry found himself wondering if Hermione would hold the same opinion if the target were Malfoy. He remembered all too well how the blond constantly broke rules—casting hexes in corridors to intimidate others. Malfoy had gotten off with scrubbing a bathroom, while Harry had nearly been caught by a creature in the Forbidden Forest.
He deserved more than a broken nose. Sometimes fair payback... is a good measure, Harry thought.
“Right. What’s the plan?” Harry asked, ignoring Hermione’s comment and turning his attention back to the twins.
“We’re finalising the details,” said Fred, pulling a scrap of parchment from his pocket and handing it to George. “But we need to let the dust settle first. If we do it now, it’ll be way too obvious it was someone from Gryffindor.”
“Funny you say that,” Ron said suspiciously, crossing his arms. “Normally you just go ahead and do it, and we only see the fallout. What’s different this time?”
“Too sharp, Ronnikins. Mum would be proud,” Fred winked, making Ron’s cheeks flush slightly. “But you’re right. We’re telling you because, this time, we’ll need extra hands.”
“We’re recruiting you lot for the mission when the time comes,” George added, throwing a look at Harry and Ron, who exchanged surprised glances.
“Us?” Ron pointed at himself and Harry. “Working with you two on a prank?”
“Course, why not? Time to pass down our vast expertise to the next generation,” Fred shrugged, grinning broadly.
“Brilliant! I’m in!” Ron replied instantly, eyes gleaming with excitement, nodding eagerly.
Hermione rolled her eyes again, and Neville, silent, watched everything with curiosity.
“What about you, Harry? In?” George asked, his eyes alight with anticipation.
“Harry, don’t!” Hermione exclaimed, her expression serious. “You know what could happen. If punching Malfoy got you sent to the Forbidden Forest, what d’you think a prank on Slytherin will do?”
She was trying to dissuade him, the worry clear in her voice.
Harry, however, had already made up his mind.
It was time to give the bullies a taste of their own medicine.
Years of playing nice and letting things slide hadn’t worked. Time to fight back. Even if the foul little ferret had stopped hexing him, his presence was still grating, and he was just as insufferable as ever.
“I’m in,” Harry said firmly. Fred and George grinned widely, exchanging looks of pure, gleeful complicity.
Hermione let out a long, exasperated sigh, shaking her head as she returned to her breakfast, muttering under her breath: “Idiot boys...”
“Perfect,” Fred said, adjusting his bag beside George. “We’ll let you know when it’s time.”
Neville, who had stayed quiet the whole time, swallowed hard and went back to eating, not daring to comment on what he’d just heard.
The light of the full moon streamed through the high dormitory windows, casting a silvery glow on the red velvet curtains. The wood-fired heater crackled softly, glowing embers keeping the room warm and cosy, a stark contrast to the cold outside.
Harry slept peacefully, wrapped in a bizarre dream where dragons blew flaming trumpets. He’d read about those creatures before bed, largely influenced by Hagrid, who’d regaled him and his friends with tales of “magnificent beasts,” as he called them.
Suddenly, he felt someone shaking him roughly.
An irritated groan escaped his lips as he tried to burrow deeper into his pillow.
Why was it always like this? Why did everyone have this habit of waking him so rudely?
Fragments of whispered conversation reached his ears, but he was still too groggy to make sense of it.
“FIRE! IT'S ON FIRE! RUN!” a voice bellowed beside him, making Harry leap from bed, heart hammering and eyes wide.
If he’d been a cat, he’d have surely clung to the curtains.
“WHAT? WHERE?” he gasped desperately, fumbling blindly for his glasses.
The shadows of three figures swayed before him, and as his vision sharpened, he recognised Fred, George, and Ron, doubled over with laughter.
One of the twins had collapsed to his knees, pressing his face into Harry’s mattress to stifle his giggles, while the other held his wand aloft, bathing the room in a soft glow.
“Oh, come off it!” Harry grumbled, glasses now perched on his nose. “You three are impossible! What the bloody hell’s going on?”
“Ah, Harry... you should’ve seen your face!” Ron managed between gasps of laughter.
“You’ve woken the whole castle with that shouting!” Harry said, his heart still racing, though his tone was more resigned than angry now.
“Didn’t wake a soul. Used a Silencing Charm. Worked a treat,” Fred—or was it George?—said smugly.
“What’s the point, then?” Harry frowned, crossing his arms. “D’you know what time it is?”
“Easy there, Mr ‘Troll-Slayer and Witch-Rescuer’,” George sang dramatically, bowing so low Harry rolled his eyes.
“It’s time for the ultimate prank on Snape’s little snakes. Fancy joining?” Fred invited.
“Tonight? Now?” Harry asked, throwing off the covers and sitting up.
“Right now,” Ron confirmed, still wiping tears of laughter.
“Alright, give me a mo’ to get ready,” Harry replied, already rising carefully to avoid noise.
As Harry pulled on his uniform trousers and fastened his belt, Ron glanced at the twins, suddenly thoughtful.
“Hey, what about fetching Nev too?” he suggested.
Fred wrinkled his nose.
“Er, dunno, Ronnikins,” he said uncertainly. “Neville’s not really the pranking sort.”
“Nobody’s ever asked him!” Ron countered. “He might like it, just never had the chance.”
Harry, now lacing his shoes, shrugged.
“If you wake him like you did me, forget it,” he chuckled. “But... if it involves Snape, he might be keener. Nev never says much, but I know he hates the greasy git as much as I do.”
Fred sighed, crossing his arms. “Snape’s off the table this time. He’ll suffer the fallout, but sadly, he’s not the main target.”
“So what’s the plan?” Harry asked, straightening his shirt and finally looking up at the twins.
“Dungbombs with magical fuses,” George announced, grinning wickedly. “We’re flooding the Slytherin common room with ’em.”
Harry and Ron’s eyes widened. Breaking into the Slytherin common room didn’t sound remotely safe.
“Hold on...” Ron began, voice thick with hesitation. “We’re sneaking into their common room? What if someone’s awake in there?”
“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,” Fred replied, smirking. “We’ve got our ways. We’ll know if anyone’s there before we enter.”
“You’re sure about this?” Harry asked, doubt heavy in his voice. “Because if this goes wrong...”
He remembered Hermione’s warning the other day about consequences. Getting caught breaking into a rival common room would be far worse than any harmless prank.
“Trust us, Harry,” the twins chorused, so confident it was hard to doubt. “This’ll work.”
“Fine, alright,” Harry sighed, raising his hands in surrender. “D’you really want to fetch him?”
“Don’t mind,” said Fred. “Long as he follows our rules, o’course.”
“Surprised you’ve got rules,” Ron snorted.
“Even chaos needs structure for maximum efficiency,” George explained, like a seasoned expert.
Harry and Ron exchanged glances before heading to Neville’s bed.
Harry, being the gentler of the two, leaned down and shook Neville’s shoulder lightly, careful not to startle him.
“Nev,” Harry whispered. “Wake up.”
“Wha—? Huh?” Neville mumbled, blinking blearily. “Harry? What’s happening?”
Harry gave a small smile as Neville squinted confusedly into the dark. He bent closer, whispering softly.
“Stay calm... nothing bad,” Harry said, aiming for reassurance. “Remember that prank on Slytherin? It’s a laugh. We wanted you with us.”
Neville rubbed his eyes, still disoriented.
He shifted, pulling the covers tighter as if it’d clear his head. “Wh-what’re you doing? What time is it?”
Ron stifled a snicker but kept his voice low.
“Half-two, but it’s for a good cause, mate. Prank on the Slytherin common room. You’ve got to come!” he said, nearly bouncing with excitement.
Neville sat bolt upright, now fully alert—but with pure panic on his face.
“In... in their common room? Are you completely barmy? Wh-wh-what if we get caught? I... I can’t... Snape’ll murder me!”
“’Course he won’t!” Fred replied, leaning insolently against Neville’s bedpost with a grin that promised mischief. “He won’t even be there. And trust us, there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell we’ll get caught. We’ve got every detail planned down to the last Sickle.”
George nodded vigorously, his smirk radiating confidence. “Besides, Neville, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Poetic justice against Snape’s precious little snakes—remember how they’ve been taking the absolute piss out of you in the corridors all term? This is what Muggles call... let’s see... retribution. They say it’s brilliant for lifting the spirits.”
Neville looked painfully torn.
His wide eyes darted from Harry to Ron, then to the twins, his teeth worrying his lower lip raw. The mention of Slytherin’s relentless taunts had clearly struck a deep chord.
“But... what if I cock it all up?” he asked in a small, hesitant voice. “You know I’m absolute pants at this sort of... well, rule-breaking business.”
“You won’t cock anything up, Nev,” Harry said firmly, locking eyes with him in that steady. “We just want you with us. And listen—if anything goes sideways, I swear on my Nimbus I’ll take the blame. We’d never let you face the music alone, not when this was our ruddy idea in the first place.”
The other three nodded so emphatically Neville’s bedpost rattled.
For a fleeting moment, Neville’s eyes shone with something dangerously close to admiration at Harry’s unwavering loyalty.
Harry knew Neville’s limits for rule-breaking were as flexible as his fear or hesitation might suggest—after all, they’d already secretly practised offensive spells that year. But even though no one would ever suspect it could’ve been him… the terror of Snape’s wrath and the Slytherins’ retaliation hung thick in the air between them.
“Wh-what exactly are you lot planning to do?” Neville whispered, fingers twisting his pyjama sleeves.
“Dungbombs,” Ron announced with glee, barely containing his laughter at Neville’s immediate look of horrified disgust. “We’re planting a whole arsenal of Dungbombs in their bloody common room. They’ll be gagging for a week!”
Neville’s jaw dropped. “Dungbombs?! You’re actually serious? And... how in Merlin’s name are you getting into the Slytherin common room?”
“Ah, that’s the crown jewel of the plan,” Fred said with an elaborate wink. “Let’s just say we’ve got certain... illicit methods.”
“Just stick with us, Neville. It’ll be the most fun you’ve had since Sprout let you repot the Venomous Tentacula,” George added, throwing a comradely arm around Ron’s shoulders.
Harry watched Neville’s internal battle play out across his face—the nervous twitch in his cheek, the way his fingers drummed against his thighs. He understood better than anyone how Neville’s courage always had to fight its way through layers of self-doubt. After what felt like an age, Neville exhaled sharply.
“Alright... alright, I’ll do it,” he said, his voice quivering but oddly determined. “But you’ve got to swear on your wands we won’t get caught.”
The twins’ grins turned positively feral.
“Neville, if we got busted every time we pulled a stunt like this, we’d have enough detentions to last until we’re old and grey,” Fred declared, clapping him on the back.
“Honestly, mate, this’ll be the highlight of your Hogwarts career,” George added with a conspiratorial chuckle.
Harry felt a surge of pride as Neville squared his shoulders.
“Right, then,” Harry said, giving Neville’s arm a bracing squeeze. “Get your robes on and meet us in the common room. And don’t forget your wand—might need it for some quick thinking.”
Neville nodded jerkily, still pale but moving with new purpose as he fumbled for his wand on the nightstand.
“I really hope you know what you’re doing... because if this backfires, Snape’ll have us skinned alive and turned into book covers.”
“Chin up, Nev,” Ron said, already halfway out the door with a reckless grin. “It’s just a bit of harmless fun. What’s the worst that could happen?”
The five Gryffindors crept down the spiral staircase, their shadows stretching grotesquely against the stone walls.
The castle’s usual nighttime hum—the distant hoot of owls, the creak of ancient floorboards—felt eerily amplified. Harry’s stomach churned with equal parts excitement and dread.
A shabby grey rucksack lay conspicuously abandoned on the common room’s chess table, looking entirely out of place amidst the crimson décor.
Fred swooped it up with a stage magician’s flourish, the bag emitting a suspicious clinking noise as he slung it over his shoulder. All five now wore their travelling cloaks (the twins had insisted—though Harry would’ve bundled up anyway given the December chill seeping through the castle).
“Well? Are we going or what?” Ron whispered, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
George, who was adjusting his cloak with unnecessary drama, raised a single mocking eyebrow.
“Patience, dear ickle Ronniekins,” he drawled. “Phase two: The Art of Deception.”
“Hold still, ladies,” Fred commanded, brandishing his wand like a conductor’s baton. “Let’s see if my Transfiguration’s still N.E.W.T.-level.”
“I am not a bleeding lady,” Ron growled, crossing his arms defensively.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Fred shot back. “Especially when you screamed like a banshee after finding that spider in your bed last week. But don’t fret—your secret’s safe with us.” He winked exaggeratedly at Harry and Neville, who both bit their lips to keep from laughing.
Ron’s ears turned Weasley-red as he spluttered incoherently.
“Should we tell them about the time we charmed his stuffed dragon to sprout eight legs?” George mused, tapping his chin.
“I was four and you’re both sick in the head!” Ron exploded in a whisper-shout, his face now matching his hair. “I still check my pillowcase because of you gits!”
Harry and Neville lost their battle with laughter, clutching each other for support.
“World’s greatest older brothers, aren’t we, George?” Fred said, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.
“Only tied for first place, Freddie,” George replied, executing a mock bow.
“Will you two pillocks shut your gobs and get on with it?” Ron snarled, looking ready to hex them both.
With a final snicker, George produced a crumpled bit of parchment from his robes, which Fred studied with exaggerated seriousness before pointing his wand at Ron’s cloak.
“Right then... let’s see if I remember this correctly...” he muttered, performing an unnecessarily elaborate wand movement.
The transformation was instantaneous. The bold Gryffindor scarlet of Ron’s cloak darkened to Slytherin’s signature emerald, the fabric shimmering as if dipped in the Black Lake. The roaring lion crest dissolved into nothingness, replaced by an intricately embroidered silver serpent that seemed to slither menacingly across the fabric, its scales catching the firelight. Beneath it, the words “Slytherin House” appeared in elegant script that Harry suspected was a direct copy of the plaque outside Snape’s office.
“Ugh,” Ron remarked with disgust, staring at the new cloak as if it were contaminated. “I'll need to burn this later.”
“Ah, relax, Ronnikins. When we get back, everything will be back to normal,” Fred said, giving Ron a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
Harry, still intrigued, looked at his own cloak as George repeated the spell.
“Why are we using Slytherin colours, exactly?” he asked curiously.
George, while casting the spell on his own cloak, replied in a casual tone.
“Because, worst-case scenario, if someone spots us, Slytherin colours might cause confusion. They’ll think they’ve been betrayed by their own housemates. We don’t want Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs getting blamed, right?”
Neville, who had been quietly observing so far, looked anxious.
“But they know our faces,” he said, a note of worry in his voice. “Harry, for example, everyone knows what you look like—no offence.”
“Relax, I’m used to it,” Harry shrugged.
“Ah, Nev... that’s why we’ve got these things called hoods,” George replied with a soft chuckle. “It’s surprising how everyone overlooks that basic feature of clothing.”
Ron gave his cloak’s hood a quick glance, frowning. “Right... hadn’t thought of that. Coming from you, that makes sense.”
“Not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, but I’ll take it,” George remarked as he adjusted Neville’s cloak to the rival green.
After a brief silence, George raised his wand once more and stepped forward, adopting a more serious tone.
“Now, before we set off, we need to lay down a few rules,” he began, eyeing the three younger boys intently. “If anyone disagrees, they can head back to bed now. No hard feelings.”
Harry and Ron nodded immediately, while Neville, though hesitant, stayed silent, indicating his acceptance.
“First,” Fred started, his expression now stern. “If anyone gets caught—and I know it won’t happen, but I’ve got to say it—we don’t rat out anyone in the group. Understood?”
The three nodded in agreement.
“Second,” George said, clearing his throat. “Stick close to us and do exactly as we say. With us, you’re safe. Alright?”
Again, there was unanimous agreement.
“Just to be clear, I’m carrying the bombs,” Fred said, tossing the bag to his brother. “And you, George, are our guide.”
With a nod, George pulled out a piece of old, yellowed parchment, meticulously folded. He unfolded the map, murmuring with a mischievous grin:
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
Harry leaned in to look, and slowly, lines of ink began spreading across the parchment, revealing a map. He couldn’t read the title before George swiftly opened it fully, displaying the floors of Hogwarts.
“Blimey...” he muttered, impressed.
“That’s a trade secret, Potter. Maybe we’ll explain another time,” George replied, offering no further details as he rolled the map back up. “Now, let’s get moving—hoods up.”
They slipped out of the common room in silence, a line of dark shadows moving through Hogwarts’ chilly corridors.
Harry’s heart pounded so loudly he could almost hear it in his ears, his gaze darting side to side, torn between excitement and dread at what they were about to do.
Beside him, Ron wore a euphoric grin, but his eyes betrayed his tension.
Neville, wide-eyed and fidgeting, looked on the verge of backing out at any moment, yet kept walking, nearly glued to Harry as if seeking reassurance.
Up ahead, the Weasley twins strolled casually, their wands casting beams of light that danced along the cold stone walls.
The surrounding silence felt almost menacing, broken only by the distant whistle of wind through the corridors and the echoing click-clack of shoes descending the stairs, reverberating through the empty floors.
Harry could see his breath misting in the air, a reminder of how frigid the castle was at night.
“HAHAHA!”
He gulped at the sound of a familiar, ghostly laugh coming from nowhere. The sound echoed down the corridor like a sinister prelude, making Neville edge even closer, his eyes darting nervously in every direction.
Then, as if stepping out of a painting, Peeves emerged from the wall, arms crossed, one fingertip tapping repeatedly against his forearm as his mischievous, suspicious expression danced across his face.
“And what do we have here?” he sang, floating with a raised eyebrow, studying the group.
“Peeves, what an honour to see you again!” Fred exclaimed, bowing in an exaggerated flourish with a roguish grin.
George mirrored him, the two in perfect sync.
“If it isn’t the Weasley boys!” Peeves spread his arms as if greeting old friends. “What mischief are you up to this time?”
Harry, Ron, and Neville exchanged glances of pure understanding.
Of course, of all people in the castle, the biggest pranksters would naturally be friends with Hogwarts’ most troublesome and insufferable poltergeist.
Who could’ve guessed?
“We’re executing the Snake Prank, like we told you about the other day,” Fred whispered with a wink. “Fancy helping?”
Peeves tapped a finger to his chin, pretending to ponder.
“Ah, I’d love to, but the Bloody Baron’s got his eye on me. Won’t even let me near the Slytherin common room,” he said with a theatrical shudder at the Baron’s name. “Complicates things a bit, you know how it is.”
“But you can’t go into their common room anyway, right?” George pressed, eyes gleaming with hope. “No one said you can’t cover our exit if things go pear-shaped. No one does slippery floors like you, Peeves. It’s legendary!”
He stroked the poltergeist’s ego with the praise. Peeves grinned ear to ear, puffing out his chest with pride.
“Putting it like that... hard to refuse such a humble request, you flaming nutters!” He rubbed his hands together, clearly pleased. “Fine! If you need me, make a racket, and I’ll appear.”
“Brilliant!” Fred and George said in unison, with identical grins. “Always a pleasure, Peeves.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, see you later, tubby, flaming nutter Jr., and... Four-Eyes...”
Peeves responded to Harry's nickname with wariness for the first time, eyeing him shiftily as if seeing something his companions beside him couldn't perceive.
Harry raised an eyebrow at the poltergeist.
“Something wrong?” he asked sarcastically.
“None o' yer business, Scary-Scar!” Peeves retorted rudely.
He turned his gaze to all the others, resuming his infuriating grin.
“Just want yeh ter remember—if yeh get caught an' they ask about me, I had EVERYTHIN' ter do with it!”
Then Peeves vanished into the wall, his laughter still echoing muffled behind him.
“Bloke’s weird...” Ron remarked, scratching his arm.
“You lot friends with him?” Harry asked, somewhat bewildered, as they resumed walking.
“More like business partners,” Fred replied casually.
George nodded in agreement.
“Peeves used ter try prankin’ us, but we’d always dodge an’ avoid anythin’ he threw—”
“—Till one day he got so frustrated nothin’ worked, he gave up botherin’ us altogether by first year—”
“—Since then he sorta respects us an’ we respect him—”
“—Which’s why he doesn’t snitch when we’re outta bed—”
“—An’ also ’cos we sometimes rope ’im in fer a bit o’ help.”
Neville sighed deeply.
“Wish I knew how ter avoid his tricks,” he muttered gloomily.
“Yeah, me too,” Harry snorted.
Ron made a dismissive hand gesture.
“You two’re just unlucky,” he said simply. “Besides, he mostly pesters first-years, then starts layin’ off, right?”
Fred snorted a laugh. “Not quite how it works, but close enough.”
“Handy havin’ Peeves on our side,” George added, flashing a mischievous grin. “Never know when he might save the day.”
Harry nodded, though the chill down his spine from Peeves’ presence lingered. Personal experience said it was indeed better ter have him with them... than against.
They descended the grand marble staircase linking the first floor to the entrance hall.
The pale moonlight streamed through the vast arched window behind them, casting their shadows nearly to the closed double doors of the Great Hall.
Harry felt the weight of each step, a growing tension tightening his chest. When the twins led the group right, past a large door he’d seen many Slytherins use by day, a wave of nervousness gripped him.
George eased the door open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into the dungeons’ depths.
The air below was colder still, each breath visible as small vapour clouds hovering before them. The damp stone floor amplified their footsteps, echoing around.
Fred and George marched confidently, wands raised, while the others wavered between curiosity and fear.
“How’re they not scared ter live down ’ere?” Neville whispered, his shaky voice cutting through the stairwell’s silence.
The sound echoed, reverberating off the dark walls as if the very corridors were mocking them.
Harry pulled his cloak tighter.
“Dunno... but the cold’d definitely be the worst. Reckon this place’d be unbearable in winter.” He flashed a mental image of the Slytherin crest and, for the thousandth time, felt relief at not being Sorted there.
“Sleepin’ in a dungeon,” he thought, “definitely not fer me...”
“Liv’n down ’ere’d be... grim,” murmured Ron, giving a slight shudder. “I’d rather climb seven flights every night than live in this place.”
“Absolutely,” Neville agreed, his eyes darting nervously down the corridor ahead.
The distant drip of water only deepened the gloom.
When they reached a narrow, poorly lit passage, the twins halted before a stone wall adorned with a carved serpentine relief encircling what seemed a hidden door.
“Right, lads. Behind this wall’s their common room,” Fred whispered, leaning closer.
Harry’s legs felt shaky. He shifted his weight as Ron gulped beside him, and Neville held his breath like any noise might spell disaster.
“Plan’s simple,” Fred began, his voice low and firm. “Each o’ yeh plants three Dungbombs in strategic spots—hidden corners o’ the common room, wherever yeh can. Meanwhile, we’ll handle the boys’ dorms. Needs more subtlety, so leave that ter us.”
“What about the girls’ dorm?” Ron asked, curiosity briefly easing the tension.
Fred and George exchanged a look, muttering between themselves before Fred turned with a roguish smile.
“First, Ronniekins, we can’t enter even if we wanted. Same rule as Gryffindor applies there.”
“Second...” George paused, feigning wisdom. “Never prank witches—not even Slytherins. Trust me, yeh’ll regret it when yeh’re older.”
Ron pulled a face, shaking his head in disgust.
“What’d I want with a Slytherin?” he said with revulsion. “Ugh, no chance.”
Fred sighed, sharing a resigned look with George, as if privy to knowledge Ron lacked.
“Right, when yeh’re done, come straight back ’ere. Stick near the exit. We’ll meet up,” said Fred, now serious.
“And... how d’we get in?” Neville asked, still pale.
Fred grinned confidently, pulling a parchment scrap from his pocket.
“Crabbe an’ Goyle’re a pair o’ loud idiots. Got their password easy as takin’ Sugar Quills from toddlers.” He shrugged like it was nothing.
George peered at the paper, snorting. “Merlin, what a rubbish password. Still can’t get used ter it.”
Clearing his throat, Fred enunciated: “Pureblood.”
When Fred uttered the password, the stones in the wall began to move slowly, parting like the cogs of a well-oiled machine.
Harry watched, the memory of the brick entrance to Diagon Alley flashing through his mind. He glanced at Ron and Neville, who, like him, seemed frozen in a mix of anxiety and awe.
This prank had to work. Otherwise, they’d be in serious trouble.
Serious trouble.
Fred and George strode forward with the ease of those who knew the terrain, and Harry followed closely, his eyes capturing every detail of the Slytherin common room.
The place was more impressive than he cared to admit.
The stone walls and cold floor blended seamlessly with the cosy furnishings, creating an unexpected contrast. Chandeliers spread green flames across the room, casting flickering shadows over the black and green leather sofas surrounding a massive fireplace adorned with carved stone serpents.
Ron noticed the wizard chess tables, as familiar as the ones they had in Gryffindor.
“I still prefer ours,” he sneered, surveying the room with his chin raised.
Neville, on the other hand, seemed unsettled by the stone snakes carved into the vaulted ceiling.
He swallowed hard, clearly uncomfortable. “I definitely prefer ours.”
But what caught Harry’s attention most was the enormous window overlooking the depths of the Black Lake. He could hardly tear his gaze away from the fish and magical creatures swimming carelessly beyond the glass, utterly ignoring the intruders’ presence.
“Right, here you go,” said Fred, handing each of them three Dungbombs.
They were brown, with a revolting appearance but surprisingly odourless. Harry frowned, intrigued.
“They don’t smell,” remarked Ron, equally confused, as he took the last one from Fred.
“That’s ’cos they’re not active yet,” Fred explained with a grin.
He held up a tiny string on one of the bombs.
“We’ve improved ’em. Once you pull this, it’ll be an explosion of dung everywhere. But don’t worry about that—just plant ’em in the best spots. Go on, then.”
Fred and George waved the boys off before disappearing toward the boys’ dormitory, their voices murmuring spells at their feet as they descended a staircase.
Neville looked around, visibly nervous. “This room… gives me the creeps.”
“Let’s hurry, we’ve got to be quick,” Harry urged, keeping his voice steady to calm his own nerves.
“I’ll handle the loo,” said Ron, darting toward a door at the back of the room.
Harry gripped a Dungbomb firmly, feeling its weight in his hand, while Neville scanned their surroundings with wide eyes, clearly on edge.
He was sweating slightly, which didn’t escape Harry’s notice.
“Nev, relax,” Harry said calmly, stepping closer. “It’ll be fine. Just plant yours where you think’s best, and we’ll leg it. The hard part’s done.”
Neville took a deep breath and nodded, though his hands still trembled. “I know… it’s just… it’s Slytherin, y’know? If someone catches us here…”
“They won’t,” Harry cut in, grinning. “I’m nervous too, if you must know, but it’s funny thinking of Malfoy covered in shite, isn’t it?”
Neville attempted a laugh, though his unease was still plain.
He clutched the Dungbomb tighter and moved toward the wizard chess table in the corner. Crouching slowly, as if afraid the slightest noise might betray them, he placed the bomb carefully beneath the table. Standing up, he exhaled sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath.
“Done,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
“Good job, now plant the other two,” Harry said encouragingly, clapping Neville on the shoulder before turning to the centre of the room.
He surveyed the area, picking the perfect spots for his bombs. One near the fireplace, another by the window, and the last—he saved for the pièce de résistance.
“Now, the cherry on top,” he muttered, smirking.
Harry crouched and, with precision, placed the bomb right between two armchairs in the middle of the room, ensuring the blast would cover maximum space.
He knew—from Ron’s accounts of how these things worked—that when it went off, the whole room would be unrecognisable.
He stood up with a satisfied grin and exchanged a look with Ron, who had just returned from the loo.
“All set in the bathroom?” Harry asked.
Ron nodded, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Ready and waiting. This’ll be epic.”
Neville had planted his other two bombs on the study tables.
Fred and George returned shortly after, identical expressions of pure glee on their faces. They hurried toward the exit.
“Crabbe’s snoring like a pig, and Merlin—the fifth-year dorm reeks of cabbage,” George said, wrinkling his nose as the others chuckled quietly, trying to dispel the tension.
Fred pulled a small string from his pocket.
“Now for the grand finale,” he said, excitement thick in his voice.
He yanked the string with a theatrical flourish.
“Once I light this, Slytherin’ll never forget tonight.”
Harry, Ron, and Neville watched as Fred touched the fuse with a flick of his wand.
The flame raced along the string with a low, crackling hiss, and the other bombs ignited simultaneously.
Everyone flinched slightly, bracing for the imminent explosion.
BOOM!
The blast echoed through the dungeons, and in the blink of an eye, the Slytherin common room was transformed into a pandemonium of filth.
A tidal wave of dung erupted in every direction, coating every available inch in grotesque splatter.
The proud green velvet curtains were now streaked with dark brown, dripping a viscous, repulsive liquid.
The great window overlooking the Black Lake seemed to weep… but those were no tears.
It was something far, far worse—Harry swore he saw chunks of something resembling corn, or at least what looked like it.
The smell that filled the air was immediate and overwhelming, as if all the sewers of Hogwarts had been dumped out at once.
It was the kind of stench that seemed to cling to your skin and invade your nostrils without mercy.
“Shit! Literally!” Ron whispered, trying to hold back his laughter but failing miserably.
His face was twisted between disgust and amusement.
Fred and George, on the other hand, weren’t even trying to restrain themselves. They were doubled over laughing, tears streaming from their eyes as they pointed at the devastation.
The muffled screams began, and it was like a hilarious symphony of horror and confusion.
“AHHH! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!”
“Merlin, I’m gonna be sick…” someone moaned from down the corridor.
“SOMEONE MAKE IT STOP!”
Within seconds, the Slytherins—always so proud and snobbish—were sprinting from their dormitories, some in pyjamas, others in fine robes now soaked in… well, foul things.
Fred, his face flushed from laughter, whispered between gasps:
“If I’d known it’d be this good, I’d have brought a camera!”
“Run now or we die stinking!” George managed between fits of laughter.
He frantically gestured toward the door as the sound of footsteps began echoing through the corridors.
They heard dormitory doors being flung open, and desperate screams mixed with the sound of retching reached them.
A few girls ran out shrieking.
“What is that smell? Did someone shit in here?!” one of them screeched in a voice so high-pitched it could’ve shattered the stained glass—if it weren’t already covered in filth.
“Now!” Fred said, and the four of them bolted through the dungeons as if Voldemort himself were after them.
Adrenaline coursed through Harry’s veins as he ran, laughing uncontrollably.
Every step echoed hollowly through the empty corridors, but the excitement made everything feel both quieter and deafening at once. His heart pounded like a drum against his chest, his cheeks aching from laughter.
By the time they reached the second floor, they were all panting.
Fred slumped against the wall, trying to catch his breath while his face remained red, occasional giggles escaping. George, meanwhile, had his hands on his knees, laughing so hard he could barely stand.
“I’ve—never—smelt anything—so bad—in my life!” George gasped, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
Ron bent over, clutching his stomach, trying to regain his breath.
“That was bloody brilliant!” he exclaimed.
Harry, leaning against the wall, looked at his friends, still laughing. “Fred… George… You’re geniuses!”
Fred smirked wickedly, raising an eyebrow.
“’Course we are. And the best part?” He paused dramatically. “We made sure they had the shittiest night of their lives!”
“Teach ’em not to be such gits. Reckon they’ve learnt their lesson,” George added, thoroughly pleased.
“That’s for seven years of dirty wins they kept bragging about—they deserved worse!” Ron jabbed, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Harry couldn’t stop laughing.
“You did good, Nev,” he said, still chuckling. “Seriously.”
Neville beamed even wider. “I never thought we’d pull it off. It was… it was amazing!”
“Definitely the best prank of all time,” Fred said, still grinning.
But the euphoria was abruptly cut short when George, who’d pulled the map from his cloak, frowned.
“Blimey, we’ve got a problem.”
The laughter vanished instantly.
“What?” Harry asked, moving closer to George.
“Snape’s coming,” George replied grimly. “And Quirrell too. They’re heading from opposite directions.”
“Snape and Quirrell?” Harry furrowed his brow. “Together? — Shite…”
Fred and George stared intently at the map.
“Snape’s heading straight for Quirrell,” Fred muttered.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Ron whispered, his eyes darting nervously around the corridor as if they might be caught any second.
“Oh no, we’re done for… we’re gonna die,” Neville stammered, his voice trembling with pure terror, his knees seeming ready to buckle.
“Relax, lads. It’s not over. Not while we’re here,” George said quickly, gesturing for the others to follow. “Come on, this way.”
With a swift motion, the twins extinguished their wandlight.
“Nox,” they whispered in unison.
They plunged into near-total darkness, save for the faint moonlight seeping through the castle’s high windows, casting distorted shadows on the stone corridors.
Moving in single file, tense and hurried, they tried to be as stealthy as possible. The muffled sound of their footsteps echoed lightly as they hurried down the corridor.
The plan was simple: slip away before Snape noticed any movement. Harry, being last in line, couldn’t resist.
Something inside him—maybe sheer curiosity or the need for answers—made him stop and look back.
At the far end of the corridor, he could see Snape cornering Quirrell.
The cold glow of Snape’s wand illuminated the pale, frightened face of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
“Harry! Come on!” Ron hissed desperately, yanking Harry’s sleeve hard, trying to avoid making noise.
“Wait, I need to see this…” Harry whispered back, leaning closer to Ron, his voice barely audible.
“Bollocks!” Ron cursed under his breath, clearly frustrated but knowing arguing now would get them nowhere.
Fred and George exchanged uneasy glances with Neville, who seemed frozen between dread and curiosity.
Snape, ahead, narrowed his eyes.
“What are you doing here, Quirinus?” His voice was low, icy, with an implicit threat.
He looked like a predator about to strike.
“S-Severus… I-I was just passing through…” Quirrell stammered, raising his hands in surrender as he pressed further against the wall.
“Do not lie to me,” Snape hissed, pressing his wand closer to Quirrell’s throat, like a serpent poised to strike. “You will tell me which side you’re on.”
Neville, beside Harry, was shaking like a leaf in the wind, but to everyone’s surprise, his eyes were fixed on the scene.
“Which s-s-side? I don’t have s-sides!” Quirrell babbled, trying to sound convincing, but his voice faltered with every word.
“Ah, but there is,” Snape retorted in a dangerously quiet voice. “What were you doing in the Forbidden Forest in the dead of night?”
“N-Nothing... nothing!” Quirrell replied so quickly it sounded rehearsed, yet desperate.
Harry felt a shiver run down his spine.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
The timing matched what he and Hagrid had encountered in the forest days before.
Dead unicorns... and what if the killer was Quirrell? But why? He seemed healthy! What kind of wizard would risk cursing themselves by drinking unicorn blood? What could they possibly gain?
It couldn’t be him… or could it?
“Something’s seriously wrong...” Harry muttered to himself, his mind racing in circles.
Which side was Snape referring to? His own? Was he trying to persuade Quirrell to steal the Stone with him? But why would either of them interfere with the Quidditch match? And what was Quirrell really doing in the forest?
Suddenly, Harry was ripped from his thoughts as Snape stopped speaking and, with a sharp movement, fixed his gaze directly on the spot where Harry and the others were hidden.
Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. They’d been discovered.
“Run!” he whispered urgently, already starting to move.
Panic tingled through his arms and legs, making his steps quick and clumsy.
“Merlin’s beard, what the hell was that?!” George panted as he ran alongside Harry, his usually playful face now hardened.
“WHO’S THERE?” Snape bellowed, his voice cracking through the corridor like a whip. “SHOW YOURSELVES!”
“Faster!” Fred hissed, urging the others forward in a grave tone—rare for him. “We need a way to throw him off, now!”
“We’re dead!” Neville gasped, his steps faltering as he struggled to keep up.
Harry wanted to reassure him, to say something to ease the rising fear, but before he could think of a word, a blue streak cut through the air.
PHEW!
The flash illuminated the corridor for a brief moment, and Snape’s non-verbal spell missed them by inches, hitting the wall with a burst of sparks.
“STOP NOW, OR THE NEXT ONE WILL HIT YOU!” Snape’s voice dripped with danger.
“NOT BLOODY LIKELY!” Fred shouted, deliberately deepening and roughening his voice in a desperate attempt to fool the professor.
They swerved sharply left, ducking into a narrow passage.
VUMP!
Another red bolt shot past them, shattering the nearby stone wall with a thunderous crash.
Harry identified them as very strong types of stunning spells.
“He’s gone mad!” Ron exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder. “Now what?”
“Peeves!” Neville suddenly brightened with an idea. “He said to make noise!”
George whipped out his wand and aimed at a nearby suit of armour.
With a quick flick, he sent a spell that sent the armour crashing to the ground with an earsplitting clang.
Snape was mid-cast when, unexpectedly, he slipped as though the floor had turned to ice. With a thud, he landed flat on his back.
“HAHAHA!”
Peeves’s shrill laughter echoed down the corridor.
“Well, well, look who’s been caught off guard! If it isn’t Snivellus on his backside. What a delightful sight!” the poltergeist jeered, spinning in circles as Snape snarled, clearly furious and struggling to rise.
The boys didn’t waste a second and sprinted for all they were worth—leaping two steps at a time—until they reached the Gryffindor common room.
They gasped the password to the Fat Lady halfway down the corridor so she’d open faster.
They tumbled inside desperately, their legs barely holding up their exhausted bodies. Neville collapsed on the floor, completely winded, while Ron flung himself into a chair. Fred and George leaned against the walls, breathing heavily. Harry, hands on his knees, felt his heart hammering against his ribs.
“It hurts... to... breathe...” Neville wheezed, his face beetroot-red.
“That’s... ’cause you’re... mouth-breathing,” Ron managed between gasps, trying to sound casual. “Use your nose, Nev.”
Fred, his expression more serious than usual, turned to Harry.
“Now you owe us a proper explanation,” he said, as George crossed his arms in agreement. “We nearly ended up in detention with Snape for sod all.”
Harry, still catching his breath, nodded slowly. “You deserve to know... After all that, it’s only fair.”
“We’re listening,” the twins said in unison, flopping onto the sofa, eyes alight with curiosity.
Harry, Ron, and Neville exchanged quick glances—they knew there was no turning back now. The number of people who knew about the Philosopher’s Stone had just grown by two.
Harry walked towards the Great Hall alongside Ron and Neville, the smell of breakfast hanging in the air. Despite his hunger, his mood was light, almost mischievous, as he remembered the previous night’s “prank.”
The image of the Slytherin common room filled with floating excrement lingered in his mind, and he couldn’t suppress a wicked grin at the thought of Malfoy and his cronies’ faces when they woke to the explosion.
Did they deserve it?
Harry wasn’t sure every Slytherin was guilty, but given how that house treated the rest of Hogwarts, he hardly doubted most of them deserved at least a good scare.
The final straw had been yet another of Malfoy and his gang’s intimidation tactics against Neville after he’d returned from the greenhouses two days prior.
Harry squeezed Neville’s shoulder in solidarity.
“Relax, mate, no one knows it was you,” Harry said with a confidence that clearly didn’t reflect Neville’s pale face.
“I know... it’s just... they won’t figure out it was us, will they?” Neville muttered, glancing around nervously, his hands fidgeting and shoulders hunched. “What if they already know?”
“If they knew, we’d have woken up to our dormitory door blasted open,” Harry replied, adjusting the strap of his bag and letting out a short laugh.
“Out of everyone, d’you really think they’d suspect you, Nev?” Ron teased with a lopsided grin. “I mean, you’re always nervous about something. Might even be part of your disguise!”
Neville stammered a reply, making Harry laugh, his face turning even redder.
“I-I’m not nervous...! Just because we, well... planted those dungbombs... I mean, it wasn’t us, right? But it could’ve been, not that it could, but...” He sighed, letting his shoulders slump. “Never mind...”
“Maybe you’re not great with words, but blimey, mate, you helped orchestrate the biggest prank on Slytherin in centuries!” Ron threw an arm around Neville’s shoulders, trying to cheer him up. “And saving our skins by remembering Peeves? Brilliant. You’re a ruddy genius.”
As they entered the Great Hall, Harry bit his lip to stifle a laugh at the state of the Slytherins.
The silence at their table was near-total, a rare sight in recent days. They’d usually been full of taunts and snide remarks ever since the Quidditch match was cancelled and rescheduled.
Now, the boys sat muttering quietly amongst themselves, scowling deeply, while a few girls huddled at one end of the long table, visibly uncomfortable. The boys’ robes still reeked horribly, the acrid stench wafting through the hall.
“Planting those dungbombs in their bathroom was brilliant,” Harry remarked, turning to Ron, who grinned broadly.
“Thought they might need a bath or two... maybe three,” Ron chuckled but avoided looking directly at the Slytherin table, trying not to arouse suspicion.
Then Harry felt Draco Malfoy’s glare burning into him.
The blond boy stood abruptly, finger jabbing angrily.
“It was you, wasn’t it, Potter?” Draco spat, his voice slicing through the air. “You might fool everyone else, but not me!”
The Great Hall plunged into tense silence, Draco’s words echoing.
Hermione, watching from the Gryffindor table, looked up from her teacup, suspicion flickering across her face.
Fred and George swivelled in their seats, eyes alight with amusement.
“Listen here, Malfoy... Bloody hell,” Harry started to retort before losing his composure, pinching his nose shut.
He’d have argued, but the smell was so unbearable he lost the will.
“Don’t they have deodorant in the wizarding world? For Merlin’s—sodding hell! You’re rank!”
A few nearby students snickered, others whispering in amusement.
Malfoy, furious, turned beetroot red. “Shut your mouth, Potter! You’ll pay for this!”
“Sorry, but... can’t argue with you stinking like that,” Harry averted his gaze, suppressing a laugh as he backed away. “For Hogwarts’ sake, Malfoy, take a bath. Or another one, at this rate.”
As Draco cursed, laughter spread through the Great Hall. Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, ignoring the Slytherin, feigning indifference. Yet Hermione’s piercing stare, chewing slowly, made him squirm.
Those sharp brown eyes seemed to bore into his soul.
“Something on my face?” Harry pointed at himself, forcing a nervous smile.
Hermione looked away, took a long sip of tea, and snapped her book shut.
“Harry, don’t you think guilt might as well be written across your forehead?” she said bluntly.
He shifted in his seat and shot Ron a quick, pleading glance.
Across from them, Neville’s trembling hands could barely pour juice. If Hermione looked at him, he’d probably spill it everywhere.
“We didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Ron, feigning nonchalance as he piled sausages and eggs onto his plate, building a small mountain as usual.
Hermione arched an eyebrow.
“Oh? ‘We didn’t do anything.’ So it wasn’t just Harry, it was you too? Who else?”
Neville, now sweating, tried focusing anywhere but on the bushy-haired interrogator before him. But as he lifted his glass to drink, his shaky hand betrayed him, spilling juice down his front and onto the table.
“Merlin! Sorry, I’ll clean it,” he said hastily, grabbing a napkin Harry handed him.
Harry, with a strained smile, tried deflecting. “It’s fine, Nev. Hermione, d’you know a drying charm?”
“No, I don’t. It would be useful... but sadly, there’s no charm to wipe clean a guilty conscience,” she replied tartly.
“G-guilty?! I-I-I-I didn’t do anything!” Neville spluttered, flushing with every word. “We only...”
Harry nudged him sharply with his elbow, silencing him. “Sorry, mate, just reaching for more napkins.”
Hermione pressed her lips together, pointing at the pile of napkins beside Harry.
“There’s paper on your side, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She pointed.
Ron sighed and rolled his eyes. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Hermione huffed.
“No, Ronald, I’m not. What you did was disgusting and horrible. Not all Slytherins are like Malfoy or Flint, and now they’ve all paid for it. Just look at the girls—they can’t even eat over there!”
“Name one you know who’s decent, then. Preferably one who’s treated you halfway alright too,” Ron retorted dryly, crossing his arms.
Hermione opened her mouth but closed it again, thinking.
“Well, there’s... no, not him either...” She was muttering to herself now.
“Give us one name, just one, and we’ll shut up,” Harry laughed, handing more napkins to Neville. “But remember—we didn’t do anything.”
Before Hermione could reply, the doors of the Great Hall swung open forcefully, and Snape strode in, his face impassive, his black robes billowing as he walked.
The Hall fell silent at once as he made his way to the staff table, whispering something to Dumbledore.
Neville shuddered, gulping his juice too quickly and nearly spilling it again. Harry placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, while Hermione fixed him with a look of mingled concern and reproach.
Dumbledore, ever calm, gave a slight nod to Snape, who, with a flick of his wand, threw open all the windows of the Hall, allowing a gust of fresh, cold air to disperse the acrid smell lingering in the air.
“I wish to know who the individuals were that broke into the Slytherin common room last night,” said Snape, his icy voice reverberating off the walls as he paced before the staff table. “Planting foul stink bombs in the dormitories is a disgrace to this institution. Those responsible will face the consequences.”
Fred and George exchanged knowing looks, while Ron and Harry shrugged. Neville looked as though he might melt into his chair.
“Any leads, Severus?” Dumbledore asked calmly.
Snape cast a severe glance at the Slytherin table. “I found five students wandering the corridors at the time of the explosions, all wearing Slytherin robes.”
The Slytherins exchanged confused looks, searching among themselves for a culprit.
“Well, let the investigation proceed with due caution,” Dumbledore agreed.
Snape then turned his gaze upon Harry.
Harry remained still, meeting his eyes, trying not to look guilty.
Snape held his stare for far too long, long enough to make the air around Harry feel thick.
Then, with a subtle raise of an eyebrow and a scornful sigh, the professor turned on his heel and strode back to the staff table, where he began eating his breakfast without another word.
Harry sometimes suspected he could read minds.
And if he could... he’d need proof of what he’d done.
But before he could dwell further on these troubling thoughts, a blast of cold wind rushed through the open windows of the Great Hall, making the candles flicker and sending shivers down the back of his neck.
The sudden chill brought with it a reminder—the winter holidays were fast approaching.
And with them, Christmas was just around the corner.
Chapter 12: The Deepest Desire
Chapter Text
Harry had never been the sort to eagerly await Christmas.
In truth, his memories of the occasion were almost invariably dismal. The rare gifts he received consisted of Dudley’s old clothes—usually several sizes too large and bearing mysterious stains—or hole-ridden socks meticulously darned by Aunt Petunia, who made no effort to conceal her disdain as she handed them over. While the Dursleys threw themselves into the frenzy of holiday shopping, stuffing the car boot with brightly wrapped parcels, Harry was dispatched to Mrs. Figg’s house.
Each visit, she forced him to leaf through endless albums filled with photographs of her cats—most blurry or poorly framed—while enthusiastically recounting the most mundane achievements of each.
It was little wonder Harry’s Christmases were, at best, tedious. At worst, utterly forgettable.
That frosty morning, as he headed to his next lesson, Harry was exiting the bathroom when he spotted Draco Malfoy emerging in the corridor. The blond was alone, which was, at the very least, curious—Crabbe and Goyle, his ever-present bodyguards, were nowhere in sight. The crooked smirk on Malfoy’s face betrayed his intentions before he even opened his mouth.
Since the prank orchestrated by Fred and George that had left half of Slytherin literally reeking of shite, Draco seemed to have grown even more irritable and sour than usual—particularly toward Harry.
The tension between them had simmered, and now their hallway sniping had become almost routine.
“Oi, Potter!” called Draco, his voice drawling and infuriatingly casual.
Harry turned automatically, a scowl already forming.
“Pity whoever’s stuck here has to endure Christmas at Hogwarts.”
“Didn’t ask,” Harry replied coldly, turning to continue walking without breaking stride.
Draco pressed his lips together, the malicious glint in his eyes flashing for an instant.
“It’ll be great seeing my parents,” he said in a singsong tone, tracking Harry with his gaze. “Do give your parents my happy Christmas wishes—oh wait, you can't.”
Harry stopped.
Rage rose like pressurised steam, and a gust of magic escaped him as if the air itself were compressing. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened, and he whirled around, eyes blazing.
But Malfoy was already gone. Vanished down the corridor like a snake slithering into undergrowth.
“Coward!” Harry shouted, his voice echoing off the cold, empty stone walls.
The fury dissolved gradually, like smoke carried by the wind.
Malfoy's venomous remark still echoed in his mind, but it was being pushed to the depths of his memory as he entered the classroom and settled into his seat once more, his quill scratching hurriedly across the parchment.
It was the final Transfiguration exam of the term, and he needed to focus—no matter how difficult it was to ignore Malfoy's sneering voice ringing in his ears.
He ignored the blond when he entered the room quietly, but he could feel his malicious grin burning into the back of his neck.
Yet, despite sharing a castle with people whose emblem was a venomous serpent and who had a rotten habit of feuding with his house, Harry couldn’t have been more pleased.
For the first time, the prospect of not returning to the Dursleys’ made his heart overflow with hope. If he wanted—and he did, with every fibre of his being—he could experience a truly different Christmas, far from the loneliness and frustration that usually accompanied it.
The festive spirit had taken over the castle; there wasn’t a corridor or common area left undecorated for the holiday.
Term was nearly over, and the anticipation of the break hung in the air. Snow piled along the window ledges, and Harry watched curiously three Saturdays before Christmas as Hagrid dragged enormous fir trees into the Great Hall.
That vast hall, though nearly empty in the quiet afternoon, looked more enchanting than ever.
Twelve towering Christmas trees lined the room, each lavishly decorated with shimmering ornaments in the colours of Hogwarts’ four houses—scarlet and gold for Gryffindor, silver and green for Slytherin, bronze and deep blue for Ravenclaw, and yellow and black for Hufflepuff. The enchanted lights twinkled softly among the branches, as if each tree housed its own tiny, magical universe.
Red and green carpets covered the stone floor, muffling footsteps and adding warmth to the vast, chilly space. Velvet curtains in yellow and blue, hung on the otherwise bare walls, swayed gently in the warm draught from the fires crackling at either end of the hall. The flames burned merrily, casting golden reflections that danced along the walls and floor as if celebrating along.
Above it all, the enchanted ceiling performed its usual spectacle:
A delicate snowfall drifted down in absolute silence, the flakes glinting under the floating candles before vanishing gracefully a few feet above the ground, never touching the students or tables. It was like standing inside a snow globe, suspended in a perfectly magical, serene moment.
Harry sat flipping through a Quidditch magazine while Ron played a game of wizard’s chess against Neville. Beside Neville, a book of strategies lay open, and he frequently glanced at its pages between moves.
“You’re really still reading that?” Ron grumbled, propping his head on his hand, bored.
“I’m tired of losing to you,” Neville shrugged, adjusting his next move according to the text.
Ron sighed, moving his piece swiftly. “Fred’s invited us for a snowball fight. Fancy it?”
“I’m in,” said Harry, not looking up from the magazine. “But no spells this time. We can’t counter theirs.”
“You mean counter when they launch one at your arse at high speed?” Ron half-grinned.
Neville shuddered.
“No dodging that,” he sighed. “The one they hit me with last time left a mark till evening.”
Ron mused aloud, “Maybe we could get even… learn how to make the ground slippery. Like Peeves does.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Pranking the pranksters? The twins? Did you hit your head on the wall too hard?”
“What’s the issue? I’ve known them since birth—I’d know when they’re vulnerable.”
“What’s the issue? Blimey, let’s think.” Harry tapped his chin theatrically. “Maybe the fact they’re the biggest pranksters in the school? That not even Peeves outdoes them? Or that they’ve got a terrifying arsenal to pay you back tenfold?”
“And let’s not forget what we did last time… d’you reckon they’d go easy?” Neville gulped.
“Nah, they wouldn’t… well… actually, they might. Yeah… best drop it,” Ron conceded, sighing as he resumed the game.
Silence lingered until Harry broke it.
He looked at the redhead, curious.
“You lot staying?” he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.
It was a daft question. Professor McGonagall had taken names days ago for students staying over the holiday, and no Weasleys had signed up… in fact, barely any Gryffindors had.
“No...” murmured Ron, shaking his head slowly. His expression held a mixture of resignation and reluctant understanding. “Mum wants everyone back at the Burrow this year. Fred and George have already spent two Christmases here, but she's right... Bill managed to get a week off work in Egypt, and Charlie's coming from Romania for the holidays. She wants the whole family together.”
“He's the one who works with dragons, isn't he?” asked Neville, genuine curiosity widening his eyes.
“That's him!” said Ron, visibly brightening. “You should read some of the stories he sends in his letters... they're mental!”
Harry knew exactly how much Ron admired Charlie—perhaps nearly as much as he admired Bill. Whenever this older brother was mentioned, Ron's voice took on a different sort of enthusiasm, as though Charlie were some kind of personal hero. There was something about the idea of working with dragons in Romania that seemed to completely capture Ron's imagination; maybe it was the danger, or maybe it was simply the fact that it was a dead cool job.
It was obvious that, for him, having a brother who handled one of the most dangerous creatures known to wizardkind—and that breathed fire, no less—was a source of quiet pride. The sort Ron would never admit to aloud, but which seeped into every offhand remark.
Though he constantly took the mickey out of Percy for being “too much of a goody-two-shoes,” and regularly grumbled about Fred and George's pranks—the twins he'd spent most of his childhood with, building makeshift tents in the yard and playing with homemade explosives—Ron rarely had a bad word to say about Charlie or Bill. To him, the two were practically untouchable in terms of brilliance and bravery, and he seemed to like the idea that maybe, one day, he could be like them.
“Mum nearly had a fit once,” Ron went on, his grin widening, “when a dragon broke out of its cage at the reserve and went charging after him. Fred and George nearly died laughing when they read that in his letter.”
He snorted, letting out a muffled laugh at the memory.
Harry said nothing.
There was a quiet tightness in his chest, the sort he knew well but could never quite describe. He didn’t fully understand what it was like to be wanted enough that someone would genuinely miss your presence at Christmas. Or what it must be like to have brothers who cared about you—mutually cared.
For a brief moment, something clenched even tighter inside him, a flash of envy he shoved away quickly, as if he might be caught feeling it.
“Hey mate, don’t look so glum,” Ron tried to cheer him up with a weak smile before turning to Neville. “You’re staying, right?”
“Hm?” Neville looked up from his book. “Oh, yeah. I talked to my gran, and she said it was fine.”
“Did you want to stay?” Harry asked carefully. “I mean... it’s nice here, but she’s your gran...”
“I wanted to stay,” Neville replied, giving Harry’s back a reassuring pat. “She won’t be alone—I’ve got three great-aunts who always come over for Christmas.”
“You lot are lucky,” Ron remarked with a smile. “At least Percy won’t be here to annoy you.”
“Why don’t you like him?” Harry asked hesitantly. Family matters always seemed delicate, but Ron never minded talking about it.
“Percy’s... complicated,” Ron sighed, propping his elbows on the table. “He only cares about his ‘future Ministry position’,” he mimicked Percy’s affected voice. “Always been the rule-follower, and lately, he’s been more insufferable than ever now that he’s a prefect. Reckon it’s gone to his head.”
“We might not have Percy, but the twins won’t be here either, unfortunately,” Neville commented.
“Oh, cheers for including me,” Ron laughed, pretending to be offended.
“Ron makes the list?” Harry asked, feigning deep consideration with Neville.
“Well... it’s a delicate matter, Harry,” Neville replied, trying to look serious. “There are pros and cons.”
“If I rank above Malfoy, I’m happy,” Ron said airily.
Harry raised an eyebrow and held out his hand. “How about a compromise? Somewhere between Crabbe and Goyle? Deal?”
“Bugger off, Harry!” Ron swatted his hand away, laughing.
The three of them burst into laughter, and between chuckles, Ron made his move on the board.
“Checkmate,” he said flatly, watching Neville with a deadpan look.
Neville stopped laughing immediately, staring at the board in defeat while Harry and Ron howled even louder at his sudden mood shift.
“Not even with the books, Nev?” Harry teased, still laughing.
“I give up on this thing,” Neville huffed, though a frustrated smile tugged at his lips.
“Practice makes perfect,” Ron shrugged. “You’re loads better than before, mate.”
They spent a few more minutes playing wizard’s chess, trading jokes and laughing, until the idea of leaving the Great Hall for one last snowball fight before the train ride became irresistible.
But before diving into the fun, they decided to stop by the library to fetch Hermione.
She was exactly where they expected to find her—tucked away in a secluded corner, absorbed in her books as always. Harry knew this was one of her usual hiding spots in the library. Her bushy hair fell like a curtain across the pages of her book, creating a silent barrier between her and the rest of the world. Madam Pince, meanwhile, sat at her desk near the entrance, engrossed in a romance novel with a daringly risqué title, reading with the gravest expression as if it were a work of great literary importance. Except for her, Hermione was the only person in the vast space—not even the Ravenclaws had dared to show up on that chilly morning.
Ron was the first to approach, as always, trying to coax her into joining them. But even he was starting to lose patience with her stubbornness.
“Come on, Hermione! It’s Christmas, you don’t need to study today. Forget the books for once!” he exclaimed, slapping his thighs in frustration.
Hermione looked up, sharp eyes locking onto his. “I’ve told you, I like reading. Besides, it’s freezing outside.”
“You’re staying here until it’s time to leave?” Harry asked, his voice tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. There was an inexplicable sadness in her that surprised him. “I mean... you’re leaving in a couple of hours, and you’d rather sit here alone?”
Hermione sighed, already weary of the argument. “Well, yes. I’ve got two spellbooks I want to review before tonight.”
Neville looked disappointed, the corner of his mouth drooping slightly, while Ron let out an audible sigh—more resigned than frustrated.
“Well, we tried...” said Ron with a weak smile. “Just don’t forget to say goodbye to these two,” he pointed at Harry and Neville, “they’re not coming back with us.”
Ron started to leave, and Neville hesitated for a moment before following. He gave Hermione a quick wave before hurrying off.
“Er... right, see you later,” Neville said awkwardly.
“Bye then,” Hermione replied, not looking up from her book, as if the words were mere formality.
Harry, however, stayed where he was, watching her.
Hermione, noticing the undisguised discomfort on his face, hesitated between returning to her book or looking at him. She observed how he seemed to be weighing his words, and something in Harry's eyes made her hold her breath for a moment.
Harry cleared his throat, as if searching for the right words, but something inside him felt odd—unsettling.
Perhaps it was her cold rejection of spending a few minutes with them before leaving for Christmas. He didn’t quite know, but for some reason, he wanted to be there with her—maybe more than he could admit.
“Harry, are you all right?” Hermione asked, frowning curiously, unsure how long he’d been standing there.
“You know...” Harry began, the words coming out quieter than he'd intended. “If I had someone—someone I cared about, willing to spend Christmas with me... I'd hold onto that like it was the best gift I could ever get. Doesn't come around every day, that sort of thing.”
Hermione’s confused expression shifted to surprise. Her eyebrows rose as she stared at him, mouth slightly open.
Harry never spoke about himself like this—never with such simple, disarming honesty.
“Well, anyway...” Harry tried to lighten the mood, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat. “Just… well, just don’t forget to say goodbye before you leave.”
He flashed a quick, casual smile, then turned to go.
As Harry reached the library door, he heard Hermione call out.
“Harry! Wait!”
She hurried after him, ignoring Madam Pince’s irritated shushing motion.
“I’ll come with you,” Hermione said, slightly breathless from the short sprint, adjusting her thick winter coat.
Harry grinned—a genuine, relieved smile—and nodded.
“We like having you around, you know?”
Hermione flushed slightly, looking at the ground as if embarrassed.
“Well, I... I'm not quite used to this sort of thing yet,” she sighed, slightly awkward.
“You mean—”
“Having friends,” Hermione cut in, the words tumbling out in a rush. She quickly corrected herself, flustered. “I mean, I'm still getting accustomed... so, sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” Harry said softly, nudging her shoulder playfully. “Now, are we having that snowball fight or not?”
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile.
“Fine, we can try. But if you hit my hair with a snowball...”
“I swear I won’t!” Harry promised, dodging her accusatory finger as they left the library, laughter trailing behind them.
They quickly caught up with Ron and Neville in the corridors, both thrilled she’d changed her mind. Thankfully, neither asked how Harry had convinced her.
He didn’t want to talk about it either.
Outside, the cold hit them immediately, a stark contrast to the warmth still colouring their cheeks. Harry adjusted his scarf—one end perpetually longer, whipping behind him like a cloak’s tail.
In the courtyard, where snow reached knee-height, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had already joined the Gryffindors.
The twins began organising an inter-house battle, each claiming one end of the snowfield as their territory.
Hermione, observing the chaos and seeing their house becoming an easy target, frowned in concentration.
“We need a proper strategy!” she declared, dodging a snowball.
“Oi!” Neville yelped as one struck his back. “What's the plan then?”
“Start making snowballs—pile them up. Harry, you gather and attack their front line,” she commanded with military precision.
“Where's Ron?” Harry asked, pelting two rapid snowballs at a distracted Hufflepuff.
The question answered itself as three redheads appeared further down the field, digging snow trenches like their lives depended on it.
Fred and George seemed particularly determined to hit male opponents in their “sensitive regions.”
“Low blow, Weasley!” someone howled in pain, sending the twins into fits of laughter.
“Eat snow, Goldstein!” Ron shouted as his perfectly-aimed snowball smacked the Ravenclaw square in the face.
Harry's laugh turned into a grunt when a particularly hard-packed snowball hit his stomach.
“Sorry, Potter!” Terry Boot called, not sounding sorry at all.
“You'll pay for that!”
Fred and George were molding snowballs with disturbing focus, their eyes locked on Professor Quirrell as he attempted to skirt around the childish snowball fight while crossing an open corridor in the distance. With two subtle flicks of their wands, the snowballs shot forward at alarming speed—one smacking squarely against the back of his head, the other thudding into his backside with deeply satisfying force.
They swiftly concealed their wands before he could spot them, their faces the picture of innocence.
Quirrell whirled around, his murderous glare sweeping the grounds uselessly before he hurried away, the twins shaking with silent laughter.
Meanwhile, Hermione was erecting snow barriers with spellwork so precise it would make Flitwick proud.
“Protego Nivis!” she incanted
Her wand movements were razor-sharp as another small snow barrier materialized before them.
Neville, who'd barely dodged a volley of snowballs, scrambled behind her latest creation, panting.
“Where'd you learn that?” he panted, eyes wide with surprise.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“The library, obviously,” she said in that tone that implied only an idiot wouldn't know this. “Where else?”
“Right... should've guessed,” Neville nodded, shooting Harry an amused look as their friend lobbed snowballs at a group of Hufflepuffs.
“You lot should visit the library more. Did you know snow has fascinating magical properties? The crystalline structure actually—”
“Not a Transfiguration lecture, Hermione!” Harry laughed from behind a tree, pelting Ernie Macmillan who beat a hasty retreat.
“Someone has to keep you educated,” she sniffed, conjuring another wall just in time to block an incoming attack.
“She's not wrong,” Neville admitted, fumbling with his misshapen snowballs. “I'd never manage this... with spells or—”
“Focus, Neville!” Hermione chided. “Less snow, more compression!”
Neville sighed but obeyed.
Across the field, Harry nailed Cedric Diggory, who retaliated with alarming accuracy.
“I'm about to get serious now, Potter!” Cedric called, hurling snowballs with terrifying accuracy.
“Could've fooled me—OW!” Harry choked, diving behind Hermione's makeshift defences just as a snowball shattered against his nose.
He barely had time to recover before another one, launched with brutal force by Ravenclaw's Roger Davies, whistled dangerously past his ear.
"Brilliant, now my glasses are bent again," Harry grumbled, desperately trying to adjust the frames with his fingers—only making them worse.
"Stop that, you'll snap them proper—let me see," Hermione huffed, snatching the glasses from his hands before he could protest.
With a fluid flick of her wand, she muttered:
"Oculus Reparo!"
The wire twisted back into place, as good as new. Harry slipped the glasses onto his face, relieved.
"Thanks, Hermione!" he said with a grateful smile.
She flashed him a quick smile before—
"AH!"
Harry yanked her down sharply, sending her tumbling almost on top of him—she barely managed to catch herself on her knees beside him as a densely-packed snowball whizzed through the space where her head had been moments before.
"Harry!" Hermione shrieked, winded.
He gave her a half-grin. "Would've ruined your hair."
The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs appeared to have formed a temporary alliance, concentrating fire on the disorganised Gryffindors. Hermione's once-imposing defences now trembled under relentless assault, and a constant barrage of snowballs began breaching their barricades.
“This is getting properly unfair,” Harry panted to Hermione, wiping snowflakes off his glasses.
“Don't fret,” Hermione said with a sly smile. “I've got a few tricks left... Start using Neville's stockpile. With proper logistics, we'll outlast them.”
Harry grinned. “With you on our side, Gryffindor might actually stand a chance.”
“A chance?” Hermione's eyes gleamed. “We're going to wipe the floor with them.”
“From someone who didn't even want to come, you're taking this awfully seriously,” Harry teased.
She frowned, but a small smile escaped. “Keep throwing, can’t you see they’re getting into better positions?”
Neville and Harry took advantage of their little fortress. She started coordinating the two of them and was scoring several hits on the eagles and badgers.
Seeing that what the three of them were doing was having a much greater effect, more classmates quickly joined them.
Within minutes, Hermione had taken command with ease. She organised the Gryffindors into teams: the older ones, able to cast spells, swiftly built a snow fortress, while the younger ones were put in charge of constantly making snowballs, and a group of throwers sprang into action.
The twins even went to the trouble of conjuring a red flag and raising it on one of the walls to mark their territory. The rival Houses were left stunned by the swift turn of the game.
When the battle finally drew to a close, the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors agreed on a draw—the Badgers having mirrored their strategy almost perfectly, focusing on constructing the most impressive snow fortress imaginable with minimal spellwork, since Hermione seemed to know every snowball-related charm ever documented. The confrontation reached a stalemate, neither side gaining ground. The Ravenclaws, consequently, found themselves thoroughly snowbound, having become the primary targets for both houses.
Hermione couldn’t wipe the smile off her face at the outcome, as if her little military campaign had paid off splendidly.
As they walked back to the castle, she was out in front of the boys, humming. Her hair seemed to dance along with her steps.
“She’s going to be like that the entire trip back, isn’t she?” Ron asked in a low voice to Harry and Neville.
“I prefer her like this than all alone in the library during the holidays,” Harry shrugged, brushing snow off his shoulders.
“Brains win over brute force once again…” Neville sighed.
“Oi! Fred, George and I were holding our own!” Ron grinned triumphantly. “Nicked five blokes right in the family jewels,” he crowed victoriously.
Harry laughed and noticed a few Ravenclaws shooting dirty looks at Ron.
“Think you might get your comeuppance at some point,” he chuckled.
“Let them try,” Ron scoffed mockingly. “What’re they going to do? Throw books at my head? Hermione nearly does that already.”
“She’s more likely to jinx you, to be fair,” Harry said thoughtfully.
“By the way, Harry, how did you convince Hermione to come with us?” Neville asked, brushing snow from his hair. “She didn’t seem too keen on leaving the library.”
Harry blushed a bit and ran a hand through his hair.
“Well… I said spending Christmas alone is a bit rubbish… and that we liked having her around, that’s all.”
“Much better her having fun with us than bossing us around to study more, honestly,” Ron shrugged.
Back at the castle, still with snow stuck in their hair and clothes starting to get damp, everyone went off to dry off and grab their trunks.
Meanwhile, Harry and Neville passed the time with a game of wizard chess while saying goodbye to the classmates who were leaving.
“Merlin, you look adorable in a scarf!” Angelina exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, making the twins burst out laughing.
“I am not adorable!” Harry protested, his face turning as red as the Gryffindor scarf he wore.
“Ooh, he’s blushing!” she went on, in the same tone one might use to talk about a cute puppy or baby.
Katie and Alicia took the opportunity to mess up his already unruly black hair even more, while Harry rolled his eyes.
“If you want any prank tips, just owl us,” said Fred, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder.
“An empty castle’s brilliant. Try sneaking out at night, even Filch never bother around this time—it’s dead easy,” George added with a mischievous grin.
“Will do… but I might wait a bit longer to start,” Harry replied with a playful smile.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, don’t be traumatised forever by that Slytherin prank! That goes for you too, Nev,” said Fred, shooting a look at Neville, who glanced away, embarrassed.
“Anyway, happy Christmas, Harry!” George offered a final handshake.
Harry shook his hand, only to feel something slimy.
“Oh, come off it!” Harry stared at his hand, now coated in green goo, as the twins roared with laughter. “You're joking!”
“’Course we are! You're prime testing material for new inventions,” Fred chuckled.
Harry tried wiping his hand on Fred's shoulder, but he dodged nimbly—both twins sprinting away cackling.
“Gits...” Harry muttered, though he couldn't suppress a grin.
“Hey,” a familiar voice called.
He turned to see Hermione approaching, her trunk in hand.
“Hi,” Harry replied, watching her. “So… heading off already?”
“Yes, I want to make sure I get a good spot on the train. Rony will thank me later,” she said with a smile, placing her trunk on the floor.
Neville stood up, a little awkwardly.
“Erm… bye then, happy Christmas, Hermione.” He offered his hand.
She shook it with a gentle smile. “Happy Christmas, Neville.”
Harry automatically extended his right hand—still sticky from the twins’ goo—but, realising it, quickly swapped to his left. At the exact same moment, Hermione had opened her arms for a hug, but seeing his gesture, froze mid-movement.
The two of them stood there—Harry with his left hand outstretched and Hermione with her arms half-open—in a moment of such palpable awkwardness that even Neville’s chess bishop seemed to turn and look.
Hermione cleared her throat, her cheeks turning a shade of red that rivalled the Christmas decorations in the Great Hall.
“Er… happy Christmas… to you,” Harry said, his voice coming out a bit higher than he’d meant.
“Of course—I mean—happy Christmas, Harry,” Hermione replied quickly, now blushing even more as she realised she’d just repeated what she’d said to Neville.
She grabbed her trunk so quickly she nearly tripped over her own foot.
With a final smile that didn’t quite manage to cover her embarrassment, Hermione disappeared through the portrait of the Fat Lady, her brown curls bouncing merrily behind her as she went—a stark contrast to the clumsy farewell.
Harry turned to Neville, who simply shrugged with an understanding smile before returning his attention to the chessboard.
“I never know how to say goodbye properly...” Harry confessed with a sigh, running a hand through his still-embarrassed hair.
“Tell me about it,” Neville replied, moving his piece before glancing at Harry's hair. “Er... you scratched your head with the wrong hand.”
“Wrong hand? — Oh no…” Harry groaned in defeat as he felt the sticky mess in his hair.
Snow was falling gently over Hogwarts that Christmas morning, cloaking the castle in a gleaming layer of white. In the Gryffindor dormitory, the cosy warmth of the central fireplace crackled softly, playing a soothing melody that cradled Harry in a deep sleep, his blanket nearly covering his entire head.
Suddenly, he felt something soft and light creeping up his back, followed by the gentle scratch of claws.
Hedwig landed delicately on his shoulder, giving him a gentle peck. Harry groaned in protest, pulling the blanket over his head. He couldn’t help but admit it was infinitely better to be woken almost every day by his beloved owl than by someone hammering on the cupboard door, as had happened with the Dursleys.
“Harry!” Neville’s cheerful voice rang in his ear. “Wake up!”
“Wha’...?” Harry mumbled groggily, opening his eyes slowly, still half-blinded by the soft light spilling through the snow-covered windows.
Hedwig, impatient, gave a light flap of her wings, as if encouraging Harry to get up.
“Merry Christmas, Harry!” Neville exclaimed, with a grin so wide it seemed to brighten the air around him. “We’ve got presents!”
“Presents?” Harry repeated, confused, as he put on his glasses and blinked a few times to adjust his vision. “But I never get presents...”
Neville laughed, pointing to a small Christmas tree in the corner of the room. “Look at that! It’s covered in parcels with your name on them!”
Harry blinked in surprise. He sat up, still dazed, and his eyes widened at the sight of the number of gifts at the base of the tree. Trevor was beside the tree, peering curiously at the packages.
“All this... presents?” His voice was full of disbelief.
“Yes!” Neville was practically bouncing with excitement. “I checked—they’ve all got names, no mix-ups.”
Neville’s pile was bigger than Harry’s, as he didn’t have great-aunts who loved sending more than one present like his friend did, but that didn’t dampen his spirits.
Receiving presents was the most brilliant thing that had ever happened to him at Christmas.
Hedwig, sensing the excitement in the air, did a cheerful loop, making Harry smile.
The day before, Neville had insisted they have their own Christmas tree in the dormitory, and with Hagrid’s help and a few borrowed baubles from McGonagall, they had managed to put one together. Now, looking at the scene, it felt like a small Christmas miracle.
Harry and Neville laughed cheerfully and began unwrapping their presents.
One was from Molly Weasley—Ron’s mum—who had sent hand-knitted jumpers with their initials on them. Harry pulled his on straight away—a dark blue one with a golden H—it was properly cosy, and he silently thanked her for finally having a jumper that actually fit, with sleeves that didn’t get in the way.
It was the first time a stranger had given him something, and it felt so lovingly made that it warmed him from the inside out.
Harry read the note that came with it:
Ron always talks so much about you, Harry, so I made a jumper for you myself. I hope it keeps you warm this winter.
Merry Christmas, from all the Weasley family!
He’d thank her properly when he wrote to Ron next over the holidays.
Hermione had sent Harry a basic broomstick maintenance kit and a book, Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry wondered if she’d like the present he’d chosen for her: a huge spellbook, so thick that if Hedwig had to carry the parcel, he feared his poor owl wouldn’t manage to lift it. It was exactly the sort of gift Hermione would appreciate—he already knew that this kind of book counted as “light reading” for her.
McGonagall. Her gift was a book on basic Transfiguration spells.
When Harry opened it, a small note fluttered out:
To my exceptional student. Keep it up, Mr. Potter.
He smiled, feeling a little proud, though he’d never admit he was doing well in Transfiguration. Hermione would huff and roll her eyes whenever Ron teased that Harry was the best in the year with mock pride.
Then Harry picked up Hagrid’s present, a brown package with little black spots.
Upon opening it, he was greeted with a small cake with chocolate icing—some charm had clearly been used to keep it fresh and warm, as though it had just come out of the oven.
Unlike the rock cakes, this one looked incredibly soft and inviting, with a shiny glaze that caught the firelight.
“Cake for breakfast?” Neville laughed, his eyes wide with amused surprise. “If my gran saw me eating sweets before morning tea, I’d be in trouble until next Christmas.”
“Well, she’s not here, and it is Christmas,” Harry replied, shrugging in a way that was meant to look casual, but ended in a cheeky grin.
He flipped through his new Transfiguration book, fingers sliding over the pages in search of something useful.
“Let me try conjuring some plates and cutlery.”
Neville sighed dramatically, propping his chin on his hand.
“If Ron finds out you can do that on your first go, he’ll wind Hermione up for weeks. You know—about how you’re the best in the year.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Harry protested, his face going slightly red. “You know Hermione knows more magic than all of us put together. Being good at one thing doesn’t mean...” He hesitated, as if reconsidering his words. “And I’m not even that good, really,”
Neville raised his eyebrows in a way that clearly said stop being modest. “Now you’re just playing coy. Go on, I want to see the magic.”
“I won’t get it first try,” Harry tried to sound serious, but a laugh escaped his lips. “You always do this! — Stop looking at me like that!”
Neville raised his hands with a grin. “I’m not doing anything!”
With a graceful movement, Harry picked up four baubles from the little Christmas tree and lined them up on the floor.
He raised his wand with confidence and, with a precise flick, said:
“Decorus Scutella!”
The nearest bauble instantly transformed into a white porcelain plate with golden edges—so perfect it could’ve come straight from the Hogwarts kitchens.
For a moment, the two boys were silent, staring at the flawless transformation. Then, as if on cue, they burst out laughing, Neville pointing at Harry mid-laugh.
“I just like casting spells—it’s different,” Harry explained, still chuckling as he picked up the plate. “The theory of Transfiguration is what separates the good from the great, and that’s where I get all tangled. Hermione always explains it better when we revise.”
Neville picked up a knife and began cutting a generous slice of cake.
“Can’t argue with that,” he agreed with a resigned sigh. “She’s my lifesaver in Potions. I think I’d have failed the year without her help.”
They shared the cake as they talked about the presents they’d received. It was incredibly delicious, and Harry felt a wave of warmth at Hagrid’s thoughtfulness, imagining that the flavour was even better because of the affection that had come with the gift.
After eating more than half, they returned to unwrapping the rest of the presents.
The Dursleys had sent a pair of socks.
“Well, at least these are new,” he mused.
Harry shrugged and tossed them aside carelessly, used to the lack of affection.
They also had presents to exchange among themselves; Professor McGonagall had collected the list of presents they had chosen from the various Hogsmeade catalogues, and she herself—along with other professors—had purchased the things they had requested beforehand.
“This one’s from me,” said Neville shyly, handing him a small parcel.
Harry opened it carefully, his eyes lighting up at the sight of a pair of finely crafted leather gloves.
“Wow! These are amazing!”
“I heard you say your hands freeze during Quidditch practice,” Neville explained, smiling bashfully. “These gloves’ll keep your hands warm and help you grip your broom better.”
“Cheers, Nev. Really appreciate it!” Harry replied, genuinely touched. He then grabbed a present and handed it to his friend. “Here, this one's for you. Though I reckon it's not half as good as those gloves.”
Neville chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that.”
He unwrapped the gift and gaped at a complete Herbology kit—top-quality gardening tools including a trowel, pruning shears of various shapes, and even some magical implements. They normally had to use Hogwarts' battered old equipment during lessons; now Neville had his own professional set.
“Harry, this is amazing!”
“Glad you think so, because I haven't the foggiest what most of these even do.”
They shared a laugh, basking in the moment, until Neville spotted a lone white box nearly hidden behind the tree.
“Harry... is that present for you?”
Harry tilted his head, wondering who else might have left him a gift. He picked up the box, curiosity prickling at him.
“My name's on it, but... there's no sender.” He read the message aloud:
Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.
“Your father?” Neville peered over, intrigued. “Who's it from?”
“Good question.” Harry shrugged and carefully opened the box, revealing a folded piece of fabric that looked old yet impeccably preserved.
“Merlin's beard!” Neville gasped. “Harry, that's... that's an Invisibility Cloak!”
Harry stared at the shimmering material in disbelief.
As he draped the cloak over himself, his body vanished before his very eyes. Hedwig observed keenly from her perch on the windowsill, golden eyes sharp, while Trevor hopped closer with a curious croak, as if puzzled by Harry's sudden disappearance.
“They’re incredibly rare!” said Neville, gaping. “They usually lose their effect over time, but this one... it looks brand new, even though it belonged to your dad!”
“Really?” Harry asked, disbelieving.
He looked down at himself, still concealed, and couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. At last, he had something that had belonged to his father—something real, something magical.
As they talked and sorted through the presents, Harry felt his heart warm.
That special gift, that memory of his father, made this Christmas unlike any other. For the first time, he felt like he had something to belong to, something that was truly his. Hedwig let out a soft trill, as though celebrating Harry’s happiness, while Trevor seemed to nestle beside the tree.
The rest of the day was wonderfully pleasant.
The Gryffindor Tower, usually filled with laughter and lively chatter, was strangely silent. The flames in the fireplace crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls, and the squashy armchairs looked almost abandoned. The only other occupant besides them was Taller Jackson, the sixth-year student who had once competed with Harry for the Seeker position on the Quidditch team.
Taller was hunched over a pile of books, but looked up when Harry and Neville entered the common room.
“Feels weird, I know,” he remarked, shutting a leather-bound volume with a gentle thud. “Christmases at Hogwarts are usually a lot livelier.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Harry agreed, glancing around. “Looks like it’s just the three of us from Gryffindor.”
“This year, nearly everyone decided to spend it at home,” Taller explained, getting to his feet and stretching his arms with a sigh. “Well, it happens. Anyway, if you lot need anything, I’ll be in the library. Sixth year’s taking more out of me than I’d like.”
“Cheers, Taller,” Harry replied with a smile. “Good luck with the studying.”
Taller nodded and left, leaving them once again enveloped in the cosy quiet of the common room. Neville let out a sigh, sinking into the nearest armchair.
“Honestly, I don’t want to be revising over Christmas when I get to sixth year…” he muttered, staring into the flames with a near-melancholy expression.
Harry knew just how much Neville loved Christmas—perhaps even more than his own birthday, since he always spoke more enthusiastically about this date. There was something about the magic of the season, the sparkling decorations and the festive air, that seemed to lift his spirits in a way nothing else could.
“Well, that’s still a fair way off,” Harry said, shrugging. “Fancy a game of something?”
Harry and Neville spent the afternoon immersed in a peculiar game that Neville’s eccentric great-aunt Frida had sent him as a Christmas present—the intriguing Hero Path.
Scattered across the Gryffindor common room carpet, the game’s strange dice shimmered in the firelight—some with only four sharp sides, others with so many faces they looked like tiny faceted balls. The rulebook, bound in leather, contained instructions as creative as they were confusing, encouraging players to let their imaginations run wild.
“So... I can make any kind of character?” Harry asked, his quill hovering over a parchment as he tried to decide between creating an elven warrior or a dwarven rogue.
“Any!” Neville confirmed, eyes shining with excitement. “It says here you’ve got to have a good imagination.”
While Harry meticulously jotted down the attributes, skills and backstory of his character—a half-elf paladin named Eldrin—Neville took on the role of Game Master with a seriousness Harry had never seen in him before. His face glowed with concentration as he invented challenges and riddles for Harry to overcome.
The game reminded Harry of something from the Muggle world he vaguely remembered seeing somewhere.
Castles and Dragons? Or was it Dungeons and Demons? but with a decidedly magical twist.
To begin with, the dice sometimes rolled on their own, floating in the air before settling on a result. The enchanted map, the game’s centrepiece, shifted fluidly as Neville narrated the adventure, its pewter mountains rising and its rivers of blue ink altering course.
Meanwhile, Trevor decided it was time for exploration and vanished somewhere in the tower. They spent over half an hour searching for the toad, until they found him nearly halfway up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory.
“You can’t go up there!” Neville exclaimed, clutching the toad firmly and attempting to scold him.
“There’s no lady toads up there for you to chase,” Harry joked, amused.
Trevor, however, merely gave a disdainful croak, as if protesting the reprimand.
When dinner time came, Harry approached Professor McGonagall to thank her for the gift she’d given him. She returned his gratitude with a satisfied smile, while Dumbledore was as serene as ever. Hagrid, for his part, waved cheerily while swapping stories about erumpents he’d once had to care for and illusion charms with Professor Flitwick.
Still, not everything was merry.
Snape was present to remind him that bitterness and sneering looks didn’t thaw certain hearts—not even at Christmas.
Not that Harry much cared; the dislike he felt for his Potions master grew stronger with each passing day. Snape’s constant barbed remarks and veiled digs about Harry’s “fame”, the loss of points from Gryffindor for ridiculous reasons, and the endless threats directed at Neville during lessons did nothing to brighten his afternoon.
The dinner table was filled with little wizard crackers.
When pulled, they exploded with a bang as loud as a cannon, letting out blue smoke and revealing a gift hat. The first time he heard the noise, Harry’s heart nearly stopped in surprise, while Neville laughed, clearly used to the wizarding Christmas traditions.
Harry got a king’s crown, McGonagall received a stylish top hat, Neville ended up with a fisherman’s cap, and Dumbledore—to Harry’s surprise—got a Father Christmas hat that, oddly enough, made him look remarkably like the man himself.
When the food appeared, Harry let out a surprised sigh, his eyes gleaming. He tucked into the grand feast with delight.
Eight roast turkeys were laid out on the table, alongside puddings, savoury pies, and, for dessert, a variety of chocolate cakes covered and filled, puddings, and ice creams that seemed nearly endless in quantity.
Harry had never eaten so well at Christmas—normally the Dursleys gave him only cold leftovers. But here, everything was hot and delicious.
As Harry sat at the table, savouring the festive fare, he felt a curious gaze fall on him. Turning his head, his green eyes met those of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—the Gryffindor ghost—who hovered near the table, his melancholy gaze fixed on a succulent stuffed turkey.
Neville gave a startled jump as he noticed the ghostly apparition, his hand flying instinctively to his chest as if to check that his heart was still beating.
“Sir Nicholas, how are you?” Harry greeted warmly, a smile lighting his face. “Enjoying the Christmas spirit?”
The ghost gave a deep sigh, making his lace ruff flutter.
“Oh yes... merely... admiring the fare,” he replied, his hungry gaze sweeping over the food-laden table.
“But... with all due respect, sir, you can’t eat, can you?” Harry asked, a hint of pity in his voice.
Sir Nicholas let out a sigh so deep it made the nearby candles flicker.
“Alas, no. It's been centuries since I last tasted a decent meal... But well, such is life—or rather, death,” he added with a melancholy smile, gliding elegantly over the table, his nearly-severed head wobbling precariously.
“Sir Nicholas, do ghosts have any special traditions at Christmas?” Neville asked, his curiosity overcoming his initial fear.
The ghost's eyes gleamed with supernatural excitement.
“Ah, we hold a magnificent feast down in the dungeons! In fact, I ought to be there right now. I only came to check on my favourite Gryffindors,” he confessed, his smile becoming more intimate. “I thought it best to come myself rather than send the Bloody Baron or, Merlin forbid, Peeves... They're rather prone to... disruption in such cosy settings.”
“Couldn't agree more,” Harry laughed, imagining the chaos the poltergeist might cause at the feast.
“The Baron’s fond enough of the students, in his own peculiar way,” Nick went on, adjusting his ruff. “But he has a particular knack for ruining the festive atmosphere. At any rate, enjoy the spread and have a splendid Christmas!”
With one final dramatic gesture, the ghost vanished slowly, like smoke dissolving into the air.
As soon as Sir Nicholas had gone, Neville leaned towards Harry, his eyes wide with amused apprehension.
“Can you imagine if Peeves had come instead?” He widened his eyes further, as if the poltergeist might appear just by being mentioned. “He’d probably blow up the turkey and hurl the Christmas pudding at the ceiling!”
Harry couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “You once said you'd love to take a strawberry tart to the face...”
Neville raised his hands in defence, nearly knocking over his goblet of pumpkin juice.
“That was before I thought he might actually turn up instead of Nearly Headless Nick!” he protested, his round face turning slightly red. “And anyway, strawberry tart is completely different from Christmas pudding!”
“Because one’s made of strawberries and the other of dried fruit?”
“Actually, because one’s a tart and the other a pudding, but mostly because strawberry desserts taste far better than dried fruit ones,” Neville replied easily.
“Well, seeing as you're clearly an expert, I’ve no argument to make.” Harry laughed. “Do you reckon he’d really dare to wreck a Christmas dinner?”
“Remember when he made Snape slip that one time to save us?” Neville whispered. “I don’t think Christmas would stop him doing anything.”
Harry laughed heartily at the memory. “That night was unforgettable…”
“Something the matter, Potter?”
The light mood froze instantly as that voice, cold as the Hogwarts dungeons, hissed behind them.
The two boys jumped, turning to find Professor Snape looming like a thundercloud, his black eyes gleaming with contempt. Neville seemed to stop breathing entirely.
“No, sir,” Harry replied quickly, forcing a casual tone. “It’s Christmas, after all.”
Snape raised an eyebrow slowly, as if inspecting a particularly uninteresting specimen.
“Indeed...” he murmured, his voice syrupy. “Do enjoy your... meal. And a... Merry Christmas.” The way he uttered the words sounded more like a curse than a seasonal greeting.
“And to you, sir, Merry Christmas…” Harry returned, keeping his composure as he felt the professor’s eyes burning into his back while he walked away.
Once Snape’s dark silhouette had vanished among the tables, Neville finally let out the breath he’d been holding in a long sigh.
“I swear my heart stopped for a second—twice in under three minutes,” he confessed, clutching his goblet of pumpkin juice with trembling hands. “I think I’ll end up in the hospital wing if this keeps up.”
Harry merely shook his head, his smile gradually returning as he watched the snowflakes dancing outside the tall windows of the Great Hall.
Christmas at Hogwarts, he decided, would never be entirely peaceful—but it certainly would never be dull.
Later that night, while Neville slept soundly, Harry tossed and turned in his bed, unable to quiet his mind. The gift he had received continued to pulse in his thoughts. His father's Invisibility Cloak… The simple idea that it had once belonged to him made Harry’s heart beat faster.
What if I tried it out? Harry thought, the glimmer of a plan beginning to take shape.
Fred and George had assured him that, during the holidays, not even Filch usually patrolled the corridors.
It was the perfect opportunity—perhaps the safest one he’d have for a long time.
Without thinking much more—and still in his pyjamas—Harry made his way down the stairs of the boys’ dormitory, the cloak folded in his hands. Upon reaching the common room, he cast one last look around and, in a swift movement, threw the cloak over himself.
The sensation of vanishing completely was strange and fascinating. With steady breathing, he passed by the Fat Lady’s portrait, who mumbled something incoherent in her sleep, and moved silently through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts.
“Maybe I’ll find something in the library… something that explains the pain in my scar,” he murmured to himself as he descended the stairs, feeling the chill of the castle’s stone and shivering. “Should’ve brought a cloak… it’s bloody freezing.”
The pain in his forehead had been growing more frequent—especially during Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons. But the incident in the Forbidden Forest, when his scar had burned fiercely, still haunted him.
He didn’t know if there was any connection—if there was, what kind exactly? Was Quirrell the one killing unicorns in the middle of the forest, miles from the castle? And why? Or was he after whoever was doing it?
Harry never seemed to be able to answer these questions.
But if there was one place at Hogwarts that might offer him answers, it was the Restricted Section.
When he reached the library door, Harry tried to open it, but, as expected, it was locked.
Drawing his wand, he whispered:
“Alohomora.”
Click!
The latch made a satisfying sound as it unlocked, and he stepped inside.
“Need to thank Hermione for teaching me that one…” he thought to himself.
With another wand movement, he intoned:
“Lumos.”
The tip of his wand lit up, casting a glow over the shelves in the pitch-black library.
Harry wandered through the sections, the shadows of the bookshelves looming ominously in the faint light of his wand. At last, he arrived at the Restricted Section—it was an area surrounded by protective bars and locked by a gate. The forbidden zone for younger students, where only the more experienced were permitted to handle the books that contained dangerous secrets. Harry knew well the sharp gaze of Madam Pince, always poised to watch over the students—but tonight, he was completely invisible.
There was a padlock on the gate and he tried “Alohomora” again—unsuccessfully.
He sighed deeply at his own innocence.
“Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Like no one’s tried that before.”
A sudden thought struck him and he went to Madam Pince’s desk. In one of the drawers, there was a key—old, heavy, and looking as though it hadn’t been used in centuries. It fit perfectly into the lock and opened.
“What kind of wizard would look for a key to open a padlock? Only someone raised by Muggles,” he muttered amusedly to himself.
His adrenaline was surging—it was impossible not to feel like a proper spy doing this.
He began inspecting the forbidden books.
The old leather covers felt almost alive beneath his fingers, and the titles—some frightening, others indecipherable—caught his eye.
One book titled Love Potions, Amortentia and Their Crimes seemed out of place.
“What could be so bad about a love potion?” he mused. In his mind, it made no sense. “Aren’t they supposed to give love?”
Others had no title at all, only strange symbols or ancient runes etched into the covers, their pages brittle with age.
Then a particular title caught his curiosity.
The Dark Arts: The Evil of the Wizarding World.
Harry pulled the book from the shelf, its faded grey leather suggesting it had once been a darker shade. He opened it, hesitant, the pages creaking under his fingers as he began to leaf through the contents.
As he read, his stomach churned.
It wasn’t a spell manual, as he’d expected.
Instead, it described in vivid detail the horrors of the Dark Arts, discouraging their use and outlining their devastating consequences. Harry read about curses that dismembered victims, caused internal bleeding, could crush organs as if they were made of modelling clay, explode bones and inflict fatal burns—so graphically that he nearly vomited up his Christmas dinner. Grim photographs of mutilated wizards illustrated some of the curses.
Just as he was about to give up, already feeling quite nauseous, a particular chapter caught his attention:
The Three Unforgivable Curses.
A chill ran down his spine.
Every curse he’d read about had been unforgivable in some way—so if these had earned that title, they couldn’t possibly be any better.
Curiosity won over discomfort, and he read attentively.
The book described, with terrifying precision, the three most feared curses in the wizarding world.
The Imperius Curse seemed the least awful, as it “only” allowed the caster to control the victim like a puppet.
He was wrong.
Harry swallowed hard as he read a story where the caster ordered the victim to kill themselves with their own wand. He shuddered at the thought of someone without free will, forced to obey every command—even the most cruel.
Next was the Cruciatus Curse.
Used for torture, this curse could cause such unbearable pain that it could drive the victim mad if they suffered for too long—
Harry couldn’t read much more when it began detailing some famous examples—he skipped ahead to the last one.
Avada Kedavra.
The Killing Curse. The one that had taken his parents from him.
Harry took a deep breath as he read the description.
“With a simple lightning-shaped movement of the wand, a flash of green light is cast, instantly killing its victim — without pain or visible injury... It cannot be blocked by any spell, just like the Cruciatus or Imperius, and is considered unbeatable and final. As it ends life completely, it is regarded as the worst of the three Unforgivable Curses…”
Harry ran his hand over the scar on his forehead, feeling an ache. It was frustrating. There was no mention—none at all—about his mark; his was unique.
Scowling, he slammed the book shut, irritated with himself for having expected anything different.
“Of course… I’m the only one with this mark,” he muttered to himself, dejected. “There’s no way I can learn more about it if I’m the only one who’s got it… Hermione said it was a bad idea…”
He didn’t really want to dwell on it; in fact, he’d use her idea as an excuse, because he was going to try and find out more about his mark no matter what.
Harry thought about his parents more that Christmas than at any other time he could remember. When he was reading or waiting for Neville to make his next move in chess, his mind wandered to what it might be like to have Christmas with them. Harry imagined the warmth of his mother’s hug, the comforting touch of his father’s hand ruffling his hair, both of them smiling, happy to be together—like normal families were at this time of year.
But thanks to that fucking curse and a shite evil wizard, here he was—in the middle of the night, trapped in a dark library inside a winter-chilled castle… alone.
Not that he was ungrateful.
In fact, he was enjoying every second of the holiday—by far the best of his life so far. The warmth of friendship, the laughter, the food…
Hogwarts gave him everything he’d ever wanted.
But sometimes… sometimes in the silence between one laugh and the next, or in the quieter moments, he couldn’t help the thought:
“What would it be like if they were here?”
The absence of his parents was a constant shadow, and it left him reflecting with a touch of melancholy.
Of all the horrible ways his parents might have died at the hands of Voldemort, after reading this book, at least he had one small consolation.
“Their deaths were quick… Painless.” He could tell himself.
Something yanked Harry from his thoughts.
He’d heard the library door creak. He’d left it ajar, and now it was swinging open with a disturbing screech.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” came a familiar growl that made Harry freeze.
“Meaw…”
Filch. And just behind him, the raspy mewl of Mrs. Norris.
“Nox” Harry whispered, extinguishing the light from his wand and yanking the Invisibility Cloak over his head.
He swallowed hard as the yellow light of Filch’s lantern began to approach, casting sinister moving shadows across the shelves. A chill ran down his spine as he tried to calm the rising panic.
Harry crept forward, his feet barely touching the floor. Filch’s breathing echoed through the library, mixing with the oppressive silence of the place. Then, Harry’s heart nearly stopped when Filch’s gaze seemed to lock right onto the spot where he stood, freezing him.
“I know someone’s in here,” Filch growled, his voice full of disdain. He stepped closer to the book Harry had taken from the shelf. “Show yourself, you little scoundrel.”
Moving slowly so as not to make a sound, Harry backed away, never taking his eyes off Filch.
Every step felt like it took an age. But then, out of nowhere, Mrs. Norris leapt onto a nearby table, sniffing the air. Her yellow eyes fixed on the empty space, and she let out a loud meow, calling Filch.
“Where is he, Mrs. Norris?” Filch approached the cat, raising the lantern.
Harry quickened his pace, still walking backwards, eyes glued to the caretaker—when he bumped into a chair. The creak echoed through the library like a gunshot. Filch spun round at once, holding the lantern high, fury etched across his face.
“Wretched kids…” he muttered, storming towards the sound.
Harry’s heart pounded like a drum in his ears. He tried to slip away, but then a soft, familiar voice spoke slowly, freezing him in place.
“Is something wrong, Argus?”
Snape appeared like a shadow, his imposing presence making the air around them feel heavier, almost suffocating.
Harry turned instinctively, only to come face-to-face with the tall figure of the professor approaching. He narrowly avoided colliding with Snape, who, thankfully, didn’t look directly at him.
“There is,” Filch replied, eyes wide in that usual conspiratorial way, his face rigid and tense. “There’s someone out of bed, I’m sure of it. Absolutely certain!”
Snape raised an eyebrow, his gaze hardening further.
“I’ll lock the library,” he said in an icy tone that made Harry’s blood run cold. “And we’ll search the corridors. Whoever it is, they’ll be trapped here until breakfast.”
A sneer curled his lips as he strode towards the door.
“Oh, what a dramatic affair, Snape!” Peeves exclaimed, appearing as if out of thin air, a mischievous grin lighting up his ghostly face. “Hunting down a student out of bed? Sounds like a new spin on The Ghost Wars and the Filch Catchers!”
"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Filch grumbled.
"Ooh, new slogan, eh?" Peeves cackled. "Heard some Muggle-born say it. Must be one of their funny little things."
“Peeves, leave,” Snape snarled, turning to the poltergeist, clearly annoyed.
“But how could I, dear Snivellus? My soul is free, and I live to cause havoc!” Peeves declared, floating back and forth, striking an exaggerated pose.
“Don’t call me that,” Snape hissed threateningly, seething.
Harry inched towards the exit, cold sweat dripping as he listened in.
“Why not?” Peeves asked dramatically. “I thought you liked that quartet! One of them was a genius with nicknames. What was his name again?” he pretended to ponder. “Ah, doesn’t matter.”
“Go away,” Snape said slowly, fixing the poltergeist with a steely glare.
“But I do know where the student is! Don’t worry.”
Filch shook his head, exasperated. “And where is he?”
“Let me think,” Peeves said, hands on his hips. “He’s in a castle… and inside the castle, in the library…”
Snape pursed his lips. “Let’s not waste time, Argus.”
“Oooh! Someone’s in a hurry! Careful, children—Potions Master bites if you’re late!” Peeves teased, laughing and somersaulting mid-air. “Let me guess—the student’s in trouble, and here you two are, carrying on like Hallowe’en creatures even though it’s Christmas? One of you dresses like a bat, and the other… what do you dress as, Filch?”
“Shut it, Peeves!” Snape snapped, struggling to keep his composure.
“Just get out the way!” Filch growled grumpily.
By that point, Harry had already slipped through the door and was starting down the corridor.
“Oh, but the fun’s only just begun! Who needs spells when you’ve got a mischievous ghost and a grumpy caretaker?” Peeves chirped, winking. “I’m like an actor—better on stage than in action!”
“This isn’t theatre!” Filch retorted, shaking his head with disgust. “All you do is rhyme and wreck!”
“Yes, but who else could come up with rhymes about a grumpy caretaker and a professor who always looks like he's been sucking on a lemon?!”
Peeves grinned broadly, taunting Snape.
“It's a perfect match, like pumpkin and pie—or better yet, like you and a broken broomstick! Hahaha!”
Heart pounding, Harry still moved cautiously, even with a good distance between them. He watched as Snape locked the door with a silent spell.
The click of the latch echoed in the stillness.
Harry managed to slip into an empty room and, raising his wand, murmured, “Colloportus,” sealing the door magically to avoid being caught off guard.
Tearing off the Cloak and still panting, he ran a hand over his forehead, trying to wipe away the cold sweat.
The adrenaline surging through his body would take a while to wear off.
“I'm going to kill those two,” he muttered, eyes narrowed, as the faces of the redheaded twins rose in his mind.
“Oh don’t worry, Harry, Filch neeever comes out during the holidays!'” he mimicked Fred and George in a theatrical voice.
“Bollocks he doesn’t! Even Snape’s on duty in the dead of night!”
After venting enough, he took a deep breath and finally paid attention to where he was.
The room was small and clearly hadn’t seen a good cleaning in years. The dust piled up and cobwebs clinging to the corners made the place feel even more dismal. At first glance, it looked almost empty, save for a few scattered student desks and one curious object at the back—a tall mirror, nearly reaching the ceiling, with a golden frame that stood out against the dusty surroundings.
Drawn by a curiosity rising within him like a silent flame, Harry stepped towards the mirror. It looked recently polished, gleaming faintly as though it didn’t belong in this forgotten and dust-choked room. The frame was extraordinarily beautiful—tall and arched, carved from old gold, with two lion’s paws sculpted at the base. Etched just above, strange words shimmered as though wand-carved:
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi
Harry tilted his head, frowning.
“‘Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi…’” he murmured, trying to puzzle it out. “What on earth does that mean?”
But the question was swiftly forgotten.
His eyes had caught the reflection. At first, he saw only himself—skinny as ever, with his perpetually messy hair that defied both comb and charm. He looked a bit rosier, perhaps, thanks to months of eating properly at the castle, but it was undeniably him.
Then something changed.
There were other people in the mirror.
Harry blinked, bewildered. Two figures were beginning to take shape behind him.
He spun round sharply, heart thudding—but the room was still empty.
Turning back to the mirror, his stomach twisted... and there they were.
To his right stood a tall man, with untidy black hair and round glasses just like his own. A shy smile touched his lips, and his brown, gentle eyes shone with pride.
To the left, a woman of serene beauty. Her long red hair cascaded in waves over her shoulders, and her eyes—the same almond-shaped green eyes he saw every morning in the mirror—were gazing at him, full of tenderness.
They looked so young…
So alive…
Harry felt the breath leave his lungs as if he'd been punched.
A lump formed in his throat and, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He blinked rapidly, as if that would dispel the image—but they remained.
“Mum?... Dad?” he whispered, voice trembling, barely more than a breath.
And then they smiled. A soft smile, brimming with love. They inclined their heads, as if to say yes. As if they’d been waiting for him all this time.
Harry’s legs nearly gave out. He barely noticed the cold stone beneath his bare feet, nor the utter silence of the room. His heart was thudding wildly, and his eyes welled up.
In the mirror, he saw his parents’ hands resting on his shoulders—he could have sworn he felt the warmth of that touch, as real as the wind on his face when flying a broom.
And then, he cried.
At first, the tears were silent, but soon they became uncontrollable sobs, echoing through the empty room like ancient laments. He cried like he never had before—not from physical pain, nor anger, but from a longing that had followed him since the cradle.
“I... I miss you so much...” he whispered between sobs, voice breaking.
In the mirror, his parents’ eyes were glistening too. There was sorrow in them, but understanding as well. A love that was silent, eternal, unshakable.
Harry tossed and turned in bed, the laziness weighing on his bones like a stone, while the warm blankets wrapped around him like a cosy cocoon. The idea of facing the cold outside—the snow that had accumulated over the past few days—seemed an unnecessary punishment. The sun tried to break through the blue curtains, casting a faint light over the room.
Outside, the day had already begun. He could hear the muffled footsteps of people moving around the house, the sound seeping under the door. Soon, the door opened gently, as it did every morning. He buried his face in the pillow, trying to prolong the moment of stillness. But it was futile. She sat on the edge of his bed, leaning slightly to touch his shoulders with a gentle stroke.
“Darling... it's time to get up,” her voice was sweet, almost a melody.
Harry slowly opened his eyes, and even without his glasses, he would recognise that face anywhere.
His mother.
With a tender smile, she woke him up as she did every day.
“All right,” he muttered, his voice still thick with sleep, a silly grin escaping.
“Dad’s finishing the eggs... don’t take too long, or they’ll go cold.” She said it in a soft, affectionate tone before leaving the room.
He sighed, reluctant, and finally disentangled himself from the covers, his feet touching the wooden floor that creaked lightly under his weight. His room, spacious and cosy, was filled with details that were part of his life.
The large wardrobe that held all his clothes, carefully chosen by his mother—who always had to convince his father that leather jackets weren’t suitable for every occasion, especially in the wizarding world. The shelves were filled with toys and books he had received as gifts.
Opening the curtains, he gazed out at the snow-covered backyard. The swing hanging from the tree swayed gently in the cold breeze, and birds nestled in the branches, enjoying the cold winter sun. Harry dressed quickly and ran downstairs, drawn by the unmistakable smell of fried eggs.
In the kitchen, his father had his back to him, focused on the stove, while his mother set the table with plates and cups.
James Potter, though he didn’t appear so, was a master in the kitchen—at least when it came to eggs. He excelled at all versions: fried, scrambled, and even boiled. But when it came to bacon... things didn’t always go as well... His mother, by consensus, handled the lunches and dinners.
Harry ran to his father and hugged him.
James laughed and lifted him slightly off the ground, showing his strength despite his lean frame.
“Look who’s up early! Didn’t need to call twice,” James said, laughing.
“Today’s a good reason,” Harry replied as he served himself some tea with milk.
“Ah, so if there’s no good reason, you don’t get up?” Lily raised an eyebrow, but a smile played on her lips as she sat at the table.
“You said I could sleep in during the holidays.” Harry shrugged with an innocent smile.
James snorted with laughter as he put the eggs on plates. “Sleeping in, at most, means until nine. If you had it your way, you’d sleep past eleven!”
“I have to sleep to grow, wasn’t that you who said that?”
“That’s called laziness, dear,” his mother replied, pouring herself some tea. “You weren’t even asleep when I woke you.”
Harry sighed, resigned, as his parents exchanged amused glances.
The conversation during breakfast flowed naturally.
The plan for the day was to go out and wander around the town, watch the film Beauty and the Beast, and perhaps visit the amusement park, before a mandatory stop at the town’s bookstore—his mother’s favourite.
“That’s why I always say,” James commented, casually leaning back in his chair while taking a sip of tea, “marry an intelligent woman who loves to read. One day, son, you’ll thank me. There’s no greater beauty than intelligence.”
Lily raised an eyebrow over her cup, casting a look at her husband that mixed scepticism and affection, as if reading a book for the hundredth time and still noticing something new.
The kind of look that clearly said: “I know exactly what you’re doing, James Potter.”
Harry, for his part, seemed far more interested in cutting his sausage than paying attention to his parents. Fork stuck in his plate, he completely ignored the silent game unfolding before him.
“Hmm...” Lily murmured, pretending to consider her husband’s words with a thoughtful air.
“What? It’s true!” James exclaimed, with that mischievous smile he always wore when caught trying to be a charmer. “I’m a sincere and deep man.”
“I know you are. And I also know when you’re being genuine,” Lily retorted, her green eyes sparkling with mischief, though her voice maintained its impeccable composure.
“See? Never made a better choice.” James winked at her, the smile now so wide it barely fit his face.
Lily tried to maintain an impassive expression, but the slight flush that rose to her cheeks betrayed her effort. She pretended to focus on her toast as if it were the most interesting thing on the table.
“Can you two stop?” Harry grumbled, finally looking up from his plate and frowning. “It’s weird.”
“It’s weird now, but when you’re my age...” James began, with a conspiratorial chuckle, already preparing for some embarrassing piece of advice.
“James Potter!” Lily warned in a sharp tone, though there was clear amusement behind the words.
Her eyes gleamed dangerously, as if threatening to cast a tongue-tied spell at any moment.
“All right, love, I’ve stopped!” he said, hands raised in surrender, but the smile still firmly on his lips showed he wasn’t at all regretful.
When they finished breakfast, his father stood up to wash the dishes, preparing for the planned outing, not before Harry gave him another hug.
“You know I love you, right, champ?” His father said, ruffling his hair.
“I love you too, Dad,” Harry replied, smiling.
In the living room, his mother was sitting comfortably on the sofa. She held a book in her hands, and her serene expression lit up the room, as if the simple act of reading transported her to a world of peace.
Harry approached slowly, as though not wanting to break the peace. Upon seeing him, Lily looked up and smiled, a smile full of love that warmed his heart.
“What's the matter, dear? Want to sit here?” she asked, her voice soft and inviting, as she calmly closed the book and patted the empty space beside her.
He answered with a shy smile, feeling a wave of comfort as he heard the question. Without hesitation, he sat down beside her.
For a moment, they just looked at each other, as if words were unnecessary. Lily's eyes sparkled, and she blinked at him affectionately.
Then, without a word, Harry curled up and lay his head on her lap.
The warmth of his mother, the gentle touch of her fingers playing with his hair—this was all he wanted. A comfort so simple, and yet so deep.
It was the kind of love he had always longed for.
They stayed in silence for a long time, the outside world seeming to vanish, leaving only the stillness between mother and son. The environment around them no longer existed—only the warm feeling of his mother's affection, the soft sound of her breathing, and the delicate touch on his hair.
“I love you, Mum,” Harry whispered, his voice muffled.
He pulled his hands closer to his face, almost hiding in them.
Lily smiled, that gentle smile that always lit up her green eyes. Small wrinkles formed at the corners, soft lines of eternal love.
“I love you too, my love... your father and I love you so… so much,” she said sweetly.
Harry had never felt so loved, so complete.
The softness of her fingers in his hair, the warmth radiating from her touch, the familiar sound of the lullaby she began to hum, something distant and yet incredibly close, wrapped around him like a blanket. It was a melody he recognised, though he didn’t know from where.
But then it all ended when he opened his eyes, waking from his daydream.
The cold sensation hit his body.
The cold stone floor was beneath him again. Reality returned brutally and painfully. He was back in the abandoned room. The dream—if it could even be called that—was over. The warmth of his mother's lap and the sound of her voice had faded, replaced by the impenetrable silence of the dusty room. Only the mirror in front of him remained.
A long, heavy sigh escaped his lips.
Harry felt his chest tighten painfully, as though all the air had been sucked out. This was the second night in a row he had returned to this place, spending hours on end in front of the Mirror, unable to pull away.
All he wanted was to see his parents again—alive, smiling, there with him.
The lack of sleep was taking its toll, and the circles under his eyes told the story of sleepless nights and shattered dreams.
Harry had thought about telling Neville about the mirror, but how could he explain something so unbelievable?
“My parents are alive... in the mirror.”
Just thinking the sentence made him know how it would sound. Insane. Surreal. Even he found it hard to believe. But he couldn’t deny what he felt.
It was so real.
His mother's love, his father's touch—he could feel them as though they were truly there. And so, the next day, Harry stayed silent. He couldn’t gather the courage to share his secret, and it made him even more withdrawn than usual.
However, it didn’t go unnoticed by Neville.
He had noticed Harry’s strange behaviour, especially during the times when they played chess or Hero Path and read their books in silence in the common room. Neville, ever kind, didn’t press, but Harry noticed the furtive glances, the worried expressions, the moments when Neville almost asked, but then stopped.
And maybe that was for the best.
On that first night, when the abandoned room had become the refuge of his pain, Harry had sat curled up on the cold floor, crying until nearly exhausted, and the idea of talking about it now seemed impossible, shameful.
He couldn’t show weakness, he had learned that it would leave him vulnerable.
He rubbed his face with his hands, letting his fingers slide over his tired eyes. It was probably well past three in the morning, and still, here he was, sitting on the cold floor, staring at the mirror as though it were a window into a past he could never have back.
“I need to tell Nev,” he thought to himself. “I need someone to see this so they don't think I'm crazy.”
How was this possible? How could he feel everything so intensely? His mother's love, his father's unpredictable humour, the unwavering passion they had for each other—and for him.
The pride in their eyes.
It was so tangible that Harry couldn’t accept it wasn’t real. With these thoughts echoing in his mind, he finally stood up, put on the Invisibility Cloak, and returned to the Gryffindor dormitory, utterly exhausted.
The next morning, Harry continued to think about how to tell his best friend about it.
He could mention it at breakfast, but then people might hear. That’s when he thought about inviting him to take a walk around the castle grounds.
“Alright, Harry?” Neville's hesitant voice pulled him from his thoughts.
They were walking slowly, the fresh snow crunching under their feet as they made their way to the dock.
“Hm? Oh, sure... everything’s fine,” Harry replied automatically, though he knew it wasn’t true.
Neville nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.
They continued in silence for a few moments, a stronger gust of wind messing up their hair as they took in the view of the frozen Black Lake in the distance.
Then, Harry let out a sigh, finally resolved.
“Actually... no, everything’s not fine.”
Neville stopped, concerned. “What happened? Can I help?”
Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around.
The castle in the distance, the snow-covered trees, everything seemed so far away.
He hesitated for a moment.
“I’ve got something to show you. It’s... it’s kind of crazy, but I think, after everything we’ve seen here” he gestured to the whole castle “crazy is kind of the norm, apparently.”
Neville blinked, confused. “Crazy? Well, I mean, I know a griffin guarding a stone of immortality isn’t exactly normal, but other than that, things are pretty normal...”
“Nev,” Harry interrupted. “Unicorns exist. Dragons exist. Sticks do real magic. People fly on brooms and play a crazy sport with it. And on top of all that, it’s all been hidden from the rest of the world for centuries... not to mention you’ve got a toad... that runs away to the girls’ dormitory,” he finished with a playful smile, trying to ease his own inner melancholy.
Neville sighed with a laugh, which made Harry laugh to himself at his reaction.
“Well, when you put it that way... yeah, I guess it makes sense. For me, this is just another day. I was born into this world, remember?” He shrugged, but soon frowned. “Except for the girls’ dormitory part... but still, he only tried to climb up there once!”
“Still, only tried once. Wait until the holiday’s over... when Fay’s toad comes back with all her amphibious beauty,” Harry replied, patting Neville on the shoulder, who rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “They grow so quickly, don’t they?”
When Neville resumed walking with him, returning to a comfortable silence, Harry stopped smiling and adjusted his scarf around his neck, still thinking about how to explain it.
“Are you sure about this? What if Snape’s around?” Neville asked, his voice trembling as he swallowed hard.
Harry, standing beside him, opened the door to the room with extreme caution, both of them hidden under the Invisibility Cloak.
“There’s no one... I think,” Harry whispered, though he couldn’t shake the chill that ran down his spine as he remembered the last time he almost bumped into Snape when he was in the library two nights ago.
They entered the room in silence, the air heavy and dusty, and Harry gently closed the door behind them. The faint light from his wand illuminated the space, casting distorted shadows on the walls and the abandoned desks in the corners. Everything seemed to be exactly as it had been the past few nights. The same silence, the same imposing mirror.
“Wow...” Neville breathed, his wide eyes reflecting the flickering light. “So this is the mirror?” His hand trembled slightly as he pointed at the relic. “It looks... old. But well-preserved.”
Harry swallowed hard before speaking, his heart beating faster.
“This is where I saw my parents,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. Part of him feared Neville wouldn’t see anything, that it was all just a delusion of his own. “It takes a while, but they will appear—they always appear.”
Neville stepped forward cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal. His eyes scanned the inscriptions on the elaborate frame.
“What’s it say up there?” he asked, tilting his head to try and decipher the faded letters. “They look like ancient runes.”
“I... I don’t know,” Harry admitted, furrowing his brow. “I could never make it out.”
A heavy silence fell over the two boys as they stared at the mirror’s silver surface, the anticipation hanging in the air like mist. Suddenly, Neville took a step back, his eyes widening like two full moons.
“Do you see?” Harry asked eagerly, a hesitant smile spreading across his lips. “They’re there, aren’t they? My parents?”
But Neville didn’t answer. His face lit up in a way Harry had never seen before—an expression of shock, joy, and a pain so intense that it almost hurt to look at.
“They’re not your parents...” Neville whispered, his voice so soft it barely broke the silence. “They’re mine.”
Harry felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.
“What? But... but how?” His green eyes flicked between Neville and the mirror, trying to understand.
Neville stepped forward like in a trance, his trembling hand reaching towards the glass.
“My parents...” His voice broke, the words tumbling out between ragged sobs. “They're smiling... they're... they're whole. Mum's hugging me and Dad... Dad's laughing...”
A solitary tear traced a silvery path down Neville’s cheek as he gazed at the reflection.
They hadn’t noticed the presence of an old, wise wizard, sitting in one of the chairs in the corner of the room, hidden under a Disillusionment Charm.
With two quick circular motions of his wand, he made himself visible.
“Back again, Harry?” Dumbledore said.
His hands gently crossed behind his back.
Harry and Neville gasped in surprise, their eyes wide with astonishment.
Paleness washed over their faces instantly, and Neville, who seemed on the verge of fainting, stared fixedly at the headmaster.
Harry tried, unsuccessfully, to stammer some sort of apology for being there, but no coherent words came from his mouth.
Dumbledore smiled kindly as he observed the two distressed boys.
“It’s nice to have a word with you too, Mr. Longbottom.”
“I-I...”
“W-we...”
Dumbledore made a calming gesture with his hand, and the two fell silent.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he said gently. “I see you’ve discovered the wonders the Mirror of Erised can offer, haven’t you?” He raised an eyebrow, curious.
“I… I don’t know,” Harry admitted, defeated, as he squeezed his own arm as if for comfort.
“The mirror, as the inscription says,” Dumbledore continued, approaching as he pointed to the engraving at the top of the frame. “'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.' Which, reversed, means 'I show not your face but your heart’s desire.'”
Harry looked at the inscription and mentally slapped himself.
Of course, it was a reflected message. How hadn’t he realised before? Harry thought that if Hermione had been there, she would’ve figured it out right away.
“They say that the most content man in the world would only see himself in the mirror,” Dumbledore explained patiently. “He would see himself as he truly is, as he no longer has any desires left to fulfil. But for us, who are never fully satisfied with our desires, the mirror reflects the deepest, often unattainable yearnings of our hearts. Sometimes, they are things we can achieve. Other times, they are impossible dreams.”
Harry sighed deeply, turning his eyes back to the reflection of his parents, still smiling kindly at him, just as they always did. Next to him, Neville watched with the same melancholy look at the reflection of his own parents.
“So... it’s all a lie?” Harry asked, trying not to let the sorrow show in his voice, though the pain was evident.
Part of him still wanted to believe that this, somehow, was real, possible.
Dumbledore looked at Harry with an understanding expression, his blue eyes filled with wisdom and empathy.
“It depends on the dream,” he replied with a tone of sadness. “Most dreams will never come true, I fear. The mirror never shows us the truth. It does not give us wisdom or knowledge. Many wizards have lost themselves before its promises, seeking a power they could never achieve, and ended up in misery, forgetting the real life around them.”
Harry swallowed hard, the weight of Dumbledore’s words settling on him like a heavy blanket. He knew the headmaster was right, though it was painful to accept. The vision of his parents was just an illusion—a beautiful, cruel illusion.
“I ask that you don’t seek out the mirror again,” Dumbledore continued, his voice soft yet firm. “It will be removed tomorrow. It is unwise to lose oneself in dreams and forget to live your own life. You have so much to accomplish, and losing yourself in dreams and unattainable desires will only bring harm. Your hearts need not be burdened with these illusions.”
The boys nodded silently, resigned to that reality too good to be true.
Harry looked at the headmaster, and suddenly, a question slipped from his lips, almost without thinking.
“And what do you see?”
Dumbledore paused for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the mirror, his face failing to hide a faint look of sadness.
When he finally replied, it was with a slightly playful tone.
“Slippers.”
Harry blinked. “Slippers?”
“Oh, of course,” Dumbledore said, with a serene smile. “There’s nothing better than reading a good book in a comfortable armchair, with your feet in warm socks facing the fire, wearing slippers. This winter, in particular, proved that.”
Harry scratched his head, genuinely unsure if that was truly the headmaster’s greatest desire or not. Given how eccentric he was, it wasn’t hard to doubt whether that was true.
“Are we in trouble?” Neville suddenly asked, his voice trembling with fear, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.
“No. Youth sometimes cries for adventure, and I understand that. But it’s getting quite late, and I’m past my bedtime. I no longer have the stamina I once had, but you’re both young, and a good night’s sleep is essential for your health. So, it’s time for you both to return to your beds... preferably in the same manner you came.”
Harry hesitated for a moment before grabbing the Invisibility Cloak. He exchanged a quick glance with Neville, and then his eyes met Dumbledore’s again.
The headmaster gave a kind smile and a slight nod, as if saying that he knew about the cloak.
Of course he knew.
Harry and Neville had just returned from their midnight adventure with the Mirror of Erised, their minds still swirling with unanswered questions. Sitting cross-legged on two large floor cushions—side by side—wrapped in blankets they'd dragged from their four-posters, they let the warm glow of the wood-burning stove envelop them. Dancing shadows flickered across the dormitory walls as the fire crackled softly, its comforting pops and hisses harmonizing with the snowfall outside.
Both were lost in thought.
Harry finally broke the silence.
“D'you… want to talk about what you saw?”
Neville looked down and shrugged.
“I don’t know.” His voice was a whisper, as if he was still deciding.
“Sorry if the mirror bothered you,” Harry murmured, swallowing hard. “I thought… I thought you’d see my parents.”
Neville sighed, his eyes reflecting the light of the fire. “I thought I’d see yours too. But, when I saw mine... I felt…”
“Happy?” Harry ventured, noticing the hesitation on Neville's face.
Neville sighed deeper.
“Yeah, I think so. But now… I don’t know. It was a lie and... my dream will never be able to come true.” He paused, his eyes lost in the fire. “But it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”
Harry frowned, curiosity growing. “Can I ask you something? If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine.”
Neville looked at him and nodded, forcing a smile. “Go ahead.”
“Why d'you think you’d see your parents in the mirror? I mean, I know why I saw mine, but... if it’s personal…” he asked with a distant look.
Neville gazed into the flames, his expression thoughtful. “It's personal, but... your reasons should matter too. You ought to have the right to keep parts of your life private, but instead there are even children's books about you... You deserved to choose whether you wanted any of that.”
Harry had never seen Neville speak so deeply. He couldn’t tell if it was the mirror affecting his friend, or if, by himself, with the right topics, Neville acted like this—more mature than he had been.
“Besides, you’re one of the few people I’d really trust to talk about it.” Neville took a deep breath, seeming to weigh his words.
Harry waited patiently. It was clear that Neville needed to speak.
“You weren’t the only one who felt the effects of the war,” Neville began, his voice low. “My parents, they fought too. Just like yours.”
Harry looked at him, surprised. “Your parents are veterans too?”
Neville nodded slowly.
“They are. But unlike yours, who... died,” he added respectfully, “mine were captured after the war ended.”
“And what happened to them?” Harry asked softly, feeling a lump form in his throat.
Neville took a deep breath, his voice trembling slightly.
“They were tortured—when they were at home, defenceless—because some remaining Death Eaters thought You-Know-Who might still be alive, and they might know something... so they used the Cruciatus Curse.”
Harry shuddered at the sound of that.
He remembered the horrible description of the curse in the book he had read a few days ago. It was the only thing he had really avoided reading more details about, so hideous and painful was that Dark spell.
Neville clenched his fists in the blanket, looking away in anger.
“It wasn’t just one who did it. There were four Death Eaters—Bartemius Crouch Jr., Bellatrix, Rodolphus Lestrange, and his brother, Rabastan Lestrange. They… they tortured them until… until there was nothing left. Until they didn’t even remember who I was.”
Neville sniffed, holding back his tears, but one slipped down his cheek, shining in the firelight and falling into his lap.
Harry breathed deeply, feeling a wave of both sadness and anger at the pain his friend was enduring at the same time.
“I’m sorry, Nev,” he said, his voice hoarse with sincerity.
Neville nodded sadly, but grateful for Harry’s understanding.
“Thanks, I’m… I’m sorry about your parents too,” he murmured. “I… actually—I think I should’ve talked about this with you earlier. Sometimes I think you’re the only one who’d understand…”
After a moment, Neville continued, his words stumbling out.
“When you’re tortured for so long with the Cruciatus… you lose your sanity. And both of them… both of them lost it completely.” His voice faltered, and he blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “So, they’re still alive, in a ward at St. Mungo’s, but they don’t recognise anyone. That’s why I was raised by my grandmother.”
Harry felt his throat tighten. He saw Neville trying to stay strong, with a lion’s determination, but his eyes shone, more tears threatening to fall.
Neville sniffed, staring fixedly at the fire. “So when I saw them in that mirror, so healthy, smiling at me… I felt happy, because—because they knew who I was... loving me anyway, the way I am.”
Harry didn’t know what to say.
Words seemed useless in the face of his friend’s pain, who was sitting beside him but appeared lost in a much darker place.
Harry breathed deeply, trying to understand what would be harder. Never knowing his parents, like him? Or seeing them, knowing they were alive, but completely broken, not even recognising him?
Harry looked at the fire, thinking about how their pains were similar, despite being so different. He knew now that Neville had his own traumas, quietly hidden in a chest at the bottom of his own ocean, as difficult as his.
Their pain bound them, more than anything else. In silence, he extended his hand and gave Neville’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Whatever it is, Nev. Just know I’m here for whatever you need,” Harry said, offering support, speaking softly.
Neville gave a small, weak smile. “You too... for whatever you need.”
Neither of them said anything else. The fire crackled softly, casting shadows over them, while the weight of their words still hung in the air between them.
The new year arrived and passed relatively calmly, without much fanfare.
As in every year, there was a celebration in the Great Hall, where everyone gathered to celebrate the turning of the year. Afterwards, the students and professors watched the fireworks display lighting up the night sky from the Great Lake, visible through the large windows behind the staff table.
The sound of the colourful explosions echoed through the night as everyone celebrated both the year that had passed and the one about to begin.
Harry and Neville enjoyed the rest of their winter holiday in a relaxed manner, just as they had in the past few days. Often, they spent their time in the Gryffindor common room, throwing old bits of newspaper into the fire just to watch them writhe and burn in the flames. At other times, they entertained themselves with a levitation spell contest. Each one tried to keep control of an object suspended in the air while the other tried to knock it down with their own spell. Harry won most of the time, but his victories were often balanced out by his defeats on the wizard’s chessboard.
In an attempt to mix things up, the two even tried playing hide-and-seek using Harry's Invisibility Cloak. However, the game ended in frustration when Harry spent over thirty minutes searching for Neville without success. In the end, he found his friend casually sitting on a bench in the corner of the common room, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter as he watched Harry's frustration.
As winter firmly set in, the snow piled up in thick layers across the castle grounds, covering everything with a gleaming white blanket. Harry and Neville, on a few occasions, paid visits to Hagrid's hut, where they spent pleasant hours by the warmth of the fire. The gamekeeper entertained them with stories about magical creatures, as always, while the boys told him how they were spending the holiday. Hagrid offered cups of tea and slices of his rock cakes.
Harry and Neville had learned to always say they'd already eaten beforehand.
Harry, noticing when Neville was absorbed in a Herbology book that he found interesting, took advantage of these opportunities to fly on his broomstick whenever the weather was less harsh and freezing.
With his new gloves, his flights became much more comfortable, no longer feeling as though his hands were blocks of ice.
On one of these flights, he spotted Cedric, the Hufflepuff fourth-year Seeker. Cedric, who was quite popular among the members of his house and even some from other houses because of his charismatic nature.
He was also flying over the castle, admiring the village of Hogsmeade in the distance and the snow-covered mountains. As they approached, they exchanged a few friendly words while floating on their broomsticks.
Cedric, unlike Terrence Higgs, was kind and friendly, and their brief conversation about Quidditch and playful banter about the upcoming match was pleasant.
Harry was impressed by the difference in attitude between the two.
In February, Harry had high expectations for the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff match, as Cedric seemed to be quite a challenge.
However, not all days were peaceful.
Though Peeves, in some way, had left Harry alone during the holiday, there was one notable exception.
One evening, while Harry and Neville were heading back from dinner to the common room, they were surprised by an attack of sticky paste and chicken feathers. Peeves, floating merrily down the corridor, laughed hysterically at the sight of them covered in feathers, singing for anyone to hear that he had found “the chickens of Gryffindor”.
Harry, furious, shouted a string of insults at the poltergeist, while Neville, stunned, tried to shake the feathers out of his hair.
As the end of the holiday approached, the days that had once been calm began to be disturbed by nightmares.
In his dreams, Harry saw his parents—their faces alarmed, their muffled screams—disappearing in a flash of blinding green light. And in the background, a cruel and icy laugh reverberated, echoing in his mind like a dark curse he could not shake off.
He wished he could forget these nightmares, but he felt they would not be going away anytime soon.
At least Hermione and Ron would be back soon, and the castle would regain its usual lively buzz.
Harry could almost hear their laughter echoing through the stone corridors already—see Hermione bent over her homework with that familiar look of concentration, Ron grumbling about assignments while stuffing his face with ginger biscuits, and Neville banging his head against his Potions textbook as he struggled through his essays. Together, the four of them would face their studies, their mischief, and whatever other adventures the new term had in store.
If the first term had been this eventful, Harry suspected what lay ahead might be even more extraordinary. The thought made him smile as he watched the last snowflakes dance outside the window.
What secrets did the future hold? What new challenges and discoveries awaited behind Hogwarts' oak doors?
Well, one thing was certain—he'd have to wait to find out.
And for the first time in ages, Harry found that the waiting itself might be just as thrilling as the revelation.
Chapter 13: The Nutter Who Talks To Dragons
Chapter Text
The term had started off especially badly.
Since the Astronomy lessons in autumn, it had already been difficult to deal with the biting cold of the early hours. But no one—not even the most diligent students—was prepared to face the harsh Scottish January winter under the open sky, atop Hogwarts' highest tower, at midnight.
The icy wind seemed to pierce through cloaks and blankets, making any semblance of comfort impossible. The sky was clear and perfect for stargazing, but the intense cold made the task nearly unbearable.
And the Warming Charms sometimes did little to help.
Seated on the frozen ground—thankfully free of snow—all the first-years were shivering violently.
Neville’s teeth were chattering audibly, and Harry rubbed his hands together briskly, trying to coax some warmth back into his numb fingers.
“I should’ve brought the pair of gloves you gave me,” Harry muttered regretfully.
“I don’t remember exactly, but I think the charms on them work all the time, not just on a broom,” Neville frowned, shivering. “Or was it only for Quidditch?”
“Who was the berk who thought it was a good idea to have lessons in the middle of the night, in winter?” Ron grumbled, arms crossed tightly over his chest as if hugging his own cloak might ward off the relentless cold.
“Definitely not someone who’s out here,” Harry replied, muffling his hands in a desperate attempt to warm them.
“Whoever made the timetable was just trying to optimise our study time,” Hermione remarked, adjusting her telescope tripod. “Would you rather have lessons every night, right up to summer, just to skip winter?”
“You don’t even believe that!” Ron scoffed, squinting at the dark, starry sky. “Optimise the timetable? Seriously? I’d rather they’d scrapped the subject. Staring at a bunch of twinkly dots… I don’t feel any cleverer for it.”
Harry laughed. “Wait… since when have you been clever?”
Before Ron could retort, Harry was already grinning, barely dodging the light punch his friend aimed at him.
Neville, fumbling with his ill-fitting gloves, muttered through involuntary shivers.
“I agree with Ron. Take Astronomy off the timetable and give us Herbology at the same hours instead.”
“Only you’d want Herbology at night,” Harry teased, and Neville shrugged.
“In a toasty greenhouse in winter? I’d trade a thousand galleons for that,” Neville argued.
“Only certain parts of the greenhouse stay above twenty degrees in winter, Neville—you know that,” Hermione said, adjusting her brown scarf. “Take Moly, for example. If they’re kept too warm, the white petals turn yellow, and they lose all their properties for the Wiggenweld Potion.”
"Funny, that sounds just like my mum—she can't stand heat either... go figure," Ron huffed.
“Hating heat isn’t the same as liking cold,” Hermione pointed out. “Maybe she prefers a moderate climate?”
“Look, ditching Astronomy’s good enough for me,” Harry shrugged, hugging his arms. “Sleep’s a brilliant subject for all these midnight classes, you know? Dumbledore would approve.”
“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Hermione corrected him with a sigh, double-checking her telescope's calibration.
“Good to see someone’s not completely lost their marbles,” Ron agreed, nodding, looking at Harry.
“How can you even say that?” Hermione gasped, incredulous, as if they’d suggested something unthinkable. “Without Astronomy, we wouldn’t know how to navigate without maps or compasses! We might never even have discovered the Americas if the Spanish hadn’t used that knowledge during the Age of Exploration, thanks to the Arab technological influence in Iberia—”
"Span-what?” Ron frowned, clearly baffled.
“The Americas never needed discovering, did they?” Neville scratched his head. “My great-uncle Algie used to tell a story about a wizard who—Oh, wait, you mean muggle history?”
“Never mind,” Hermione huffed, adjusting her telescope with an exasperated sigh. “But mark my words… You three need to spend more time in the library if you want to do well in your exams.”
“Exams?” Ron asked, disbelieving. “Hermione, it’s January! Exams aren’t till June!”
Hermione fixed him with a stern look.
“If you don’t want to pass the year, Ron, that’s your problem! Just don’t come running to me for my notes when it happens.” She turned to Harry and Neville. “I’d hope at least you two have more sense.”
Harry and Neville exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Hermione was overreacting—massively.
They then looked at Ron, whose expression was even more bewildered than theirs. The awkward silence that followed was broken by stifled, nervous laughter from the three of them.
She wouldn’t actually leave them stranded if they hadn’t studied in January for exams in July… right?
“What’s so funny?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow with a dangerous glint in her eye.
Harry cleared his throat quickly, trying to suppress his laughter. “Nothing, nothing…”
Hermione narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.
“Anyway, I’m scheduling a pre-study session to prepare properly. We can start with an in-depth review of Charms and Transfiguration theory first and—”
“A pre-study?” Ron interrupted, incredulous. “Hermione, honestly, give it a rest! We’ve got months before the exams!”
Harry and Neville quickly nodded in vigorous agreement.
Hermione shook her head in disappointment. “You three never take anything seriously… We’ll see who’s laughing when the results come out.”
Ron sighed deeply, shooting Harry a resigned look. “We’re doomed, and the end is nigh…”
“Relax, she’s only joking… Even for her, this is too much,” Harry whispered, shrugging.
No.
Hermione was not joking.
She dragged them to the library with a frequency that went far beyond normal homework and assignments. She insisted they needed these "pre-study" sessions to do well in their end-of-year exams.
Ron was the first to give up—practically before they'd even started. He preferred spending his time, as always, playing wizard's chess with Gryffindor mates and chatting about the Quidditch season—even though his favourite team, the Chudley Cannons, were always the butt of jokes for being the worst in the league, their last championship win nearly a hundred years ago come December.
Harry and Neville tried to keep up with Hermione at first, but soon realised that spending hours in the library revising subjects they didn’t even have tests or assignments for yet was too much.
"No. Out of all subjects, I am not studying History of Magic," Harry whispered firmly, glancing nervously at Madam Pince, who was watching him with her eagle-eyed gaze from the front desk.
"You need to review it, Harry!" Hermione argued, tearing her eyes away from the massive book that, to Harry, looked like pure boredom bound in leather.
Those brown eyes were determined to make him do well, and when Hermione wanted something, she pushed until she got it.
"You barely scraped through last term’s final test, remember?" she pressed. "It’s better to study now than cram later."
"If you want to torture me, at least bring a whip," Harry shot back. "Or maybe I'll just shove a toothpick under my toenail and kick a wall—that works too."
"Argh, Harry!" Hermione groaned just thinking about that gross, painful idea. "Stop being ridiculous—studying has never hurt anyone!"
"Studying doesn’t. History of Magic is the exception."
Neville, sitting beside them, sighed in sympathy. "History of Magic isn’t even that bad… it’s just Binns. He can’t teach."
"First, it’s Professor Binns. Second, he can teach," Hermione corrected sharply.
Harry raised an eyebrow, staring her down.
She held his gaze but eventually buckled under the pressure, huffing and rolling her eyes.
"Fine, his methods are… well…" She couldn’t quite find the right word to describe that ghostly, dead-eyed, spectral teaching style.
Harry gave her a disbelieving look. "Binns is the most boring professor who ever lived. I bet even Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore fell asleep in his classes—and they were probably top students."
Hermione’s frown deepened impatiently. "Alright, but if you do these summaries now, it’ll make exams much easier. Trust me."
Harry turned to Neville for backup. "What about you, Nev? When are you cracking open the Potions book to summarise Blindworm mucus composition?"
Neville, who’d buried his face in his arms on the table, lifted his head with effort.
"Me? Oh… well, I was thinking of… uh… leaving that for later," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact—clearly dodging another Hermione lecture.
"Oh no, not you too!" Hermione exclaimed, pointing at Neville. "Last time, you two nearly blew up the cauldron because you added too much mucus!"
Harry exhaled deeply, resigned, as he picked up the History of Magic textbook. "Just for the record, it was Nev here who couldn’t measure properly."
Neville flushed, flustered at the accusation. "You were the one who added too much asphodel!"
"Shhh!" Madam Pince hissed from her desk.
Harry raised his hands. "Fine, I might’ve overdone the asphodel, but you topped it off with that disgusting slime."
"What was bad couldn’t get worse," Neville muttered, shrugging.
The commitment to Hermione’s "pre-study" sessions didn’t last long—at least not for the rest of the group.
First, Harry "discovered" he urgently needed extra Quidditch practice, sometimes "training alone."
Soon after, Neville found an equally "vital" excuse: helping Professor Sprout in the greenhouses. After all, the plants needed him—or so he claimed.
By evening, when there was no escaping, the two settled for playing wizard’s chess or Exploding Snap with Ron, sometimes joined by Seamus and Dean.
Hermione, more often than not, buried herself in a thick book or scrolls. Still, she stayed with them when she could—she liked their company, and they liked hers.
"Don’t you want to play, Hermione?" Harry asked as Neville shuffled the Exploding Snap cards.
"No, maybe later," she sighed, turning a page.
Still, they did their homework in the library—just not with her same fervour.
"Harry, I truly hope winning the Quidditch Cup is worth failing History of Magic," Hermione remarked once, watching him leave the library with a satisfied grin.
"Oh, absolutely. I’m sure Professor McGonagall will be thrilled when we win that trophy—trust me," Harry said, smirking. "Gotta stay in shape, you know."
"Just a reminder," Hermione narrowed her eyes, "you do know staying on the team requires Exceeds Expectations grades, right?" She arched a challenging eyebrow.
And he knew she knew he knew that was true.
"Well, yeah, I know," he shrugged. "But no use having top marks if I’m a rubbish player. Hence, staying in form."
Neville, already ready to bolt, chimed in. "And I, er… need to help repot the… Puffapod seeds."
"Puffapods?" Hermione’s eyebrow shot up.
"Yeah, Puffapods. Y’know… those plants where the seeds burst when they touch—"
"I know what Puffapods are, Neville.” She rolled her eyes. “I just don’t buy that excuse. Harry, honestly, I’ve stopped trying with you."
Noticing their silence, she sighed in resignation.
"You two are hopeless…" she murmured, diving back into her studies.
Those weeks passed in a blur.
The Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match came out of nowhere, bringing with it a "healthy" competitive atmosphere—the sort of friendly rivalry that was normal for that time of year.
The Hufflepuffs, much like the Gryffindors, were buzzing with anticipation for the game. Yet, all the lightheartedness vanished abruptly when Dumbledore made an unexpected announcement in the Great Hall.
"Due to the events of the last match, I have asked Professor Snape to referee this one."
His voice echoed through the hall.
The tables of both houses shuddered with muffled protests, and no Gryffindor seemed more outraged than Harry.
He shifted on the bench, clenching his fists. He had no proof, but he remembered with painful clarity the day Snape had nearly sent him plunging sixty feet from his broom. And now, the man who headed Slytherin—Gryffindor's fiercest rival among the four houses—was to referee?
It was absurd. A blatant injustice.
The murmurs in the hall continued, but Dumbledore's expression didn't change. With a gentle wave, he dismissed further discussion.
Oliver had devised a bold strategy for the match.
Based on their training, he'd realised his Chaser line—Angelina, Katie, and Alicia—stood a solid chance of dominating if they played aggressively. The plan was for Harry to catch the Snitch only once they'd racked up at least 200 points, securing not just victory but a hefty lead in the overall standings, crucial for the Quidditch Cup.
Oliver hadn't accounted for Cedric's skill.
Harry and the Hufflepuff Seeker shook hands and wished each other luck before the match, but the moment the whistle blew, Cedric transformed into a veritable demon on a broomstick, flying at speeds that rivalled Harry's and displaying uncanny agility.
He was every bit as fast and nimble, and frankly, far more skilled than Slytherin's Terence Higgs. Cedric seemed to anticipate Harry's every move, diving and swerving, always a hair's breadth from seizing the Snitch.
Time and again, the Hufflepuff nearly caught it.
Harry would spot the Snitch's golden glint, surge forward—and there was Cedric, mere inches away. Each near-miss sent Harry's adrenaline spiking; he'd never faced an opponent so relentless.
Cedric didn't give him a second's respite.
Both had top-tier brooms, but their strengths differed. Harry's Nimbus excelled in straight-line speed, while Diggory's had the edge in manoeuvrability, offering far tighter control.
By the match's end, with Gryffindor victorious at 400–130—one of the largest margins over Hufflepuff in over 150 years—Harry landed exhausted, drenched in sweat. Every ounce of effort had been worth it.
Right after the final whistle, the Hufflepuff Seeker approached, his face sporting a friendly, if slightly resigned, smile. Losing was never easy, but the points gap made it sting all the more.
"Good match, Potter. That last dive... I really thought I had you," said Cedric, extending a hand.
Harry shook it with a grin. "Call me Harry."
"Alright, Harry... but only if you call me Cedric," he countered, half-smirking.
"Deal. And you played brilliantly, Cedric. Honestly, it wasn’t just that last attempt—you didn’t give me a moment’s peace the entire match!"
Cedric laughed, a spark of challenge in his eyes. "Next year, I’ll come back even sharper. Hope you’re ready for a rematch."
Harry’s smile turned teasing. "I won’t hand you the win for free."
"Wouldn’t want you to," said Cedric, eyebrows raised. "I’ll earn it. If you went easy, I’d be disappointed."
They both chuckled, and Cedric nodded with a look of mutual respect.
Harry waved as they parted. A clean, friendly match—that was what made Quidditch worthwhile.
The Gryffindor common room erupted in celebration that night, masterminded by the twins, who’d somehow smuggled in food and Butterbeer. Everyone relived the match’s most thrilling moments, especially Harry’s dives that kept Cedric from the Snitch.
This had been Harry's first victory, and he celebrated it, promising himself it would be the first of many more to come.
Despite the loss, the Hufflepuffs were treated with respect in the days that followed.
There was no need to gloat—the rivalry between the houses here was genuinely good-natured, and soon, the sting of Gryffindor’s crushing victory faded.
Not long after, Ron’s birthday arrived on the 1st of March.
He turned twelve, and as per tradition, Fred and George wouldn’t let the day pass unmarked—at least, not by their standards.
Ron spent the entire day on edge, glancing over his shoulder at every suspicious sound, determined to avoid his brothers’ pranks. But his caution wasn’t enough.
That evening in the common room, he sank into his favourite armchair—only to discover too late that the twins had laced it with Tickle Powder. He needed an emergency shower to rid himself of the endless tingling on his backside.
Harry was still laughing at the memory of Ron chasing Fred and George, scratching furiously, as the common room roared with laughter.
"One day, you'll pay for this!" Ron fumed at his brothers.
Chuckling to himself, he enjoyed the Easter lunch, savouring the holiday’s last moments, when Hedwig landed before him, a letter tied to her leg.
"What’ve you brought me?" Harry smiled, stroking her soft feathers as she hooted cheerfully.
He cut a small piece of meat from his plate and offered it to her, which she accepted at once.
"She doesn’t usually deliver post in the afternoon," Hermione observed curiously, pouring herself apple juice.
"S’from Hagrid," Ron said through a mouthful of potato, not even looking up from his plate.
Harry frowned, untying the letter from Hedwig's leg. "How d'you know?"
"Two Sickles says it's his," Ron replied, already with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
The redhead had been betting on everything lately—and, surprisingly, winning most of them. His excuse was that he'd been nearly unbeatable since correctly guessing Harry's Nimbus was a gift.
"I agree with you, so there's no point betting," Harry said, confused. "It's always Hagrid."
"But what if it isn't?" Ron arched an eyebrow. "If it's not, you win two Sickles."
"Ron's been spending too much time with Fred and George…" Neville murmured while cutting a slice of sausage.
"Neville's right," Hermione cut in swiftly, her voice dripping with the usual disapproval. "And stop trying to bet on everything! It's against the rules, and you know it. You could land in serious trouble—not to mention it's annoying and potentially addictive."
Ron flashed a roguish grin. "Five Sickles says Hermione lectures me about gambling again before the week's out."
Hermione rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh as Harry, stifling a laugh, unfolded the letter and read aloud:
Dear Harry,
Hope you're all right! Wanted to invite you, Ron, Hermione, and Neville down ter visit me tonight if yeh can. Got summat very special ter show yeh.
Promise it'll be fun!
See yeh soon,
Your friend, Hagrid.
"Told you, didn't I?" Ron crowed, puffing his chest proudly.
"What d'you reckon he wants us to see?" Hermione asked, her eyes already alight with curiosity.
"Just hope it's not another creature he thinks is 'adorable,'" Harry replied with a grin, while Ron and Neville chuckled under their breaths.
None of them noticed a certain blond Slytherin eavesdropping intently on their conversation.
The atmosphere in the Potions classroom was thick with the pungent smell of exotic ingredients, an odor that clung to clothes and hair like a second skin.
Harry and Hermione worked side by side at their cauldrons, while Ron and Neville, a few feet ahead, struggled to prevent their potions from taking on an alarming green hue. The damp, vapour-heavy air made Snape's always-cutting voice echo even more menacingly off the stone walls.
Hermione leaned over the textbook, her eyes scanning the instructions intently.
"First, crush the lionfish spines in the mortar until you obtain a fine powder," she dictated without looking up. "Then add the mixture to the base potion to neutralise the acidity. And don't forget to prepare two measures of Horklump juice—"
"Hermione..." Harry sighed, gripping the pestle tighter than necessary.
She continued, absorbed: "—and measure precisely, because if you add too much, the consistency will—"
"Hermione!" Harry interrupted more firmly this time.
She finally looked up, surprised, her lips pressed slightly together.
"Yes?"
"Stop ordering me about! I know what I'm doing!"
Hermione arched an eyebrow, but a mischievous smile soon appeared on her face.
"Harry, I'm just trying to help. You do have a history of... let's say, creative interpretations of instructions."
"Creative?!" Harry crossed his arms. "It's just following what's written! I'm not a beginner."
"Oh really?" She lifted her chin, eyes sparkling with challenge. "Remember the Common Poison Antidote? The one that exploded and covered our entire table in purple foam?"
Harry tried to maintain a serious expression, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
"That was an accident! Who could've guessed high heat would do that?"
Now they were both laughing, though at the time Snape's reprimand had left them without smiles, costing Gryffindor precious points.
"All because someone didn't read the bit about temperature," Hermione sang, amused.
Harry rolled his eyes.
"One time. And technically, it was your fault—you wouldn't stop yammering in my ear while I stirred! I couldn't possibly pay attention."
Hermione opened her mouth, indignant—but then let out a giggle.
“And you have the audacity to blame me! You... you're terrible, Harry Potter!”
"Just stating facts, Hermione Granger," Harry replied with a roguish smile as he stirred the cauldron. "For the cleverest witch of our year, I'd have thought you'd noticed by now."
She rolled her eyes and pointed at the lionfish spines.
"Fine, Mr. Potions Expert, but crush these properly, or we'll end up like Seamus—and I don't think even Snape deserves another ceiling drenched in potion."
Harry laughed, picking up the pestle.
"Sometimes I wonder if Seamus does it on purpose..."
At that moment, Snape appeared beside them, his face etched with disdain.
"How heartening to see students bickering rather than focusing on what actually matters: the potion."
They turned, and Harry immediately straightened his posture.
"Professor, we were just—"
"Silence!" Snape cut in, his voice icy. "If you cannot work together, at least attempt to produce something resembling usable. Otherwise, stop wasting ingredients so irresponsibly."
Harry exchanged a worried glance with Hermione, but she quickly regained her composure.
"We'll brew the potion correctly, Professor," she replied in her academic tone. "You'll see."
Snape arched a sceptical eyebrow. "I wouldn't be so certain, Granger. But who am I to question your infinite wisdom?"
Harry exhaled exasperatedly as Snape swept away, shaking his head.
"If he weren't so busy being a git, maybe I could concentrate better," he muttered.
Hermione laughed, turning back to the cauldron.
"Alright, I'll stop dictating what you should do"—she continued as he rolled his eyes—"but... if you turn this into another foul-smelling mess, I reserve the right to remind you for the rest of the year."
"Deal," Harry replied, an involuntary smile appearing. Then he handed her the wooden spoon. "But if you start treating me like an employee again, I'll find a way to lock the library for a week... with something no spell can open."
Hermione scoffed in disbelief. "As if you could single-handedly lock everyone out of the library."
"Me? Alone? No... but Fred and George? Maybe..." Harry replied with a roguish grin, purely to watch Hermione's genuine concern at the possibility.
After a brief silence, they both burst into laughter and returned to their potion.
The other groups stared at them, wondering what could possibly be funny in that cursed lesson.
Snape made a disgusted face at their cheerfulness and ignored them. There seemed to be something about them that deeply unsettled the professor.
After class, Harry and Hermione successfully brewed an Herbicide Potion that worked as intended, turning a vibrant rose into a blackened, withered mass.
Ron and Neville, surprisingly, avoided catastrophe this time—their potion resulted in something more like grey jelly... which, for them, was a victory worth celebrating with Butterbeer and loud music.
That same Slytherin boy who'd been observing them quietly ground something in his mortar, mulling things over in silence.
At day's end, the four of them headed to Hagrid's hut.
The sun was beginning to set, and Harry was grateful spring had finally arrived, replacing winter's white with vibrant green grass and colorful flowers. Yet the evening chill persisted.
They were all bundled up, their cloaks swaying in the gentle breeze, scarves wound tightly around their necks. Harry, as usual, let the long end of his scarf hang loose—this time in front, swinging and tapping against his stomach as he walked. He never minded it; he'd grown so accustomed to the motion that it was almost comforting.
Upon reaching the hut, Harry knocked and heard Fang's muffled barks.
Moments later, Hagrid opened the door, wearing a pair of floral oven mitts and a white apron embroidered with a cutesy hippogriff. The sight was, at the very least, comical.
"Come in, come in! Bin waitin' ter show yeh this!" Hagrid said excitedly, his face split by a massive grin.
"Show us what, Hagrid?" Hermione asked, first to step inside.
Fang, of course, went straight to her, wagging his tail for pets.
"Hello Fang! Who's a good boy? You are!" Hermione cooed in that exaggerated tone reserved for animals.
The four gathered around the table where the fireplace crackled, something large simmering in a pot over the flames.
"Ah... remember what I said 'bout dragons, Harry... when we were discussin' 'em?"
A shiver ran down Harry's spine. He nodded warily, already fearing the worst.
"Depends. About them not being as dangerous? I remember you saying that."
"Well... I mentioned they're dangerous, but not as bad as folks say," Hagrid mused. "Load o' rubbish gets written these days."
Neville gulped audibly. "They say dragons kill without thinking..."
"Dragons aren't that bad," Ron said casually, as if discussing kittens. "Charlie's always on about the ones at the Romanian reserve. Just keep their bellies full and... well, hope it's not a female."
"Dragons aren't that bad?" Hermione arched an incredulous eyebrow, sniffing slightly. "Stand in front of one and see what happens. I promise it'll be quick."
Ron pulled a face that Hermione promptly ignored, continuing to pet Fang.
Harry frowned. "What's being female got to do with it?"
Hermione sighed as if it were the most obvious thing. "Females tend to be more aggressive when guarding eggs or hatchlings. You said Fantastic Beasts was your favorite book—how don't you know this?"
"Seems it's not just with dragons..." Ron muttered, earning a chuckle from Harry while Hermione, mercifully, didn't hear.
"If you claim that book is your favorite, you should know these things," Hermione teased.
Harry shrugged. "The book's over five hundred pages. Want me to memorize it? — Then tell me... what's Chapter 32 of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi about?"
"Shrivelfigs!" Neville answered promptly, animated. "A plant with purple fruit native to Abyssinia and—"
The three friends stared at him, surprised, while Neville shrank back sheepishly.
"I... I like the book..."
Hagrid, noticing the lull, cleared his throat.
"See, dragons ain't that dangerous. Most stories are codswallop... told by folks who've never seen one proper."
A loud noise came from the pot, and Hagrid hurried over.
The four crowded around curiously. When he lifted the lid, there it was...
A massive, blackened egg nearly filling the pot.
Harry's throat went dry. Only one creature laid eggs that size and needed fire to hatch.
"Bloody hell, is that a real dragon?!" Ron's eyes bulged as he pressed a hand to his forehead.
"Aye, aye! Now stand back—it's hatching!" Hagrid swiftly moved the egg with his oven mitts to a basket on the table, blowing on his fingers as the shell began to crack.
Everyone held their breath.
The shell fractured slowly, revealing a small, brown dragon with a black stripe down its back. The hatchling looked at Hagrid and... coughed a tiny fireball into his beard, which the half-giant patted out before it could catch.
"Look at that! Isn't he sweet?" Hagrid beamed, lifting the dragon with his massive hands. "Say hello to yer mum!"
"He's gone completely mad," Ron muttered, wide-eyed and palm pressed to his forehead.
Two minutes ago, he'd had opinions about dragons—but seeing one up close was entirely different. He shuddered, imagining it growing to the size Charlie described.
"Hagrid... I-I don't think this is a good idea," Neville stammered, voice shaky. "Dragons are dangerous!"
"Rubbish!" Hagrid laughed. "Little Norbert here's gentle as can be, see?"
"Norbert?!" all four echoed, aghast.
"Course! Needs a name, don't he? Looks like a Norbert."
"My goodness…” Hermione murmured, sharing a despairing look with Harry—the only two who'd apparently read seriously about these creatures. "What breed is it, Hagrid? I can't tell."
"Does it matter?" Ron asked.
"No. Absolutely not. I just remember that the bigger the egg, the bigger the problem," said Harry, uncertain—the book listed so many species—as he shot Hagrid a worried look.
Either way, Harry knew this dragon would grow very, very fast.
"They eat large mammals," Harry told Hagrid. "What'll you do when he's bigger?"
"Ah, I'll figure it out, Harry. Don't fret! Norbert won't go hungry."
"And how'd you even get him?" Ron crossed his arms. "Last I checked, they don't grow in the Forbidden Forest."
"Ah! Good one!" Hagrid adjusted in his chair. "Met a bloke at the Hog's Head—we were havin' a drink, an' I won 'im in a card game!" He chuckled to himself. "Can yeh believe it? Reckon he was a dragon dealer, likely."
"Hagrid, this is illegal! You could be in serious trouble," Hermione tried to reason with him.
"Only illegal if the Ministry finds out," he chuckled mischievously, before his expression turned stern. "Not that I said that. Follow the rules and don't cause trouble, understood?"
Before anyone could respond, Ron glanced out the window and spotted a pair of grey eyes watching them.
"Malfoy? What the—"
The Slytherin boy's eyes widened before he disappeared, sprinting toward the castle.
"Bloody hell," Harry snarled. "That shitty bastard followed us!"
Hermione didn’t correct him, nervous about what the Slytherin might do if he saw what they were up to in the hut.
"Did he see Norbert?" Neville asked, his voice barely audible.
"Don't think so," Harry said, assessing the situation. "I was blocking the view... But Hagrid, seriously, this is dangerous!"
"Course it ain't! Norbert won't hurt a soul, I promise."
"And when he's fully grown? They reach thirty feet in a year!" Harry insisted.
"Thirty feet?!" Neville repeated, horrified.
"That's if he doesn't overeat and hit fifty feet!" Hermione added anxiously. "They take ages to stop growing after the juvenile stage."
They all stared worriedly at the half-giant and his dragon, though currently the creature seemed more interested in nibbling Hagrid's fingers than anything else.
"Norbert needs feeding, and you lot need to get back to the castle, eh? Curfew's approaching," Hagrid said, rising and heading to the door. "Norbert'll need meals every half hour, according to this..."
He pointed to a copy of Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit.
"Needs feeding," Ron muttered under his breath. "Next thing you know, we'll be on the menu."
Neville said nothing, eyes still wide, failing to maintain composure and desperately wishing he weren't there when that thing got bigger.
"I hope you know what you're doing," Hermione observed, edging slowly away from Norbert, who was beginning to cough fireballs around the hut as Hagrid stomped them out.
"See yeh next time!" Hagrid called as they shut the door.
"Yeah, here's hoping there is a next time," Harry murmured once they were out of earshot.
They walked toward the castle in momentary silence, until Neville broke it:
"What did I just witness?" he asked aloud, looking rather pale.
"A creature that'll likely be your height in a month," Harry said dryly, glancing back at Hagrid's hut where orange firelight flickered in the windows.
"Will Malfoy be trouble?" Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, worried. "If he saw Norbert... Hagrid could be in serious trouble. Dragon breeding is illegal! It's considered contraband!"
Ron adjusted his orange scarf with a frown.
"That's not even the worst of it! How's he gonna feed that thing? What if we look tasty to it in a few months? And seriously—Norbert?"
"Of all things, you take issue with the name?" Harry asked, incredulous.
Ron shrugged, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
"Dunno... Could've been Morbius. Or Terence."
"I pity your future children," Hermione teased.
"Hey! I wouldn't name my kids that! And look who's talking—Hermione!"
Hermione glared. She'd always maintained she liked her name—found it special. Her mother had chosen it from Shakespeare.
"Alright then, Bilius, we get it," Harry laughed, narrowly dodging a playful punch from the redhead.
"Shut it, James!"
"I like my middle name," Harry shrugged. "Live with it, Bilius."
"This is why I prefer simplicity," Neville said. "One given name, one surname—easier to write, you know?"
"I like having options," Hermione countered. "I can go by Jean if I want. At least I like my middle name too."
"Merlin give me strength..." Ron sighed as the other three laughed.
Though they'd drastically shifted topics to lighten the mood, they all knew they'd need to keep an eye on the half-giant and his illegal dragon.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville were leaving another Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson.
Harry felt his scar burn at specific moments during class, and as promised since last term, he told Hermione—who sat beside him in these lessons—every time it happened.
Yet none of them could determine what it meant.
Hermione shot Harry a worried look as he rubbed his scar with a pained expression.
She tightened her grip on her books in frustration.
"I still don't understand why this is happening... there must be something we're missing," she sighed, her eyes bright with unease.
"Don't beat yourself up," Harry replied, trying to sound casual despite the weariness from the pain. "I'm nearly used to it by now. Maybe it's the subject... or whatever."
"If it were the subject, why would it hurt in the Forbidden Forest or during feasts?" Neville asked, frowning as he tried piecing it together.
He was clearly concerned too, but reacted in his usual quieter, more thoughtful way.
"It's disrupting your focus in lessons, Harry," said Hermione, irritated with herself for having no solution. "How can you concentrate when you're in pain every time the professor writes on the board?"
"Honestly, I don't even care much about DADA," Harry shrugged, exasperated. "We always end up having to review what he says on our own—and don't look at me like that, Hermione! Even you struggle to follow his lectures."
"Professor Quirrell's stutter is a disability. Do you think he'd choose to have it if he could help it?" Hermione retorted with a hint of reproach.
"Odd thing is, he didn't stutter last year when he taught Muggle Studies. At least I’ve never heard my brothers talk about it — stammering’s the sort of thing they’d mention, the twins would’ve made jokes for sure, even Charlie never said anything like that, and he actually took that subject." Ron observed suspiciously. "He always looks terrified... and like Dad says, 'the guilty man flees when no one pursues.'"
"And he's definitely guilty of something," Harry remarked.
"He claims he returned from a trip where vampires threatened him. The stutter came from that," Hermione said, biting her lip. "But vampires don't cause stutters."
"Something tells me he's faking it sometimes," Harry sighed as they turned a corridor, dodging a group of scowling Slytherins.
"If he's involved with Snape, there's definitely something we don't know," Neville added. "But what if he's like this because Snape's threatening him? You saw what Snape did to him in that corridor once. Quirrell had to pick a side, didn't he?"
"Look, I'm with Harry on this," said Ron, clapping his friend's shoulder. "Quirrell's a rubbish teacher, and his stutter's dodgy. No defending that."
Hermione rolled her eyes.
Though she agreed Quirrell was strange and deeply suspicious—possibly conspiring with Snape on some mad scheme involving the Philosopher's Stone—complaining about a disability they only suspected was faked wasn't grounds to mock him.
Still, Harry and Ron had a point about his lessons. While Dark creatures and defensive spells were fascinating in books, Quirrell's classes were dull, uncomfortable, and impractical. He preferred rambling monologues over actual spellwork.
Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the air:
"Well, well... the loser brigade."
Draco Malfoy approached, with Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson in tow, all smirking disdainfully.
"Look who's talking—the coward who sticks his nose where it doesn't belong," Harry shot back acidly.
Harry had learned how to handle Slytherins: a hex to the head and a kick up the arse was his affectionate way of saying good morning.
"Don't call me a coward, Potter!" Draco retorted, his face flushing red with anger.
"Just calling it like I see it," Harry said, forcing indifference. "Why'd you run off like a scared girl yesterday?"
Pansy and Hermione both glared furiously at Harry for the remark.
He rolled his eyes.
"Figure of speech, don't take offense," he added to Hermione before turning to Pansy. "You, on the other hand, can be offended all you like."
"Sod off, Potter!" Pansy snapped.
Ron muffled a laugh despite the tension.
"What's so funny, Weasel?" Draco pointed, his voice dripping with venom.
Ron's ears turned red, his freckles standing out starkly.
"Your stupid face, idiot" he fired back evenly.
"Don't call me that, you ginger tosser!" Draco spat, clearly furious.
Harry kept his eyes locked on Malfoy.
"You didn't answer my question," he pressed, voice tense. "Why'd you run like a coward yesterday?"
"I'm not a coward, and it's none of your business!" Draco said abruptly. "But if you're so brave calling me one, how about we settle this with a proper duel? Or do you lot only know how to throw dungbombs and hide like the cowards you really are?"
Harry, Ron, and Neville faltered briefly at the reminder of their prank but recovered quickly.
"I'll duel you," Harry said without hesitation.
"Harry, no! You'll get in trouble!" Hermione stepped forward, eyes blazing with worry.
"Yeah, listen to your know-it-all little girlfriend," Pansy sneered, making the other Slytherins laugh as Hermione flushed and looked away.
"She's not my girlfriend!" Harry exclaimed, now red with embarrassment.
"Better control yours, Malfoy," Ron jabbed a finger at Pansy. "She's getting mouthy."
Now it was Pansy's turn to blush as she coughed nervously, failing to counter.
Neville cleared his throat.
"We don't need to fight—"
"Shut it, Squib!" Goyle growled.
"Watch your mouth. Pig," Harry said coldly, giving the Slytherin a dangerous look that made him shrink back.
Apparently, Harry's reputation as a troll-slayer still commanded a degree of respect.
"What rubbish," Malfoy muttered with a scoff. "Well, at least it's good to know even you wouldn't be desperate enough to shack up with someone like Granger, Potter."
Hermione ducked her head, mortified, as the Slytherins howled with laughter.
Harry clenched his fist and stepped forward to retort, but had to restrain Ron, who was advancing with far more fury.
"Listen here, you—!" Ron began, but Harry and Neville held him back.
"Look! The mangy Weasel knows how to bark," Crabbe jeered.
"And the brainless gorilla knows how to speak," Harry shot back, eyes blazing with anger.
Draco raised a hand, cutting off further taunts.
"Enough of this. If you don't show, Potter, we'll know who the real coward is. Or will you hide like last time?"
"Where?"
"Trophy Room. Tonight, midnight. Don't worry—it'll be unlocked... they never lock it."
"I'll be there."
Draco laughed. "Bring these two idiots along too. Makes our job easier—we'll humiliate you all at once."
As Draco and his gang strutted away, Neville turned pale and Ron flushed scarlet with rage.
"Blimey..." Neville murmured.
"That slimy git! I'll murder him!" Ron spat through clenched teeth.
"No, Malfoy's mine. You take Crabbe, Neville gets Goyle," Harry said firmly.
Neville's eyes bulged. "W-what?! You can't be serious! They'll—they'll slaughter us!"
"They're all talk. None of them can cast a proper spell—have you seen them in lessons? Pathetic," Harry argued.
No Slytherin truly excelled in any subject except Potions, and that was largely due to Snape's blatant favouritism.
"But... but I'm rubbish at spells!" Neville stammered.
"Don't you see?" Hermione cut in, stepping between them with a severe look. "It's a trap! He wants you to break curfew!"
"He wants to settle this, and we're going to show him how it's done," Harry said through gritted teeth. "I'm done tolerating his sort."
"I'm with you, mate," Ron said, clapping Harry's shoulder.
They both turned to Neville, who looked ready to faint.
"Neville, please think carefully—" Hermione pleaded, hoping he'd see reason.
"Come on, mate, are you a Gryffindor or not?" Ron exclaimed, thumping Neville's back.
Neville straightened up, though visibly trembling.
"I... I'll go with you," he said, trying to sound confident. "Sorry, Hermione. Can't... can't let them go alone."
"That's the spirit!" Ron cheered.
Hermione sighed deeply, shoulders slumping in defeat.
"Don't say I didn't warn you..." she muttered bitterly.
The tension in the boys' dormitory that night was palpable.
Seamus and Dean were playing a lively game of Exploding Snap, completely oblivious to the nervous glances Harry, Ron and Neville exchanged as midnight approached.
Harry, trying desperately not to think about the duel, absently stroked Hedwig's feathers. He just wanted to make Malfoy swallow his pride and leave him alone for good—this seemed the perfect opportunity.
Ron, distracting himself, attempted in vain to turn Scabbers yellow with a spell, only succeeding in giving the rat stripes instead as his nervousness made him botch every Colour-Changing Charm.
And Neville... well, Neville was murmuring nervously to Trevor as if the toad might offer some last-minute survival advice.
When fifteen minutes remained until midnight, the three friends stood like soldiers marching to their final battle. They descended the dormitory stairs but stopped abruptly in the common room upon encountering Hermione, arms crossed with an expression of pure determination.
Ron narrowed his eyes, clearly annoyed.
"What are you doing awake? Don't tell me you're here to stop us?" he whispered nervously.
Hermione rolled her eyes with such disdain she might have pierced the ceiling.
"Oh please. You're going regardless, so I might as well come too."
Harry blinked, confused. "Wait... First you say we're walking into a trap, now you want to join us? How does that make sense?"
"I'll be there to stop you doing anything even more stupid!" Hermione shot back in a hushed tone. "Someone needs to keep you out of worse trouble."
"Like we can't handle ourselves," Ron retorted, crossing his arms.
"You can't! If you could, you wouldn't have nearly been caught by Snape last term. If it weren't for Peeves, you'd have been expelled!" Hermione countered, hands on hips.
Neville's eyes widened. "Wait... how do you know about Peeves?"
Hermione smiled, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she raised her chin with that uniquely Hermione air of superiority.
"I have my methods," she said primly. "But that's not the point. Now, are you letting me come or not?"
Harry swallowed hard, remembering how he'd reluctantly told her about that night they saw Snape interrogating Quirrell and nearly got caught.
Hermione was undoubtedly a force of nature when extracting secrets. Harry could have sworn he wouldn't say a word that afternoon when they were alone in the library—a rare occurrence without Neville or Ron. Those intense brown eyes fixed on him had made his insides squirm, practically screaming:
"Tell her! Don't hide anything from her!"
And since she was determined to know, he'd told her everything.
"Alright, I think the cloak can fit us all," Harry murmured, pulling the Invisibility Cloak from his jacket. "But stick close. I'll lead."
Everyone was underneath it, trying to get comfortable.
"Just don't interfere with the duel!" Ron sniffed grumpily.
"Me? Interfere?" Hermione huffed. "I'll probably end up saving you."
Neville gave a nervous smile. "You know, Hermione's the best in our year at spells. If anyone's winning anything tonight, it's her."
"Thank you, Neville," said Hermione. "At least someone appreciates what I can do."
Ron scowled. "I didn't say—"
"Quiet, all of you!" Harry hissed. "And—could you stop grabbing my arse?—Thanks."
No one noticed Hermione quickly withdraw her hand and blush tomato-red, fortunately for her. It was an accident—she hadn't realized where her hand was going, hadn't meant to touch him there. But the heat in her face refused to fade, burning long after the moment passed.
Under the cloak, the four shuffled awkwardly to the Fat Lady's portrait.
Neville sighed nervously. "Do we really have to do this?"
"You can go back if—" Harry began.
"That's not what I meant," Neville cut in anxiously. "I'm talking about this provocation. They won't make us look like cowards."
"They started it," Harry retorted firmly. "And I'm not letting Malfoy off that easy."
The quartet could barely see where they were stepping as they descended to the Trophy Room. Harry eased the door open slowly—no resistance, just a soft creak that sounded like a trumpet blast to their frayed nerves.
"Well, at least Malfoy wasn't lying about that," Ron murmured, peering around under the cloak.
The Trophy Room was immaculately organized, as if the trophies had been polished minutes earlier. Moonlight glinted off silver shields and golden cups, even the suits of armor seemed posed for a photograph.
"Lumos," Harry whispered, lighting his wand.
Hermione did the same.
"Hey, wait! How do you know that spell?" Ron asked, slightly indignant.
Hermione shrugged disdainfully. "If you studied, you'd know it too."
Ron huffed, clearly offended, but trudged on, muttering something about "memorizing page numbers too."
"Now what?" Neville whispered, glancing around as if expecting the armor to attack any moment.
"Now we wait for them to show," Harry answered, wandering further into the room admiring the gleaming awards.
"How long till midnight?" Ron asked, running a finger along a trophy as if inspecting for dust.
"About three minutes, I think," Hermione replied, pausing at a shelf of Quidditch awards. Suddenly her eyes lit up. "Harry, look! Your father's name is here!"
"What? Where?" Harry crossed the room quickly.
He stopped before a large cup that made his heart warm.
James Potter – Central Chaser.
His name was engraved at the base below the trophy proudly displaying the Gryffindor crest. Harry imagined his father celebrating a victory, laughing with friends... and wished with all his might to do the same someday.
Neville approached, examining the trophies with surprising seriousness.
"Your father won two Quidditch Cups," he noted, pointing.
"If he was in the '71 and '72 teams, that means he won one in fourth year and another in sixth," Hermione calculated instantly.
"Two-time champion, eh?" Ron exclaimed, clapping Harry's back. "Your dad must've been one of the best Chasers of his time! Just three more years and you'll surpass him!"
"That's what I'm training for," Harry said, eyes shining. "Imagine winning all seven consecutive seasons?"
Ron burst out laughing. "All seven? Harry, you'll need a decent team for that too. Or you'll have to hex the entire pitch."
Harry shrugged. "The team's secured."
"I know what Ron means," Neville interjected, shaking his head thoughtfully. "Oliver and Angelina will graduate eventually, right? Then you'll need replacements."
Harry frowned, scratching his head. That possibility hadn't occurred to him yet.
Neville, however, had already moved on, his eyes settling on another trophy—this one bearing the Hufflepuff crest. His face lit up with a shy but unmistakably proud smile. There, engraved on the gleaming metal, was another name:
Frank Longbottom - Seeker.
Harry and Ron followed his gaze, and Harry felt a warmth in his chest at the quiet emotion passing over Neville's face—likely mirroring what he himself had felt moments earlier. No words were needed; Neville's expression spoke volumes.
Hesitantly, Neville reached out, his fingers hovering just above the plaque before withdrawing at the last second, as if afraid to tarnish this recognition that glimmered in the light of Harry and Hermione's wands.
"Your dad played Quidditch too?" Ron's eyes widened in surprise. "And he was a Seeker? Blimey, so Harry's dad and yours actually played against each other!"
"Of course they did," Hermione chimed in. "They started the same year—see the dates? 1971-1972. But you never mentioned he was a Hufflepuff."
"Yeah, well... he was. My mum too," Neville murmured softly, his voice thick with quiet pride. "Gran says he made the team in sixth year but only won the Cup in seventh. Because they lost to Gryffindor that year—the final match was close against Slytherin... won by a snitch catch."
Harry grinned mischievously and nudged Neville's shoulder. "So when are you trying out for the team, eh?"
Neville shuddered as if hit by a Petrificus Totalus.
"Oh, I... I won't, definitely not," he stammered, his voice trembling as if the mere idea of playing was equivalent to dueling Snape to the death. "I'd much rather stay far away from brooms if possible—"
"Shhh!" Hermione suddenly hissed. "Not to interrupt but... where are they? They should've been here by now."
Harry frowned, noticing the unnatural quiet. "Now that you mention it, it must be past midnight and—"
At that exact moment, the Trophy Room door creaked open, freezing them all in place. They expected Draco and his cronies, but instead faced something much, much worse.
Filch.
The caretaker carried his lantern like a general wielding a sword, and beside him, a cursed shadow, was Mrs. Norris, her eyes gleaming in the dark.
"Cloak! Now!" Hermione hissed, shaking Harry's shoulders urgently.
Nearly tripping over himself, Harry yanked the Invisibility Cloak over them, and the four huddled together so tightly it resembled a poorly planned group hug.
Ron had gone so pale his freckles seemed to scream across his face.
Neville trembled like a leaf.
Hermione's eyes were wide as she mentally calculated escape plans.
Harry, meanwhile, remained calm—by now he was practically a professional at hiding from Filch.
As the caretaker advanced, sniffing the air like a bloodhound rather than a school employee, the invisible quartet stood frozen. They were packed so closely that Harry had to discreetly elbow Ron to stop him stepping on his foot.
"If Filch catches us, we're done for," Ron whispered, trying not to move.
"Why do we always end up in trouble?" Neville whimpered, near tears.
"Quiet!" Harry hissed.
Filch took a few more steps, thrusting his lantern into the shadows. "If those brats were right... there should be someone here..."
Ron turned crimson with rage.
"Malfoy son of a—"
Hermione stomped on Ron's foot in response, and he bit his lip to stifle a yelp.
"Hmm?" Filch murmured, swinging the lantern perilously close to their position. "I know you're here!" he snarled, peering between trophies. "Bet I'll find you... and when I do..."
His smile turned terrifying.
Suddenly, a singsong voice echoed through the room:
"Ooooh, Filchy, Filchykins... sniffing around like a little puppy?"
Peeves.
The poltergeist floated down from the ceiling, grinning maliciously, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He loved nothing more than making Filch's life difficult—and this was golden opportunity.
"Get out, Peeves!" Filch barked, already exasperated. "You never let me work!"
"Work? Work?! Oh Filchy, you and your precious kitty don't know how to have fun!" Peeves did a midair somersault, cackling. "But you know who's having fun now? Me!"
With an ear-piercing whistle, he began knocking small trophies from shelves, creating an unholy racket.
"PEEVES!" Filch screamed, desperately trying to catch falling awards.
Harry exchanged a quick glance with the others—this was their chance.
"Now," he whispered, gently pushing Hermione and Ron backward.
They began inching stealthily toward the door under the cloak, trying not to trip over each other.
"Ooooh, Filchykins, you're missing something... verrry important if you keep chasing me! Why not check the right places this time?"
Filch looked ready to pull his hair out. "Peeves, I swear, if you don't leave NOW—"
Peeves just blew a loud kiss and zoomed out, laughing and clapping.
"Toodle-oo, Filchy! Don't forget to find what you came for! They're getting away!" he sang.
With Filch distracted, the quartet reached the door. They were practically glued together under the cramped cloak. Once in the corridor, they breathed a sigh of relief—until Harry tripped on a step and nearly fell.
"Shhh!" Hermione lightly smacked his shoulder. "Focus!"
"Where are you!" Filch burst into the corridor, lantern swinging wildly.
They ran as quietly as possible, not daring to look back. Gradually, the lantern's glow faded until it disappeared completely, though Filch's furious muttering still echoed through the dark halls.
When they finally collapsed into the Gryffindor common room, panting, they dropped onto the nearest sofas and chairs, struggling to catch their breath.
Harry braced his hands on his knees, still panting, and shot a glance at Hermione, who stood with arms crossed wearing that trademark superior expression—the classic "I told you so" look.
"Alright, alright. You were right and we were wrong... happy now?" Harry grumbled, not really expecting an answer.
Hermione raised her eyebrows and tightened her folded arms, like a professor about to deliver a lecture.
"Next time, listen when I say it's a trap," she said firmly. "It was obvious, Harry."
Neville, his face nearly the colour of a ripe tomato, gasped for air.
"I... I should've... listened to you. I think... Merlin. I'm not used to running like that." He looked ready to collapse any second.
"Bloody Slytherins," Ron muttered angrily. "How'd we think they had any honour? Malfoy, honest? What a joke!" He pulled a face, rubbing his chest as he tried to catch his breath. "If it weren't for your cloak, Harry, we'd be in deep trouble."
"If it weren't for Peeves, we'd be in deep trouble," Harry corrected, adjusting his glasses and looking at his friends. "I've got a love-hate relationship with that git."
Neville sighed, remembering something that made him grimace. "I'd say for me it's more hate than love..."
"He's notorious for snitching on students out of bed," Hermione said authoritatively. "He only didn't this time because we were invisible—otherwise we'd be in Filch's office right now."
Ron walked to one of the common room windows and peered outside. Something in the distance caught his attention.
"Wait... look there," he pointed. "Hagrid's hut... is it flickering?"
They all crowded by the window, where the orange lights flashing from Hagrid's windows were unmistakable, as if he'd built an enormous bonfire inside.
"Norbert," Harry sighed. "Knew this would happen eventually. Hagrid hasn't got a clue what he's doing. We should go down tomorrow—maybe figure out how to get rid of him or something."
Neville gulped, eyes wide. "But... what if he... gets loose and attacks someone... or worse?"
Hermione shook her head worriedly.
"We've already seen how disastrous he was when he hatched." She tossed a lock of hair over her shoulder. "If we don't do something, Norbert could hurt someone—or burn the whole hut down!"
"Right, that settles it," Harry concluded, trying not to sound alarmed. "Tomorrow we talk to Hagrid about what to do with Norbert."
Ron, thoughtful, scratched his head. "Can I make a suggestion?"
The others exchanged glances and nodded.
"Charlie," said Ron, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. "My brother could take Norbert to Romania. I'll send him a letter explaining that... well, someone at Hogwarts shouldn't have accepted a dragon egg in a stupid card game. He could come discreetly and take the dragon before anyone notices."
Harry, Hermione and Neville stared at Ron, surprised.
"Ron, that's... actually brilliant," Hermione admitted, a smile tugging at her lips.
Ron grinned proudly. "I have my moments."
The next morning at breakfast, Harry immediately noticed the malicious, mocking looks from the Slytherins. Malfoy and his friends were snickering, undoubtedly whispering about last night's "trap."
Harry clenched his fists, vowing never to trust Draco Malfoy again—not even for something as simple as an honourable duel.
Malfoy knew nothing about honour.
Determined to solve the dragon problem, the quartet decided to visit Hagrid's hut before lunch. As expected, the place was in complete chaos.
Hagrid looked exhausted, with deep bags under his eyes, yet he wore a proud smile. His appearance told the whole story: singed hair, disheveled beard, and the hut—well, it looked like a war zone. Burn marks covered the walls, and the wooden table bore deep bite marks. Various objects were either broken or completely destroyed. Fang trembled under Hagrid's bed, paws covering his eyes.
Norbert, the once tiny dragon who could comfortably fit in their palms, was now the size of a medium dog—perhaps even larger. His claws and teeth had grown alarmingly fast, evident from Hagrid's bandaged fingers and torn clothes.
"Merlin's beard," Neville exclaimed, clutching his head at the destruction.
"My... goodness," Hermione stammered, horrified. "Hagrid, Norbert's going to burn your house down!"
Hagrid, currently cradling the sleeping dragon, shrugged as if it were nothing. Despite his exhaustion, there was a glint of pride in his eyes.
"Ah, it's not so bad," he said, trying to stay calm. "He's just a bit... feisty, is all."
"No!" Hermione stomped her foot so hard Norbert snorted in his sleep, though he didn't wake.
Everyone flinched at her intensity.
"Hagrid, for Merlin's sake! This isn't about whether you want to raise a dragon. Look at this!" She gestured furiously at the wreckage around them. "Six days, Hagrid! Six! What do you think he'll do to the castle in a month? Or two?"
Harry stepped forward, trying to soften the blow.
"Hermione's right, Hagrid," he said gently. "Norbert can't stay here... This isn't the place for him."
Hagrid's eyes widened, visibly heartbroken. "What're yeh sayin'? That he has ter go?
Ron cleared his throat and stepped up.
"Remember my brother Charlie, Hagrid? He works at a dragon reserve in Romania... He could take Norbert there. It'd be the best place for him—with other dragons."
"Romania?" Hagrid repeated, his face falling further. "But that's so far!"
"It's what's best for him, Hagrid," Hermione said more softly this time. "In Romania, Norbert will be happy. He'll fly freely, not have to hide or cause more destruction."
Hagrid seemed to wrestle with his emotions, tears welling as he looked at the sleeping dragon in his arms.
"But... but no one'll care fer him like I do!" he insisted stubbornly, rocking Norbert gently.
Neville, barely containing his anxiety, spoke up. "Hagrid, think about it... Norbert will keep growing. He won't have other dragons to play with. Can you really feed a dragon that size alone? He won't be able to go outside—he'll scare everyone. That's not fair to him. Dragons need to be free, and you know that. If you really love Norbert, letting him go is the kindest thing."
The depth of Neville's words surprised everyone—especially since he rarely spoke with such conviction. He blushed slightly under their approving gazes and shrugged timidly.
Hagrid looked around, considering Neville's words. He took a long look at the wrecked hut, sighed sadly, and nodded slowly.
"Reckon yeh might be right," he said hesitantly. "But what do I do?"
"We don't want you getting in trouble, Hagrid," Hermione said quickly. "Ron will send Charlie a letter, and he'll come get Norbert. No one has to know."
Ron nodded. "We'll talk to Fred and George too. They can help."
Hagrid sighed again, looking defeated.
"Alright... I'll get Norbert ready fer when it's time. But..." He gazed fondly at the dragon in his arms. "I'll miss this little troublemaker."
The respectful silence in Hagrid's hut was broken when Norbert stirred. Still drowsy, he stretched and yawned, revealing his sharp fangs.
"Look who's awake," Hagrid smiled, stroking Norbert's head like a baby.
"Hungry... I'm hungry..." Norbert murmured, his voice low and slurred.
Harry, still recovering from the shock of the situation, gaped at the dragon.
"Since when does Norbert talk?" he exclaimed.
Hermione, Ron, and Neville looked back at Harry, equally baffled.
"Talk? Dragons don't talk," Hermione said, frowning.
Hagrid, however, seemed to find this perfectly normal.
"'Course he talks! Who doesn't talk?" he said, shaking his head matter-of-factly. "When he growls, he's communicatin' with us."
"But he's not growling," Harry argued.
Before they could debate further, Norbert turned directly to Harry, eyes gleaming intensely.
"You... understand me?" His voice was deep but clear.
Harry pointed at the dragon, eyebrows raised, but only saw confusion on his friends' faces.
"He said I understand him! Did you hear that?"
"Harry," Hermione sighed, brow furrowed. "He's just growling! He's not saying anything."
"He said he's hungry! Seriously, you didn't understand?" Harry insisted.
The other three shook their heads in unison.
"No..." they said in unison.
Norbert, frustrated, snorted a small puff of smoke from his nostrils.
"No one understands me! This is infuriating!" He leapt onto the table with surprising agility, his sharp claws scraping the wood as he approached Harry. "You speak to me?"
"Apparently... I think so," Harry replied, visibly bewildered.
Ron gaped at him. "What the bloody hell was that noise, Harry?"
Harry scowled. "I didn't make any noise! He spoke to me. And I just... answered!"
"You speak Dragon?" Neville asked, awestruck.
"I... don't think so," Harry shook his head, equally stunned. "I'm just repeating what he's saying!"
"Humans don't usually understand me... not even Mummy does," Norbert sighed.
"But how... how do you know all this? You were born six days ago! And how can I understand you?" Harry rapid-fired questions.
"Questions, questions! You exhaust me! I don't know how you understand me!" Norbert roared, a small jet of flame escaping his mouth.
"Harry, if you're taking the mickey, now's not the time," Ron paled at Norbert's display.
"I'm not taking the mickey, Ron!"
"I—AM—HUNGRY!" Norbert bellowed, his wings suddenly flaring to twice their size.
His body now resembled a far more threatening creature than the tiny dragon they'd met days earlier.
All four screamed simultaneously, stumbling back. If Norbert was terrifying at this size, imagining him fully grown was horrifying.
"Easy, Norbert!" Hagrid tried soothing the dragon but got a sharp nip on his bandaged finger as he hastily prepared a bowl of chicken blood and flaming brandy. "He's just peckish!"
Ron, white as a ghost, watched with saucer-like eyes.
"Bloody hell! That thing definitely can't stay here!"
Norbert whirled on him immediately, eyes blazing with fury.
"I am not a thing," he snapped. "I'm a dragon, you wretched human!"
Before anyone could react, Norbert pounced on Ron, sinking claws into the redhead's arm and sending him crashing to the floor with a yell. In the struggle, the off-balance dragon scratched Harry's shoulder, making him stumble to his knees.
"Fuck! Help me!" Ron yelled, wrestling with the dragon gnawing his finger.
Hagrid, though clearly concerned, acted swiftly, wrenching Norbert off Ron. The hatchling thrashed but was held firmly despite Hagrid's fresh wound.
"Norbert, behave!" Hagrid barked, struggling to maintain control.
"I could've done worse, you miserable oaf!" Norbert growled, still seething.
Hermione gasped, rushing to Harry and Ron, now visibly alarmed.
"You're... you're bleeding!" she exclaimed.
Harry, wincing in pain, examined his shoulder where blood began trickling.
"Yeah, no kidding!" he snapped. "We need the hospital wing now!"
Ron groaned from the floor, unable to rise due to his injured arm. Neville finally snapped out of shock and helped haul the redhead up.
"Easy, I've got you," he said, slinging Ron's arm around his neck.
"Just... just send the letter," Ron panted, pale with pain. "Hope Charlie comes... tomorrow."
"You're not writing anything—leave that to me and Neville!" Hermione said decisively, her tone unusually firm.
As Hagrid struggled to calm Norbert, the injured pair were rushed to the hospital wing with Hermione and Neville in tow. Ron deteriorated visibly—his face grew paler and sweatier by the minute like ice cream melting in the sun. Harry, however, seemed less affected despite his wound, which puzzled him. He just hoped Norbert wasn't too venomous.
Madam Pomfrey sprang into action without questions—a small mercy. While she treated Ron, who grew weaker by the second, Harry noticed his own wound showed no signs of poisoning. Strange. Hermione seemed to notice too, shooting him curious glances.
After cleaning and bandaging Harry's shoulder, Madam Pomfrey declared he wouldn't need to stay overnight. Ron wasn't so lucky. Flushed and feverish, he was ordered to remain under close observation. Harry felt oddly guilty for being relatively fine while his friend lay delirious from venom.
"Look... a pink unicorn..." Ron murmured dreamily, glassy-eyed as he pointed at nothing. "I wish I had... a pink unicorn... So cute... they… are… soooo cute…"
"He's completely out of it," Hermione sighed, rubbing her face. "How did we let this happen?"
Harry leaned in, whispering so Madam Pomfrey wouldn't hear. "He called Norbert a 'thing,' and the dragon took offense..."
"What? But—" Hermione began, but the matron interrupted.
"He needs rest," Madam Pomfrey said firmly, approaching with a steaming orange potion. "You may go."
She gestured toward the door without taking her eyes off Ron, who now seemed to be petting thin air.
The corridors were silent as they returned to Gryffindor Tower, each absorbed in thought until Hermione broke the silence.
"What was that, Harry? How could you understand Norbert?"
Harry shrugged, as baffled as she was.
"Dunno... He got angry when I asked questions. Then attacked Ron for calling him a 'thing'... Think he scratched me by accident."
Neville, trailing behind, stared at Harry wide-eyed.
"You didn't just understand him, Harry. You spoke back... like it was normal, growling just like him. I've never heard of anyone who can talk to dragons."
"Because there isn't," murmured Hermione, her eyes thoughtful. "I've read somewhere that speaking to dragons is nearly mythical. Legends, you know? Practically impossible in the wizarding world."
"Brilliant," Harry huffed, running a hand through his hair irritably. "So now, besides being 'the Boy Who Lived,' I'll be 'The Nutter Who Talks To Dragons'... Just fantastic."
Hermione fixed him with a stern look. "You're not a nutter, Harry."
Neville seemed lost in thought, trying to recall something. "When I was little, there was a story about a wizard who spoke to dragons... Can't remember if it was Merlin or Morgana though..."
Hermione frowned, studying Harry seriously. "Why was Ron white as a sheet and delirious, while you just look like you scraped your shoulder on a wall?"
"Good question," Harry chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "But he's always been a bit peaky, hasn't he?"
Neville smirked slightly, and Hermione rolled her eyes—though a small smile tugged at her lips.
"But seriously," Harry continued, "I've no idea. I'm just as confused as you are."
When they reached the Fat Lady's portrait, Neville—as usual—forgot the password, causing a brief moment of frustration before they finally gained entry.
Once settled in the common room, Hermione got straight to business.
"I'll write to Charlie. Meanwhile, you two should find Fred and George. If anyone can smuggle a dragon out of Hogwarts, it's them."
Harry and Neville nodded, already preparing for their mission. As they set off to find the school's most mischievous twins, Harry couldn't help thinking:
"If they can plant dungbombs in the Slytherin common room, getting a dragon out should be a breeze."
Harry and Neville explained the situation to Fred and George, asking for their help smuggling Norbert.
The twins broke into identical mischievous grins, declaring the idea of helping transport a dragon to their older brother "too good to refuse"—though they disguised their genuine concern for "Ronnikins" with jokes when they heard he was in the hospital wing.
The next evening at dinner, Hedwig arrived exhausted from her long journey to Romania, nearly collapsing into Harry's food. Worried, he lightly scolded her for not resting, but Hedwig—ever loyal—seemed unbothered.
Charlie's reply contained precise instructions:
Take Norbert to the Astronomy Tower at midnight tomorrow. I know it's tricky, but better than me showing up at Hagrid's—less chance of being spotted at the tower.
He'd included detailed steps for the twins to prepare Norbert for transport. Fred and George paled as they read. Harry didn't dare ask what the instructions entailed, but it clearly wasn't pleasant.
On the appointed night, Harry, Hermione, and Neville—hidden under the Invisibility Cloak—made their way to Hagrid's hut. The twins had gone ahead to prepare Norbert per Charlie's directions.
The only sounds in the silent night were their footsteps and the vapor of their breath. Harry, taking no chances, wore his Quidditch gloves despite being off-pitch.
They found the twins slumped in Hagrid's chairs, clothes rumpled and hair standing on end. Hagrid looked equally worse for wear, while Norbert—finally subdued—slept deeply in an iron crate on the table.
"Welcome... noble... wizards," one twin panted, raising a hand in dramatic greeting.
Harry smirked. "Breathe first, Fred—or George, whichever you are."
"Right now, I can't be bothered to remember," the other said, fanning himself. "That thing's vicious... and hot."
Hermione gaped at the hut's increased disarray. "What happened here?"
Fred sighed. "Charlie said if we didn't have dragon sedative powder—"
"—We'd have to tire him out ourselves," George explained, gesturing to the wreckage.
"—And the little git had energy to spare, as you can see."
Neville tried helping by pulling out his wand to check the time. Nothing happened. He tried again—still nothing.
Hermione gave him a sympathetic look—spells had always been difficult for Neville.
"What charm are you trying?" she asked gently.
"Just wanted to see the time," he mumbled.
With a simple flick, Hermione cast the spell for him. Normally she'd stop to teach him, but time was short.
"Nearly midnight. We need to go," Neville said, eyeing the twins worriedly. "Can you... do that thing? To check for people?"
"Obviously!" One twin whipped out the map.
Hermione peered at it curiously. "What's that?"
"Trade secret," they chorused without looking up.
"Trade secret?" She crossed her arms. "What exactly is this 'secret'?"
"Well—"
"—You can't know."
"Not when you're on their side," they said, as if it were obvious.
"Their side? What side?" Hermione asked, baffled.
"The rule-following side," George teased.
"Like Percy, but he's the biggest stickler we know."
"Hard to top him."
"So wouldn't surprise us if your dream was being Head Girl," Fred shrugged.
Hermione bristled.
"First, yes, I do want to be Head Girl, for your information. Second, I'm out past curfew helping smuggle an illegal dragon—and I've set two teachers on fire!" she shrilled. "And you're saying I can't know what that is?"
The twins exchanged glances and nodded in unison.
"Yeeep," Fred drawled.
"Definitely."
Hagrid's eyes bulged. "Yeh set two teachers on fire?!"
"Long story," everyone said together.
"Anyway," Fred redirected, "Filch is on the second floor near the bathrooms."
"Odd... Draco Malfoy's also skulking in the dungeons," George noted, pointing at the map.
Harry's jaw tightened. "That slimy git's up to something, I can feel it."
Neville peered anxiously at the castle. "Harry, we should go. The longer we wait, the riskier it gets."
Harry sighed. "Right. We'll take Norbert—you lead. We've got the cloak."
They trekked through the castle with the twins guiding them. Norbert was heavier than expected, the crate requiring both Harry and Neville to carry it. By the third floor, Harry's injured shoulder throbbed, and the twins took over.
Before ascending the Astronomy Tower, Fred checked the map one last time. "All clear."
Exhausted, they finally reached the tower's peak, where Charlie Weasley leaned casually against the wall, broom at his side, pocket watch in hand.
He had the classic Weasley look—freckles and red hair—but his sun-bronzed skin, calloused hands, and stocky build spoke of hard dragon-reserve labor.
"Tsk, tsk... five minutes late. Expected better from you two," Charlie teased, embracing his brothers.
"We're so special you waited the extra five minutes, your majesty," Fred said with an exaggerated bow.
"Your humble servants have delivered the 'contraband' as requested," George added, presenting the crate with a flourish.
Charlie shook his head, but continued to smile.
"You two are hopeless..." Charlie then turned to the trio. "And you three must be Harry, Hermione, and Neville, right?"
He greeted them just as warmly, as if they were family.
"Ron's told me loads about you at Christmas. Good to see he's found such decent friends."
"Pleasure to meet you... he's told us all about your work, sir," Harry said politely.
"Call me Charlie," he replied, laughing. "I only left Hogwarts last year—not that ancient yet! And from what I hear, you've filled my spot on the team nicely, eh?"
Harry flushed, unsure how to respond. "Well... I don't know about—"
"It's true, he's just being modest!" Fred cut in, hands on hips.
"Way better than you, frankly," George added, clapping Harry's back, making him wish he could vanish from embarrassment.
"Wood's been a cracking Captain too," Fred supplied.
"Hey, I trained Oliver—give me some credit!" Charlie joked, then frowned. "Where is Ron, anyway? Didn't he come?"
"Norbert scratched him up two days back," Fred answered.
Charlie muttered a curse under his breath, jaw tightening.
"Who's the berk who smuggled that egg to Hagrid? If there's one, there might be more out there," he said, arms crossed as he gazed at Hogsmeade's distant lights. "This could turn nasty."
"Now you mention it, Hagrid never said who gave him the egg," Hermione murmured, biting her lip thoughtfully. "Perhaps if we ask him..."
"Do, if you get the chance. And if you need help with another... 'delivery,' just call," Charlie said, hefting the iron crate like it weighed nothing. Stronger than he looked. "Right, best be off. Lovely meeting you all."
"Bye, Charlie! Write more!" Fred called.
"If you behave, maybe," Charlie retorted, grinning.
"Then we'll never hear from you again," George lamented in mock sorrow.
"It was nice while it lasted," Fred sighed dramatically.
"Clowns," Charlie huffed, amused, mounting his broom and taking off with Norbert.
Soon, he vanished into the horizon, dragon in tow.
After a moment, Fred clapped his hands, beaming. "Well, kids, dragon smuggling was a laugh and all..."
"But if you'll excuse us, we've got some nighttime business to attend to," George finished before they disappeared down the stairs.
"We should head back too," Neville sighed, rubbing tired eyes. "This Norbert business has knackered me."
Harry and Hermione agreed, and the three set off for Gryffindor Tower. Thinking the shorter route safe without the Invisibility Cloak proved to be a mistake.
Draco Malfoy had been plotting his revenge for days.
Since the entire Slytherin common room was humiliated by the dungbomb prank, he'd thought of little else. Being mocked before the whole school was bad enough, but his father Lucius Malfoy's reprimand echoed constantly in his mind.
"Listen carefully, Draco," his father had said during Christmas break, voice icy and controlled. "A true Slytherin doesn't retaliate impulsively. A serpent strikes from the shadows—coiled, precise, and lethal."
Draco understood.
Acting on impulse wasn't enough. He needed precision. Weeks of fruitless searching had finally paid off when he noticed the Gryffindors' odd behavior. Though he hadn't caught everything, he knew it involved Hagrid—that bumbling oaf.
He didn't need details—just enough to expose Potter's arrogance and his idiot friends.
The fake duel had been improvised, tipping off Filch about students lurking near the Trophy Room. It hadn't worked perfectly, but Potter's exhausted look the next day confirmed something had happened.
Now, Draco sensed something bigger brewing. Overheard mentions of "midnight" told him all he needed—they'd have to return to Gryffindor Tower eventually.
And like a patient serpent, he was waiting when Harry, Hermione, and Neville turned the corridor.
Professor McGonagall stood before the Fat Lady's portrait, arms crossed, face stern.
Harry's heart sank at her piercing glare, one eyebrow arched so sharply it could've cut glass.
Beside her, Malfoy wore a smile of pure satisfaction, arms folded, savoring the fear on their faces—Harry's most of all.
No words were needed; that smug grin said everything about what he'd been planning all along.
Chapter 14: The Philosopher's Stone
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The silence in Professor McGonagall’s office was so thick Harry could almost hear his own heart pounding.
She sat behind her desk, hands tightly clasped, eyes sharp as blades sweeping over each of them—as if she could pry the truth straight from their minds. But to be honest, she hardly needed to.
The three students before her were already thoroughly terrified.
Harry, in the centre, felt sweat trickling down his back. With a nervous tug, he loosened the scarf around his neck, as if that might relieve the weight of the charged atmosphere.
Hermione, beside him, held herself rigid, lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes—bright and slightly widened—betrayed the anxiety she was trying to hide.
As for Neville, on the left, he looked ready to faint. His pale face and trembling fingers clutching his own icy hands were an open invitation to panic, and his eyes silently pleaded for mercy.
They’d almost made it back to Gryffindor Tower unnoticed.
Almost.
If it hadn’t been for Draco Malfoy, that miserable git, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and an unbearably smug grin plastered across his face.
Harry shot him several looks that, under different circumstances, might’ve reduced him to ashes.
But Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. He knew he’d won this time—and was savouring every second of their humiliation.
The office, usually cosy with its dark wooden floors and touches reminiscent of the Gryffindor common room, its shelves crammed with meticulously organised books in the corners, now felt suffocating. Even the gentle crackling of the fireplace, which on any other occasion would’ve been comforting, only emphasised the ice in McGonagall’s expression. There was a door at the back that likely led to the professor’s private quarters. The exit behind them seemed farther away than ever—an impossible escape.
“Would anyone care to explain what you were doing wandering the castle at one in the morning?”
Her voice was as sharp as the wind rattling the windowpanes, and not one of the three students dared answer.
The crackling of the fire and the rustling of the curtains only amplified the oppressive silence.
Harry exchanged a quick glance with Hermione, who was biting her lip so hard he feared she’d draw blood. Neville, meanwhile, looked on the verge of collapse, his trembling knees barely holding him up.
How could they tell the truth? Smuggling out a dragon—even to rescue it, even if they’d saved the entire school from a massive problem, even if they’d very likely saved Hagrid’s job—wasn’t exactly an explanation that would get them out of trouble.
“Nothing to say?” McGonagall pressed, her voice even sharper. “Mr. Potter, would you care to enlighten me?”
Harry swallowed dryly, his throat as parched as old parchment.
“It’s... it’s not that simple, Professor...” he muttered, unable to meet her gaze.
“I would be astonished if it were,” she replied icily. “But I expect to hear it all the same.”
“I... I don’t... well, there isn’t really an explanation,” Harry admitted, eyes fixed on the worn rug at the foot of her desk.
McGonagall’s lips thinned into a tight line, and Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He knew that look. It was the same one she’d given to Fred when he tried, unsuccessfully, to justify why he and George had flooded the corridor with rubber frogs.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” she said at last, her voice heavy with disappointment. “Gryffindor had been making excellent progress this year. But actions have consequences.” A calculated pause. “For breaking the rules and being out after curfew, I will be deducting one hundred and fifty points from Gryffindor. Fifty points from each of you.”
Hermione let out a small gasp, her fingers interlacing so tightly her knuckles turned white. Neville seemed to have stopped breathing, his face so pale Harry feared he might actually faint right then and there—and on instinct, he lightly steadied the shaking boy, who trembled like a wet dog in winter.
“One hundred and fifty points?” Harry repeated, eyes wide. “But—”
“But nothing!” McGonagall cut in, her voice so sharp Harry flinched. “Rules are rules, Mr. Potter.”
A knot formed in his stomach, and against his will, he glanced at Malfoy, who was still leaning against the wall with a look of superiority. Anger bubbled inside Harry, hot and bitter.
How dare Malfoy stand there, revelling in their downfall?
McGonagall, however, hadn’t forgotten the Slytherin student. She turned to Draco with precise movement, eyes narrowed.
“And you, Mr. Malfoy...” Her voice was now dangerously controlled. “It seems you’ve also forgotten that curfew applies to all students.”
Draco’s smirk vanished as though hit by an Evanesco. He straightened abruptly, arms uncrossing.
“Fifty points will also be taken from Slytherin,” McGonagall continued, leaving no room for protest. “And detention for all of you. I'll decide what later, but it will be enough to remind you that there is a Hogwarts code of rules.”
“But, Professor!” Draco spluttered, eyes blazing with indignation. “I—I was only—”
“Breaking the same rules as they were,” she interrupted, gaze sharp behind her spectacles. “And that also has consequences. You could have alerted me to the situation—the ghosts would have confirmed your story, had it been true—but instead, you chose to skulk about the castle like any other student out for mischief.”
Draco’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his face flushing red. For a brief moment, Harry felt a stab of satisfaction seeing him so discomfited.
“You may return to your dormitory, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall ordered with a brusque gesture.
Draco left with steps so heavy Harry was certain he was imagining crushing something—or someone—with every footfall. The door closed with a soft click, but the anger he left behind still hung in the air.
The silence that followed was even more suffocating. McGonagall watched Harry, Hermione, and Neville with an expression that hurt more than any punishment.
The office grew quieter still after Draco Malfoy left, as if even the embers in the fireplace hesitated to crackle. McGonagall adjusted her spectacles and looked at the three students remaining before her, her long fingers interlaced on the desk.
“Now that Mr. Malfoy has gone,” she began, her voice softer but still laden with a disapproval that made Harry feel minuscule, “perhaps you can tell me what made you venture out so late at night?”
Harry looked down at his own hands, which were grimy and sweaty—Norbert’s cage hadn’t exactly been the cleanest.
A quick glance sideways confirmed that neither Hermione nor Neville seemed willing to speak either.
“I cannot fathom what possessed you,” McGonagall continued. “Breaking the rules in this manner, without any plausible justification... I am deeply disappointed.”
She paused, and Harry felt the air grow heavier.
“Especially you, Miss Granger.” She pointed, clearly dismayed.
Hermione shrank as if struck, her fingers gripping her own arm so tightly it ached from the pressure.
“I... I'm sorry, Professor,” she whispered, her voice so quiet it was barely audible over the crackling fire.
She knew she had failed. Failed her professor, the rules, everything. But how could she regret it? Norbert needed saving, and she wouldn’t abandon Harry and Neville.
McGonagall then turned her gaze to Harry, and something in her expression shifted. The usual rigidity had vanished, replaced by a sadness that hurt more than any scolding. Her shoulders sagged slightly, as if the weight of disappointment was bowing her.
Harry held her gaze, but a lump tightened in his throat. For a fleeting moment, an even worse fear surfaced:
“What if she kicks me off the Quidditch team?”
The thought was unbearable. He’d never forgive himself.
The professor sighed deeply, her eyes lost in the flames for a long moment, as if searching there for some answer. Finally, she lifted her chin and spoke, her voice regaining its usual sternness:
“You may return to your dormitory. I trust this will not happen again.”
Harry could scarcely believe it. His legs felt like lead as he turned to leave, followed by Hermione and Neville, both so pale they looked like ghosts. The weight of the lost points—a hundred and fifty!—loomed over them like a storm cloud.
They had barely left the office and begun climbing the staircase towards Gryffindor Tower when Neville, in a voice so shaky it nearly cracked, broke the silence:
“A hundred and fifty points... That’ll put us in third place.” He swallowed hard. “We’ll never recover.”
“I can’t believe it,” Hermione murmured, more to herself than to them, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “All of this... because of Malfoy...”
Harry clenched his fists tightly, and his aura flickered faintly with anger and indignation—but not enough to erupt. After all, the blond git had drowned in his own arrogance too.
“He lost fifty points as well,” Harry reminded them, a stab of satisfaction piercing through. “It wasn’t all bad.”
But Hermione shook her head, her wild curls swaying with the motion.
“He got what he wanted,” she said bitterly. “Made us lose the points. And now...” Her voice faltered. “All of Gryffindor’s effort... gone to waste.”
It was true. Gryffindor had been leading the House Cup mere minutes ago, and now, because of them, they’d plummeted to the bottom of the standings.
“They’ll murder us when they find out...” Neville moaned, his eyes wide with terror, as if already seeing a mob of housemates armed with broomsticks and heavy books.
Harry didn’t reply. His indignation at Malfoy sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted still burned, leaving him angrier not just at Draco but at the whole lot of Slytherin.
He was certain this hadn’t been Draco’s plan alone—he wasn’t that clever. But even if it wasn’t, in this feud between the houses, they’d pay for being a bunch of wretched gits.
The days that followed were as gloomy and heavy as the grey clouds shrouding Hogwarts.
The relentless rain beating against the stained-glass windows seemed to echo the discontent that had settled over Gryffindor Tower. Since the fateful night they’d lost a hundred and fifty points, Harry, Hermione, and Neville had become pariahs in their own house.
The common room, once warm and lively, had turned into a hostile place.
Where they’d once received friendly nods, they now found only turned backs and icy glares. Even Seamus and Dean, who sometimes livened up evenings by playing rounds of Exploding Snap, kept their distance, their faces tight with indignation whenever the trio passed.
The only ones who still treated them normally were Ron and the twins.
Fred and George, knowing the truth behind the incident, settled for giving them encouraging claps on the back—though even their usual good cheer seemed slightly dampened.
On this particularly tense evening—the first since the incident, with Ron still in the hospital wing—Harry, Hermione, and Neville were huddled in a secluded corner of the common room, playing Snap in silence on squashy armchairs while the cards arranged themselves on a low table. The distant firelight from the hearth illuminated the room faintly, casting restless shadows on the stone walls.
Then Percy appeared, his Prefect badge gleaming in the firelight, his steps measured and his face heavy with disapproval.
But halfway across the room, before he could reach them, Fred and George materialised like two ginger guardians, blocking his path.
“They’ve got it,” Harry heard Fred mutter, his voice uncharacteristically grave.
Percy tried to sidestep them. “But—”
“No, Percy. Just don’t,” George cut in, crossing his arms. “They don’t need you on their case.”
Percy raised his chin in a gesture they all knew well—the classic know-it-all older brother stance.
“You’re mixed up in this too, aren’t you?” He arched an eyebrow. “You always are!”
Fred and George exchanged one of those conspiratorial looks that promised mischief.
“If we are—”
“—you’ll never know—”
“—but go find something else to boss about,” they finished in unison, their voices perfectly synchronised.
Percy huffed, his face turning as red as his hair, but he retreated in the end.
Harry risked a glance at Hermione and Neville—both had heard everything and seemed to shrink further into their seats, as if they wished to disappear into the armchairs.
The silence that settled over the common room was so thick Harry could almost feel it pressing against his skin.
Even the fire in the grate seemed to burn lower, as if sharing in the oppressive mood, leaving the room even darker. Outside, the rain continued to drum against the windows, a monotonous sound that matched perfectly the weight in their hearts.
He looked down at his hands, still able to remember the sight of blood streaked across them, his own blood mixing with the water gushing from the pipes in the girls’ bathroom, with that dead troll completely shattered and unrecognisable.
A bitter taste of irony filled his mouth.
In a matter of weeks, his reputation had spun like a rogue spinning top:
first, the “Boy Who Lived,” an object of curiosity and suspicion; literally the next day, a dangerous threat to be avoided; a few days later, the poor newcomer suffering at the hands of the Slytherins; then, the hero who’d killed a troll and saved Hermione; and now… now he was just a pariah, someone who’d let down his entire house.
Harry let out a sigh so deep it made the cards in front of him flutter.
He hated those ridiculous titles—all of them. He hated even more how people seemed incapable of seeing him as just Harry. He was either adored or despised, never just… existing.
Hermione, seated beside him, looked up at the sound of his sigh. She wanted to subtly reach for his arm, to touch him in silent support, to show they were in this together.
But… she hesitated.
Redirecting her hand to her bag instead, pulling out one of her library books as if reading could shield her from reality. She imagined he might just want to retreat into his own world, the same way she did.
Neville, on the other side of the table, fidgeted nervously with the edges of his cards, his melancholy face reflecting the faint firelight.
In his few months in the wizarding world, Harry had learned a painful lesson: fame was like one of Fred and George’s enchanted Chocolate Frogs—sickly sweet at first, but inevitably revealing a bitter aftertaste that made you spit it out and scrub your tongue with your hand.
You might be everyone’s favourite today, and tomorrow… tomorrow you were nothing but a bloody nuisance.
And surprisingly, it wasn’t just the Gryffindors who were furious.
A few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws also seemed miffed, since Slytherin had reclaimed the lead for the House Cup—something many had hoped wouldn’t happen that year.
Seeking refuge from judgment—when they weren’t in the hospital wing keeping Ron company—Harry and Neville began joining Hermione, who now buried herself even deeper than usual in the library, escaping the disapproving stares that followed them everywhere.
They spent hours there, in a quiet corner near the Restricted Section, until Madam Pince chased them out at closing time.
With exams approaching, they knew they had to buckle down, and though Hermione was visibly overwhelmed, she couldn’t hide her quiet satisfaction at having company. Even Ron, reluctantly, joined them when he left the hospital wing two days later—not with the same dedication, of course, but at least willing to put in the bare minimum to avoid failing.
Harry let out a weary sigh, his arms aching from scrubbing the dirty cauldrons in the Potions classroom.
This was his detention—or rather, his nightmare.
He was supposed to spend the afternoon in the dungeons with Snape, the professor’s gaze forever on his back. He’d already cleaned more cauldrons than he could count, while Hermione and Neville worked in silence at separate tables, lost in their own thoughts. Malfoy was there too, but Harry preferred to ignore him by keeping his back to the Slytherin.
“What’s the matter, Potter? Arms hurting?” Snape arched an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I do hope a bit of manual labour isn’t tarnishing your spotless reputation.”
There was no worse place to be than in the presence of that billowing, bat-like shadow with waxy, pale skin, who seemed to have set aside the entire afternoon to pour out his accumulated disdain all at once.
“No, sir, I’m fine,” Harry replied, keeping his voice steady and avoiding Snape’s penetrating glare as he continued scrubbing the cauldron.
Snape narrowed his eyes, his voice laced with venom.
“It’s good you’re finally paying for what you’ve done,” he said slowly. “Though I think it too lenient that you’re merely scrubbing cauldrons. The best outcome would be you miles away from here, back home.”
Harry frowned, a surge of anger pulsing through him, his aura growing restless. He forced himself to stay controlled as he met Snape’s gaze head-on.
“Paying for what, if I may ask, sir?” he inquired, affecting an innocent yet acidic tone.
Arms crossed, Snape stepped closer, and Harry had to resist the urge to step back.
“You know exactly what I’m referring to, Potter. Don’t play the fool. It doesn’t suit a Gryffindor to have a student pretending to be an idiot—though in this case, it’s highly probable you aren’t pretending.”
Of course, Harry knew—or at least suspected.
Snape loathed him and would seize any opportunity to accuse him, with or without proof. The prank against Slytherin last term was still whispered about among some students—the Hufflepuffs, for instance, who snickered behind their hands.
“Better a Hufflepuff sweaty from work than a skinny Slytherin reeking of shite,” some students laughed in the corridors.
But the mystery of the “traitor Slytherins”—as the culprits had come to be known—had never been solved.
“I’m not an idiot,” Harry hissed through clenched teeth, struggling to keep his temper in check. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not surprised you’re a liar. But this dreadful act of yours won’t get you anywhere,” Snape said, turning away to address Neville.
Once the professor had moved off, Harry exhaled angrily.
“Neither will yours...” he muttered contemptuously, returning to his work and applying more pressure than necessary to the cauldron.
The rest of the detention dragged on in a heavy silence, broken only by the rhythmic scrubbing of cauldrons.
Though Harry tried to keep his eyes fixed on the cauldron in front of him, they kept flickering over to Neville. His expression was etched with a mix of fear and anxiety, as though one wrong move might spell disaster.
Hermione, on the other hand, seemed the most troubled of the three. She worked hard to maintain her composure, but tension was visible in every movement.
Even though they were each at their own tables, there was something comforting about Hermione and Neville’s presence—a silent solidarity, despite the situation. If he could, Harry would’ve spared them from being there, but at the same time, he couldn’t help feeling grateful he wasn’t alone... if that even made sense.
Maybe that was selfish of him—but before he could dwell on it further, he had to grab another cauldron, having already polished the last one so thoroughly he could see his reflection in it.
The snow was melting, and when they least expected it, spring had already begun—colourful flowers sprouting, the little birds seeming even cheerier as the green grass slowly re-emerged.
These were days that dragged on, the endless hours in the library feeling like an eternity.
Not that Harry hated studying—on the contrary, he quite liked Transfiguration and even Defence Against the Dark Arts—if only the professor weren’t so horrid at teaching. But none of it compared to the fun of playing Hero Path with Neville over the Christmas holidays or flying on his broomstick.
With their self-imposed isolation to avoid confrontation with the other Gryffindors, the quartet had barely managed to visit Hagrid during this time. The half-giant, aware of the approaching exams, didn’t invite them to his hut, knowing they needed to focus on their studies.
One of Harry’s few distractions from complicated potions and confusing History of Magic dates were the Quidditch practices—his team didn’t bring up what had happened, nor the lost points. He knew it was precisely to avoid unnecessary hostility or confusion.
On one such day, as he returned to the common room after practice, he heard a whispery voice coming from one of the corridors.
“N-no... p-please... n-not again…” It was Professor Quirrell, and his voice trembled with fear.
Harry crept closer, hiding behind a wall to listen better.
“I-I know, y-you don’t... it’s f-fine…” Quirrell’s voice quivered.
Harry peered in the direction of the murmurs, but Quirrell had already vanished, as had the other person. He’d bet his Quidditch Cup that Quirrell’s interlocutor was Snape.
“Is Snape using Quirrell?” Harry thought, heading back to Gryffindor Tower. “Threatening him? Forcing him to cooperate against his will?”
It was hard to believe the cowardly, nervous professor could harm anyone. But more and more, Harry wondered if things were truly as they seemed.
He still hadn’t forgotten the incident during his first Quidditch match—it had left a bitter mystery at the back of his mind.
But despite his suspicions and the lack of proof to confirm any of his theories, one thing was certain: nothing was clear about Snape and Quirrell
And there was something very wrong with those two.
From time to time, Harry and his friends caught themselves debating theories about what might be going on.
Some were simpler, like Ron’s:
“Quirrell’s a coward, but he’s already in on the scheme to steal the Stone, so he can’t back out. Maybe he wanted to quit, but he knows too much about the plan—can’t just walk away.”
Others were more complicated.
“What if Snape and Quirrell are competing for the Stone? Both want it, and only one can take it, so Snape’s trying to dissuade him,” suggested Neville, though the theory didn’t make much sense. After all, Snape had asked Quirrell ‘whose side’ he was on—whatever that meant.
They talked and talked but never really got anywhere. Hermione grew restless when they failed to reach any conclusion.
The only thing they were sure of was that something big was about to happen. It was no longer a question of if, but when.
And then, the first of June arrived faster than they’d expected. The summer heat meant students no longer wore their cloaks as much, dressing more casually instead.
And with the new, cheerful season came the dreaded “Cursed Week,” as the older students called it—the start of exams.
Those tests would decide whether they were fit to advance to the next year, and no one wanted to repeat.
The first day brought the Charms exam.
Professor Flitwick called them one by one to demonstrate if they could use the Softening Charm to make a stone bounce on the ground as if it were rubber.
The next day, in Transfiguration, they had to turn a piece of statue into a bird using the Avifors Spell.
Professor McGonagall, who no longer seemed as cross about their escapade, watched intently. Harry swore he saw a glint of approval in her eyes when he performed the spell perfectly, transforming a marble bird into a blue swallow that flew off singing through the classroom.
The Potions exam was the hardest, especially for Neville, who was terrified. Harry accompanied him to the bathroom before the test since he hadn’t managed to eat anything at breakfast and felt sick with nerves.
“You’ll be fine, Nev. It’s just an exam,” Harry told him, watching the bathroom stall door.
His friend could only murmur something pitifully, as if marching to the gallows.
The task was to brew a Forgetfulness Potion—a bitter irony, considering Harry could barely remember all the steps by heart. Snape, of course, didn’t make it easier, prowling the tables like a shadow, his breath heavy over Harry’s shoulder, only heightening his tension.
But of all the tests, the last exam was the worst.
History of Magic
Harry had truly studied hard those last few weeks, and Hermione had helped immensely when he couldn’t make sense of what he’d just read. Say what you would about Hermione Granger, but never that she was a bad or mediocre teacher.
She was brilliant. Harry knew that.
The exam topic was writing about the code of conduct and responsibilities for werewolves, developed Merlin-knew-when and by Merlin-knew-which mad wizard, and well... that cursed week would finally come to an end.
Sighing as if he’d just escaped the greatest torment of his life, Harry and company left the History of Magic classroom, heading to Hagrid’s hut—where he’d promised them tea to chat about how their exams had gone.
Everyone was exhausted—even Hermione, who carried one of her books in her arms as they walked, hugging it like a teddy bear.
For a moment, Harry suspected she might actually sleep cuddling her books.
He smiled at the comical image.
When they reached the hut, each took their usual seats. Harry couldn’t help noticing the cabin seemed back to normal, as if there’d never been an attempt to raise a dragon there.
“So, how were the exams? Tough?” asked Hagrid, stirring the fire with an iron poker and glancing at them over his shoulder.
“I never want to hear about Forgetfulness Potions again,” Neville moaned, collapsing onto the table with his head in his arms. “Snape’s terrible.”
“It’s over, Nev, relax,” said Harry, patting his shoulder.
“I expected more questions on the history of self-stirring cauldrons. Professor Binns went on about them so much,” Hermione remarked, sipping her steaming tea.
“I’ve already forgotten everything,” Harry sighed in relief. “Who was that bloke—Elfric the Eager anyway?”
Hermione frowned. “How could you forget? He was the goblin responsible for the—”
“He was being sarcastic, Hermione,” Ron cut in, rubbing his tired eyes as she pursed her lips. “Can we talk about something good?”
“Like the fundamental theory of Transfiguration?” said Harry, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow comically. “See, it’s an exceptionally fascinating topic when you consider the essence of magical elements across varying accessibility tiers for first-level transfiguration—”
“Merlin, one Hermione’s enough!” Ron laughed, earning a furious glare from Hermione.
Hagrid chuckled heartily as Ron and Harry revelled in the teasing, Neville offering a weary smile, but Hermione didn’t seem amused.
“If you two spent half the time studying that you do making jokes—” she began, but Hagrid interrupted with a muffled laugh.
“Ah, Hermione, give it a rest. The lads’re just havin’ fun—yeh deserve it after that week. Them exams are a terror, every year!” He grinned, refilling their teacups. “The castle’s in a right panic—funny, seein’ everyone’s worried faces.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, feeling lighter now it was all over.
“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about tests anymore,” he sighed in relief.
“And we’ve still got the rest of the year,” Ron added. “No more Snape breathin’ down our necks… at least till next year.”
Neville exhaled at the thought. “Can’t wait to go home… and hopefully forget everything till next year.”
Harry swallowed hard. He honestly dreaded returning to his aunt and uncle’s house, inevitable though it was in two weeks.
For him, Hogwarts had gone by too quickly, he wished he could go back in time and repeat that year, just so he wouldn't have to go back to Privet Drive.
“You won’t forget,” said Hermione sternly. “If you keep revising a bit over the holidays—”
“Oh, not this again!” Ron groaned, throwing his hands up. “We’ve barely finished exams and you’re already on about studyin’?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t forget we’ll have summer homework! You’ll study whether you like it or not!”
“Alright, you two,” said Hagrid, diffusing the tension with his rumbling voice. “Don’t go squabblin’ right at term’s end, eh? The rush is over.”
They sipped their tea in silence until Neville, curious, turned to Hagrid.
“So… about Norbert…”
The gamekeeper’s gaze dropped immediately, visibly saddened at the mention of the dragon.
“Ah, Norbert… he was so young… gone too soon…” he murmured mournfully.
“Hagrid, you know he’s in good hands,” Hermione said gently. “The reserve was the best place for him.”
“Not better’n here,” Hagrid replied quickly, still avoiding their eyes. He sighed deeply. “But anyway… he’ll always be in me heart. What d’yeh wanna know?”
Neville adjusted in his seat. “How… how exactly did you get the egg?”
“Ah, told yeh, didn’ I? Won it in a card game,” said Hagrid, taking another swig of tea.
“Yes, but who wagered the egg?” Hermione pressed.
“Didn’ see his face, nor catch his name…” Hagrid scratched his beard. “Odd bloke, all hooded, head-to-toe in black—spoke slow, real quiet-like, hard to hear sometimes.”
The four exchanged disappointed glances. Not terribly helpful. Hermione, however, bit her lip thoughtfully.
“Hagrid, you love dragons, don’t you?” she asked, as if piecing something together.
Hagrid’s eyes lit up. “O’ course! Why wouldn’ I? Magnificent creatures, aren’ they?”
“Magnificent creatures…” Ron muttered, shuddering as he glanced at his Norbert-scratched arm—luckily, no scar remained.
“Did you tell him you liked dragons? Is that why he offered it?” Hermione probed.
If they could confirm whether the man sold only eggs or other contraband, it might narrow the search.
“Nah… was a surprise he had an egg! Never said I liked ’em, but the fella gave me Norbert when I won again—poor chap had nothin’ left to bet.” Hagrid laughed fondly. “We chatted about magical creatures, but not dragons… actually, he handed me the egg while we were discussin’ how to put creatures to sleep. Interestin’, eh? Told ’im about me Griffin, Popcorn—sing or play ’im the right tune, an’ he’ll drop like a stone! Loves violin music, can yeh believe it? Popcorn’s cultured too!”
Hagrid boomed with laughter, but the four shared uneasy looks.
It was highly suspicious that a hooded man not only knew Hagrid's interests but also had a dragon on hand—and had specifically asked about putting magical creatures to sleep.
Harry's eyes widened as the thought struck him like lightning.
“Slow, quiet speech... knows Hagrid... dresses in black... Merlin help us. Snape! Snape was the hooded man!” His mind screamed.
Noticing his friends' tense expressions, Hagrid stopped laughing and grew serious. “I shouldn't've said that...”
Harry cleared his throat, standing abruptly. The others quickly followed. “The tea was brilliant, Hagrid, but... I need to speak with Oliver about the Ravenclaw match... you know how he is. Dead particular about strategies and all.”
“Oh, 'course,” said Hagrid, rising to open the door. “Jus' be careful, alright?”
“Will do. Night, Hagrid!” Harry called over his shoulder.
Hermione thanked him for the tea, while Neville and Ron exchanged nervous glances as they left.
The wind whipped their cloaks and hair as they hurried towards the castle, the moon creeping over the horizon. The weather did nothing to ease the tension between them.
“Merlin's pants—the smuggler's Snape?” Ron wiped his brow, frantic.
“Course it is! I knew it!” Harry sped up, voice sharp. “We need to warn Dumbledore. He could steal the Stone any moment!”
“We're too late. Hagrid won that egg weeks ago! They might've already taken it!” Hermione clutched her book tighter.
“If he'd stolen it, he wouldn't still be here. He invigilated our exam yesterday, and I saw him at breakfast,” said Harry, throat dry.
The realisation solidified: all this time, Snape was the professor who'd despised him all year.
Neville sighed shakily.
“I've got a bad feeling...” he murmured, dread pooling in his stomach. “Everything was too quiet today. Why couldn't it just be a normal night?”
They raced through the corridors, nervous and panting, climbing the stairs at a breakneck pace. Perhaps it was the pressure or the adrenaline and desperation, but Harry didn’t spot a single student along the way.
“Blimey! Why can’t we just go straight to Dumbledore’s office?” Ron asked as they hurried along.
Hermione sighed impatiently.
“I’ve already said! According to Hogwarts: A History, the headmaster’s office is in the gargoyle corridor, but you need to know the password to enter. And do you happen to know it?” She arched an eyebrow.
“No…”
Hermione lifted her chin. “That’s what I thought.”
“We could go to Professor McGonagall’s office!” Neville suggested, letting out a distressed sigh.
Without wasting another moment, they began climbing more flights of stairs, nearly leaping over steps. Truthfully, they’d never climbed so fast to the seventh floor before.
When they reached the office door, Hermione knocked briskly while the others exchanged nervous glances.
A muffled voice granted them entry.
The professor, seated at her desk marking that week’s exams, cast them a curious look.
“How may I help you?” she asked politely.
“Where’s Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor?” Hermione asked hurriedly, trying to mask her nerves beneath a veneer of politeness.
“He’s not here. The headmaster had urgent business to attend to at the Ministry of Magic,” replied McGonagall. “Do you need to speak with him? I can pass along a message if you like, or depending on the matter, we might resolve it here.”
Harry stepped forward.
“They’re going to try and steal the Philosopher’s Stone!” he blurted out, frantic. “You’ve got to do something!”
The professor gaped for a moment, processing the words she’d just heard.
“What are you talking about? How do you know about the Stone?”
Harry looked at his friends, who nodded. “We don’t have time to explain everything, but we know Professor Snape’s going to try and steal it!”
McGonagall fixed them with a stern glare.
“That is a serious accusation against a professor, Mr. Potter. Do you have proof?” She raised an eyebrow.
Harry swallowed dryly. “Well... no, but—”
“Then return to your common room at once,” McGonagall cut in, her tone firm. “I don’t know how you’ve found out about this, but do not interfere. The Stone is well protected—there’s no need for you to worry.”
With heads bowed, they left the room in silence.
“This is bad... really bad,” Harry muttered, still panting from the run, as they entered the common room.
To his surprise, the room was oddly empty—likely because of dinner, the castle was deserted at this hour, which made it the perfect time for something to go horribly wrong.
“Bad doesn’t cover it!” Ron said, worried. “This is gonna be proper trouble... the worst kind.”
“We’ve got to do something!” Hermione said quickly. “No one knows what he wants with the Stone.”
“What are you suggesting?” Neville asked, his voice shaky with nerves.
“We know how to get past Popcorn. We just need to play music for him, and we can get through!” Harry said, trying to formulate a plan in his head.
“Yeah... doesn’t sound too hard—” Ron began to agree.
“No!” Neville burst out, looking utterly terrified at the other three.
He’d never raised his voice like that before.
“You lot just want more trouble, don’t you? We’ve already lost Gryffindor 150 points! D’you want to be even bigger jokes around here?”
“You’re worried about points?” Harry frowned, unable to believe what he was hearing. “That Stone, in the wrong hands, is way more dangerous than losing some stupid cup! It’s already lost!”
“And what’re you gonna do when you come face-to-face with Snape?” Neville demanded, and Harry couldn’t find a good answer. “Those dead unicorns. Norbert’s egg. Him threatening Quirrell into working with him! Don’t you see? He’s dangerous, really dangerous! You—you could die if he... if he doesn’t like you! A-a-and-and he doesn’t like you, Harry! Or me, or—or—or Hermione or Ron!”
His friend was growing more agitated by the second, stammering badly.
Hermione watched the heated exchange nervously, twisting the hem of her jumper in her hands.
Ron stepped forward, ears red.
“Don’t wanna come, Nev? Fine, stay here!” He turned to Harry with determination. “If you’re going, mate, I’ve got your back.”
“I’ll go alone. You lot can stay here,” Harry said.
He didn’t want his friends getting hurt—not over Snape. If he was the one making his scar burn, if he was manipulating Quirrell somehow, then it was him Harry had to face.
“What? You mental?” Ron’s eyes bulged. “No bloody way, I’m coming with you! I’m not letting you go alone wherever it is!”
“And I’m coming too!” Hermione said quickly. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Harry. And someone needs to make sure you two don’t do anything stupid.”
“Right, fine then.” Harry nodded. Arguing was clearly pointless.
He rubbed his lightning scar absently; it was tingling faintly for some reason.
“This is all about my scar,” he muttered. “I need to know what it means.”
“Brilliant, we’re going—you coming, mate?” Ron asked.
Neville didn’t answer, just stared at the floor, brow furrowed, probably running through a million thoughts in his head.
They waited a moment, but Harry was the first to step back and nod.
Neville didn’t have to risk himself—he had every reason not to go.
So Harry turned and said, “See you later.”
The three slipped through the Fat Lady’s portrait, a mix of bravery and nerves churning inside them. This could easily be suicide.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hermione said nervously, edging closer to Harry.
“So do I...” Harry murmured, utterly uncertain.
Halfway down the corridor, they heard the portrait swing open behind them. Neville came sprinting after them, panting.
“Wait!” he said firmly.
“Changed your mind?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not letting you go. I don’t agree with this, but... but I’d be a rubbish friend if I abandoned you! If this matters to you, Harry, then... then so be it!” Neville’s voice trembled but was full of conviction.
“Cheers, Nev,” Harry smiled, genuinely grateful.
He felt a surge of relief seeing Neville choose to stand with him.
The corridors seemed to grow narrower and more suffocating as they advanced, the air thick and heavy with tension. They were about to enter the floor where, months earlier, they had cemented the friendship that now bound them together.
But the tension hanging in the air suggested another trial awaited them, and as if drawn by a magnet of ill fortune, they came face-to-face with a group of repulsive figures.
Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy were walking in the opposite direction and, upon spotting them, halted a few metres from the Gryffindors. Draco immediately folded his arms, a smug smile playing on his lips.
“Look who we have here… Scarface and his little band of losers,” Draco sneered, his voice dripping with scorn. “What are you doing out of the common room at this hour? Finally decided to run away from Hogwarts? About time.”
Harry felt irritation boil inside him but took a deep breath, trying to keep control.
“Piss off, Malfoy. We haven’t got time for you.” His voice was thick with impatience.
“Oh, of course you haven’t,” Draco replied with false understanding. “I expect you’re busy, aren’t you? Trying to scrape up a few more points for Gryffindor? Pathetic.”
Harry’s jaw tightened, and he took a step forward. “Don’t push me. Just get out of the way.”
Draco’s smile vanished. He wrinkled his nose, irritation beginning to take hold.
“Don’t speak to me like that, Potter, or—”
“Or what?” Harry cut in, his eyes blazing. “Going to run off and tattle to some professor? Maybe Snape’s in the dungeons. He'll help clean your shitty arse when you act like the rat you are.”
Pansy stepped forward with a venomous glare. “You’d better shut your mouth, Potter, before someone does it for you.” She jabbed a threatening finger.
Hermione, who had been holding back until now, arched an eyebrow and lifted her chin defiantly.
“Oh, really? And who’s going to do that? You, Parkinson? You can barely cast a decent spell in class and you want to threaten someone?”
Pansy flushed scarlet with rage.
“Shut it, you insufferable, swotty know-it-all!” she shrieked, taking a step forward. “The likes of you shouldn’t even be here, and you’ve got the nerve to talk to me?”
“The likes of me?” Hermione replied, her voice controlled but seething. “You’re only here because you’re lucky enough to cling to Malfoy and these two gorillas. On your own, you’re nothing.”
Draco, incensed, took another step forward, his face twisted in disgust.
“You don’t have the right to speak like that,” he retorted indignantly. “You should be thanking me for even looking in your direction. Know your betters, Granger!”
Hermione clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Her face was red with fury, but before she could respond, Harry moved forward.
“Get out of the way, Malfoy. Now,” Harry growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Or you’ll regret it.”
“Regret? Regret you?” Draco mocked, laughing loudly. “You don't scare me, Potter. Let's see—who are your allies? This hideous bookworm, a failed Squib, and a poor, pathetic Weasel? Frankly, Potter, I've seen ants more threatening than you lot.”
Harry felt his blood boil. It was getting harder to hold back. A swirl of magical energy began to whirl around him, growing in intensity as his anger rose.
He’d hex those idiots himself. If it came to a duel right there and then, so be it. Harry had nothing left to lose.
Ron turned as red as a beetroot, fists clenched.
“You what?” Ron started moving too, stepping forward with Harry.
But before he could do anything, a voice sounded behind them.
“What did you just call our brother?!” Two identical voices thundered down the corridor.
Fred and George appeared, striding forward with purpose, and for the first time, Harry saw the twins with completely serious expressions.
The usual mischievous glint in their eyes had vanished, replaced by a dangerous hardness. They positioned themselves beside Ron, arms crossed, glaring at the Slytherins.
The smirks on Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy’s faces vanished instantly, replaced by a palpable tension that weighed heavily in the air.
“Say it again, Malfoy,” George said, his eyes narrowed into slits. “What did you call our brother? A ‘poor, pathetic Weasel’?
“I—I wasn’t talking to you,” Draco replied, his voice faltering for the first time. His usual confidence was crumbling.
“Oh, but you are now,” Fred countered, leaning forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Malfoy like a predator sizing up prey.
“So, please, enlighten us,” George continued. “We didn’t quite catch it, what with all the rubbish spewing out of your mouth, you spoiled little rich boy.”
Crabbe and Goyle took hesitant steps back, their eyes wide and uneasy.
Pansy, trying to maintain composure, lifted her chin defiantly.
“You can’t do anything,” she said disdainfully. “You know that, right? If you lay a finger on him, Gryffindor loses all the points it has left.”
“Points?” Fred snorted a laugh and shrugged, as if it were a trivial detail.
“Points don’t matter anymore, love. You lot made sure of that,” George jeered in agreement.
“And honestly… we’ve got nothing left to lose.”
Both gave a sinister smile—a mix of fury at the Slytherins for landing Gryffindor in this state and a burning desire to make them choke on their own arrogance.
“Brother, the only question on my mind right now is…” George said slowly, his gaze icy.
“...whether Malfoy can run fast enough?” Fred suggested. “Because I was thinking the same thing.”
Draco, realising he’d lost control of the situation, took a step back, trying to salvage some dignity.
“This—this isn’t over, Potter,” he hissed, shooting Harry a venomous look. “You’ll regret this.”
Harry folded his arms, a cold smile on his lips. “Fred, George… if it’s not too much trouble, could you handle this? We’ve got urgent business. That whole ‘being saved by Peeves that night’ thing. We’ll explain later.”
The twins grinned in near-perfect unison. They understood exactly what he meant—after all, they knew about the Stone.
“Wouldn’t dream of making you ask twice,” they said in unison.
Both drew their wands without breaking eye contact with the Slytherins.
“W-what d’you think you’re doing?” Crabbe stammered, his voice quivering with fear.
All the Slytherins retreated several steps, realising the situation had spiralled far beyond their control.
Fred and George began advancing slowly, each step thickening the tension in the air.
“Teaching you some manners, tubby,” Fred murmured, a thread of amusement in his voice.
“Did you know hardly anyone passes by the fourth floor?” George added.
“I—I’ll tell my father!” Draco blurted, trying to sound threatening, but his voice came out shriller than intended, betraying his fear.
“Ah, your father...” Fred raised an eyebrow, his smile razor-sharp.
“Lucius Malfoy?” George paused dramatically, glancing at his brother. “D’you reckon he’s actually his dad, Fred?”
Fred let out a mocking laugh. “D’you know where your mum was around the time you were born, Malfoy?”
“Yeah, he definitely looks like her personal masseur…”
A moment of silence followed this comment.
It was enough to make Harry and Ron burst into laughter, while Neville and Hermione shot them amused looks. The twins had a knack for dismantling anyone’s composure.
Draco stared at Fred and George, fear etched across his pale face.
He threw Harry one last glare, attempting to salvage some dignity, but the tremor in his voice gave him away.
“Th-this isn’t over!” Draco spluttered, eyes wide.
“Maybe not,” Fred said, smiling like a cat cornering a mouse.
“But for now... I’d suggest running,” George finished, tilting his head as if offering the most casual advice in the world.
Crabbe and Goyle were the first to scramble back, tripping over each other. Pansy, realising the battle was lost, yanked Draco’s arm.
“Come on, Draco!” she shrieked, voice shrill.
That was the cue.
Malfoy spun on his heel and bolted down the corridor, Crabbe and Goyle at his heels, nearly colliding in their panic. Pansy sprinted after them, shooting a look of pure contempt over her shoulder—though her eyes betrayed sheer terror.
“Merlin’s pants, they’re actually running!” George laughed, quickening his pace.
Fred adjusted his grip on his wand. “Reckon we could help speed them along, don’t you?”
“Ha! absolutely!”
The twins tore after the Slytherins, their laughter echoing as spells shot down the hallway. The distant, desperate shrieks of Malfoy’s gang were muffled, but Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville couldn’t help laughing for a moment.
“D’you think they’ll get in trouble?” Hermione asked worriedly. “You know what happens to anyone casting spells in the corridors.”
“Relax,” said Ron, waving a hand dismissively. “Those two’ve been dodging consequences since they were five. This won’t even scratch their record.”
They pressed on, going down another flight of stairs, finally entering the shadowy third-floor corridor where torches flared to life with each step, illuminating a path that seemed eerier than ever. Ron paled at the clusters of spiderwebs dangling from the ceiling and walls—Harry knew exactly how much his friend loathed the creatures, having made it abundantly clear during past rants.
They stopped before the door. Harry’s heart pounded.
“So... now what?” Neville asked nervously, glancing at the others with mingled hope and dread.
Hermione narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Theoretically, Popcorn sleeps if someone plays music or sings to him.”
“We haven’t got an instrument, let alone a violin,” Harry said pragmatically.
“Which leaves singing,” Hermione concluded easily.
Silence…
All three boys turned to her with deliberate stares.
Hermione frowned, visibly irritated. “Why are you all looking at me like—Oh, no! Don’t even think it! I can’t sing!”
“You’re the girl,” Ron said, raising an eyebrow as if this were an unassailable argument.
“That makes no sense!” Hermione flushed scarlet. “Being a girl doesn’t mean I can sing!”
“I’ll do it,” Neville volunteered suddenly.
Harry looked at him curiously. “You can sing?”
Neville shrank slightly, hugging his own arm.
“Well... my gran put me in choir when I was little,” he admitted, avoiding eye contact.
The other three exchanged intrigued glances.
Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I believe in you, Nev.”
Neville looked startled, then smiled weakly and nodded. “R-right. I’ll... I’ll try. Hermione, can you—”
“Alohomora,” she murmured, unlocking the door with a flick of her wand.
Neville took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and pushed the door open with trembling hands.
The scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic—probably blood—hit Harry’s nostrils. Popcorn lay curled on a pile of dry straw at the far end, but his sharp eyes locked onto them the moment the door creaked open.
A violin lay discarded in the corner, likely used by Snape to lull the beast to sleep.
Harry hadn't fully grasped Popcorn's size before, but now... Merlin, the creature was enormous. It rose silently, spreading its wings to become even larger and more menacing than seemed possible, poised to attack.
And then Neville began singing a wizarding lullaby.
“Hush now, little wizard, close your eyes,
The moon is singing lullabies.
Nifflers dream of golden beams,
While you drift on silver dreams.”
Harry, Hermione, and Ron exchanged startled glances.
Neville's voice came soft, almost hypnotic, echoing through the stifling room.
“Oh, sleep tight, by candlelight,
Let the stars dance, oh so bright.
fairy lights and whispers sweet,
Guard you in your slumber deep.”
He kept his voice calm, and gradually, Popcorn began to blink, her eyes growing heavier. Finally, the creature yawned, folded her wings, and curled back into the straw, tucking her lion-like tail over her watery eyes—covering her face as she drifted to sleep.
“Keep singing,” Ron whispered, motioning Harry toward the trapdoor as silently as possible.
Neville continued his lullaby while Hermione peered anxiously through the doorway.
“The willow sways, the lake lies still,
Hippogriffs rest on the hill.
Lullaby of magic streams,
Follow you to wanded dreams.”
Harry and Ron lifted the trapdoor, peering into the darkness below.
“What do you see?” Hermione whispered.
“Nothing... pitch black,” Harry replied with a shrug. “We'll have to jump.”
Ron gulped. “Someone needs to see what's down there. Who wants to go first? Hermione?”
“Not me! Why does it always have to be me?”
“Just asking if you'd volunteer…”
“You go then! Be the volunteer,” she protested.
Neville, still singing, shot a nervous glance at his friends. The music was ending, and they all knew time was running out.
Seeing the hesitation, Harry leaned forward.
“I'll go first,” he declared firmly.
“Right. Then me and Hermione, and Nev closes the trapdoor,” Ron said, throwing a worried look at Neville, who was now sweating bullets as he kept singing.
“Till the phoenix sings at dawn’s first glow,
Where enchanted dreams still softly go.
Hush now, love, the night is flown,
Morning brews a potion of its own.”
Harry took a deep breath, staring into the dark hole before him.
“Please let there be a bottom,” he thought nervously.
Closing his eyes, he jumped.
Harry felt panic rise in his throat but stifled a scream to avoid waking the griffin.
Suddenly, he landed on something soft and spongy that made him bounce like a ball before finally coming to a stop. When he opened his eyes, he found himself atop an enormous mushroom—yellow with white spots—releasing a purple haze of glowing spores. The air was damp and thick with the scent of wet earth and vegetation.
The chamber around him was a veritable enchanted garden—mushrooms of every imaginable colour and size sprouted from the ground, interspersed with exotic flowers Harry had never seen before. The diffuse light, which seemed to emanate from the plants themselves, cast dancing shadows on walls entirely covered in vines and foliage.
The green foliage draped the walls and ceiling, creating a wild, slightly dark environment. Yet, for some reason, there was still light coming from somewhere—not enough to see every detail, but sufficient to avoid tripping.
“It's safe!” he tried to shout, but though the words formed in his throat, no sound came out.
When he attempted to yell again, he realised he was mute.
“Harry?” Hermione whispered loudly from somewhere above. “D'you think he's all right?”
“I'm fine!” Harry tried to reply, but no sound escaped.
“Blimey, if he’s not answering, it must be deep... I’m going down,” said Ron.
Hermione nodded quickly. “Just don’t scre—”
“AAAAH!”
Ron plummeted through the trapdoor like a sack of potatoes, his screams echoing briefly before being swallowed by the magical silence.
Hermione followed right after, letting out a small squeak that also vanished into the air.
The griffin’s furious roar reached them for a fleeting moment before Neville shut the trapdoor with a soundless thud.
They all landed on different mushrooms, which released clouds of coloured spores—orange, blue, and green—creating a fleeting rainbow in the damp air.
Harry slid off his mushroom and tried to speak to the others, but his lips moved uselessly.
By Ron’s exaggerated expression, it was clear he was mouthing every swear word he knew, growing redder with frustration.
Hermione, ever the quickest, was already scanning their surroundings with analytical eyes, trying to recall something useful from her many books.
As for Neville... Neville looked right at home. His eyes shone with recognition as he examined every plant, every fungus, like a botanist in his natural habitat.
He gestured, grabbing their attention. Then he drew his wand, pointed at it, and shook his head emphatically.
Ron shrugged, baffled, his face screaming, “What’s that s’posed to mean?”
Hermione rolled her eyes impatiently, jabbing him in the arm and making more emphatic signs than Neville until, finally, the redhead understood.
“Nice,” Harry thought bitterly. “We can’t even use spells.”
Everything would have to be done in silence or through charades.
“THE MUSHROOM SPORES ABSORB ALL SOUND,” Hermione mouthed exaggeratedly so they could read her lips.
“REALLY? HADN’T NOTICED,” Ron shot back, sarcasm dripping from his silent words.
Hermione huffed, swatting his shoulder—which made no noise.
The chamber was spacious, a true enchanted jungle—vibrant plants covered every available inch from floor to vaulted ceiling. At the far end, an ancient oak door stood as the only possible exit.
It led to a long corridor ahead, its narrow passage just as exotic with its vegetation as the chamber itself—except here, entirely different plants grew from the ground.
Hermione started toward the corridor but was abruptly yanked back by Neville, whose eyes were wide with alarm as he pointed at an innocent-looking pink flower creeping along the ground.
Harry didn’t know why Hermione and Neville had gone pale, but something told him that plant was dangerous.
“DON’T STEP ON THOSE FLOWERS,” Neville mouthed carefully, doing his best to be understood. “SOME ARE DEADLY.”
“SHOW US WHERE TO WALK,” Harry suggested, pointing at Neville, who nodded, clearly nervous.
He began guiding the group, choosing each step with painstaking care to avoid specific plants.
It was impossible not to tread on some foliage—the floor was carpeted with it. As they advanced, Harry noticed the plants varied wildly in shape and size, some emitting a perfumed scent that masked the chamber’s dampness.
About halfway, Ron tripped over a root hidden by green foliage, crashing onto his knees and crushing one of the pink flowers.
Harry urgently tapped Hermione and Neville’s shoulders.
Both whirled around—and upon seeing what moved in the foliage behind them, their eyes widened in pure terror.
Something massive disentangled from the shadows—a monstrous carnivorous plant with rows of razor-sharp teeth, standing over two metres tall. It lurched forward, its gaping maw opening in a soundless roar. The creature had no eyes but seemed to sniff for them, its movements quick and sinuous, its body adorned with pink flowers and yellowish leaves that shook menacingly.
Harry’s heart nearly stopped.
On instinct, he yanked Ron up by the arm, and they sprinted toward the door as fast as they could. Every step felt eternal as the grotesque creature gained speed.
It was a desperate race—with no sound of footsteps, breath, or life to warn them, the plant’s approach was utterly silent.
Harry’s breath came in ragged gasps. Glancing back, he saw the creature closing in, its monstrous jaws widening, ready to devour them.
Ron threw a frantic look over his shoulder and, upon seeing the carnivorous plant nearly upon them, let out a silent scream of pure terror.
With hearts hammering, they forced their legs to move faster, but the creature kept gaining, its footsteps so heavy Harry felt the vibrations through the ground.
Hermione reached the door first, her hands trembling as she wrenched the handle, screaming soundlessly for the others to hurry.
The moment they tumbled through, she raised her wand—now that her voice had returned—and shrieked in a high-pitched voice:
“COLLOPORTUS!”
The door slammed shut with a thunderous crash, magically locking with a firm snap just before the monstrosity could reach the entrance. They heard a dull thud against the wood—then nothing.
Panting, they exchanged wide-eyed glances as they scrambled away from the door.
“What the hell was that?!” Ron asked, his voice shaky.
“Holoplunc,” Neville said quickly. “It—it wouldn't have been very nice—not nice at all, actually—if it'd caught us.”
“Yeah... I gathered,” Ron croaked, clearing his throat and backing further away. “didn't even see the bloody root. It was too dark.”
Hermione shook her head, her wild curls bouncing.
“It wasn't your fault, Ron. That whole place was a deathtrap. We're lucky we didn't step on any of those poisonous plants while running.”
“Reckon that was the point,” Harry said dryly, his green eyes scanning their new surroundings warily.
“Holopluncs lay traps—pink flowers that grow along the ground,” Hermione explained, her voice slipping into that lecturing tone she got when sharing knowledge. “When stepped on, they alert the creature to potential prey.”
A chill ran down Harry's spine. “So if we'd stepped on those flowers earlier... it would've got us, and we'd be dinner?”
“Er—yes,” Neville confirmed, wiping sweat from his brow. “They're designed to catch anything that disturbs the flowers. Since it's not every day someone steps on them... well, when it happens, they don't waste the opportunity.”
The four shared a grim look before finally taking in the vast space around them.
It looked like a cavern, with a high, uneven ceiling where thousands of winged keys of all sizes and shapes hovered. In one corner, a pile of broomsticks lay discarded. But there was no exit door, and unease prickled at them.
“There's no door, no passage... did we take the wrong way? We can't go back,” Neville murmured, shuddering at the thought.
“No, we're in the right place,” Hermione said firmly. “There was only one door at the end of the corridor. It has to be here.”
“Or maybe... the exit just isn't visible yet,” Harry suggested, drawing the others' attention.
“How d'you mean?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.
“There's a spell that reveals things hidden by magic.”
Hermione's eyes widened excitedly.
“I know the one!—” she said quickly, as if in class.
“Course you do,” Ron muttered under his breath.
“It's the Revelio Charm, isn't it?” she continued, ignoring him.
“That's the one!” Harry nodded. “Remember we had to pick a spell to write about back in September? I did mine on this.”
Ron and Neville exchanged bemused glances, watching Harry and Hermione like it was a Quidditch match.
Neville leaned over to whisper to Ron.
“How d'they even remember an essay from September?”
Ron shrugged. “I can't remember what I had for breakfast, how should I know?”
“That spell would be dead useful right now,” Harry said, putting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room.
Hermione nodded. “It basically undoes any magical concealment and reveals the true appearance of a person or even an object that—”
“Fascinating lecture, really,” Ron cut in impatiently, “but could we try the spell sometime today? While we're chatting, Snape might already be nicking the Stone!”
“Right... I'll give it a go,” Harry said, drawing his wand with determination—though a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.
Hermione gave an encouraging nod. “Worth a shot.”
Harry traced a subtle “R” in the air and incanted:
“Revelio.”
A faint pulse of magic rippled through the chamber, and slowly, a large wooden door materialised on the far wall.
“First try! That's a first,” Ron laughed, nudging Harry with a grin. “No wonder you're top of the class, eh?” he teased, winking at Hermione, who scowled.
“Hermione's top of the year, and you know it,” Harry retorted quickly.
Hermione smiled slightly at the praise.
They hurried to the door, but it refused to budge.
Hermione pointed her wand. “Alohomora,” she murmured—but nothing happened.
“It won't open, even with magic,” she said, frustrated.
“D'you reckon one of these keys fits the lock?” Ron asked, eyeing the swarm overhead.
“Brilliant deduction, mate, eighty points to Gryffindor,” Harry teased, raising an eyebrow.
Hermione and Neville couldn't suppress their laughter.
“Shut it,” Ron shot back, shoving Harry's shoulder with a chuckle.
Neville scratched his head worriedly. “How do we even find the right key? There's hundreds... we'll be here all year.”
Hermione frowned, thinking aloud. “There must be something distinctive about it... something unusual.”
Harry squinted, scanning the swarm—then spotted an older-looking key with a broken wing.
“Look! That ancient one in the middle—its wing's bent!” he pointed.
“Someone must've already been through here and used that key,” Hermione deduced.
“So he is here,” Neville murmured, paling.
Harry eyed the pile of broomsticks in the corner.
“There's one broom each,” he said, walking over. “We could use them to catch the key.”
“I can't fly!” Hermione blurted.
“Neither can I!” Neville added, looking queasy.
Harry knew Neville was still traumatised from their first Flying lesson, and Hermione had always been afraid of heights.
“Fine, I'll go,” Harry said, mounting a broom and kicking off into the swarm with the agility of someone who practised daily.
To his surprise, the keys were fast—and as if sensing his target, the others darted in his way, blocking his view. He batted at them wildly, but it was like trying to push through water mid-ocean.
“They won't move out of the way—it's impossible to do this alone!” he complained, frustrated. “Grab the brooms and fly up! We can distract them better as more people.”
“But—” Hermione began.
“Just fly!” Harry cut her off, stepping back from the keys to see his friends better, moving toward them. “I was also scared and worried about being plant food until I nearly got eaten by a plant five minutes ago.”
Hermione and Neville exchanged uncertain glances.
Neville gulped. “That wasn't exactly encouraging...”
“That analogy makes no sense whatsoever,” Hermione added sharply.
“Come on, you two! Stop whingeing and get on already!” Ron snapped, thrusting their brooms at them.
Reluctantly, Hermione and Neville mounted.
Their flying styles were so ungainly Harry had to suppress a grin—Hermione gripped the handle so tightly the wood might splinter, while Neville swayed like a sack of potatoes in a gale. But it was enough for the plan to work.
Harry, with his Quidditch experience, quickly strategised:
“Ron, cover the right flank! Hermione, Nev, stay left and try to keep some keys busy! I'll go straight for the target!”
For a brief moment, he felt like a captain coordinating his team, and a satisfied smirk tugged at his lips.
And the plan worked better than expected.
While Ron performed bolder manoeuvres to lure part of the swarm, and Hermione and Neville—to their own surprise—managed to distract another portion, Harry seized the moment to dive for the damaged key. With a Seeker-worthy flick, he snatched it mid-air.
“Got it!” Harry cheered, raising the silver prize.
“Nice one, Harry!” Ron grinned, before his eyes widened in alarm. “Merlin, they're all coming for you now!”
The entire swarm turned on Harry, the keys bulleted toward him like angry hornets. Where they'd been obstacles before, they were now predators in pursuit.
Hermione acted before anyone could think.
“The door!” she shrieked.
“They won't stop following him!” Ron grumbled, flying nervous circles.
“Quick, to the door! We'll open it and Harry goes through last!” Hermione was already dismounting, her hair whipping like a brown storm cloud.
Neville nearly toppled over in his disastrous landing, while Ron positioned himself beside them, watching Harry execute increasingly reckless dodges to escape the furious swarm.
In a move that would've made Oliver Wood weep with pride, Harry barrel-rolled toward them, arm outstretched with the key.
“Catch!” he yelled.
Hermione sprang like a cat and snatched it mid-air. With precise movements, she jammed it into the lock and twisted.
Click!
The door swung open with a satisfying clunk.
The keys, however, remained fixated on Harry, who now looped and dove to keep them occupied.
“GO!” he ordered, carving tighter and tighter circles.
The moment the others crossed the threshold, Harry performed one last spectacular dive and hurtled through. Ron, timing it perfectly, delivered a powerful kick to the door, which slammed shut with a final thud.
The aftermath was horrifying.
Hundreds of enraged keys bombarded the wood like a magical hailstorm, their sharp tips embedding deep into solid oak. The metallic thwacks echoed through the new chamber, making Neville flinch.
“I didn't know keys could give nightmares,” he whispered, his voice as shaky as the still-quivering wings of the keys lodged in the door.
Ron rubbed his foot—the one he'd used to kick the door.
“Why does everything in this bloody place want us dead?!” he complained, equal parts furious and incredulous.
“It's a security chamber,” Hermione retorted, eyebrow arched. “What did you expect—a welcome mat and ginger newts?”
“Blimey, really? A security chamber?” Ron mocked. “A griffin, a ruddy giant man-eating plant, and a murderous key swarm made that abundantly clear, thanks ever so.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
It was astounding how they could bicker even after nearly dying.
He was profoundly grateful they didn't share a dormitory—he could just imagine Ron and Hermione turning it into a battlefield, waging territorial wars between four-posters.
“Just keep moving, no arguing,” Harry cut in.
His green eyes scanned the dark corridor ahead, where shadows flickered in their wandlight.
“We're still not safe,” Neville murmured, uneasy about their new surroundings.
The room was pitch-black until they stepped further in—then every torch flared at once, revealing a vast chamber lined with statues. White on one side, black on the other. The tallest stood three metres high, the shortest barely one-and-a-half. They advanced cautiously, eyes locked on the door beyond the black pieces.
The moment they stepped onto the first row of the board, the marble statues creaked to life with a sinister groan, their gleaming swords crossing to block the path. The group recoiled as one.
Ron, however, stood frozen, his blue eyes scanning the chessboard floor and the pieces arranged with military precision. Suddenly, his face lit up.
“Merlin's hairy bollocks!” he exclaimed, rubbing his forehead in awe. “It's a wizard's chessboard! We've got to play our way across. Look there—four white pieces are missing!”
“Brilliant,” Hermione snipped, hugging herself with a disapproving sniff. “So we'll be crushed into paste like disposable game pieces, is that it?”
Neville gulped, his wide eyes darting between the looming statues and his friends, wishing fervently to be elsewhere.
“How do we play, exactly? Do we stand on the empty squares?” Harry asked, cautiously inspecting what might become their tomb.
“Looks like it,” Ron confirmed, chewing his lip as he studied the formations. “We're missing a rook, two bishops, and a knight—see, that horse over there hasn't got a rider.” His finger wavered slightly as he pointed.
“You're the best at this, Ron,” Neville murmured, his voice so thin it was barely audible.
Ron took a deep breath, puffing out his chest like a commander about to lead his troops into battle.
“Right, here's the plan: Harry and Hermione will be the bishops, Neville the rook, and I... well, I'll be the knight.”
With hesitant steps, each took their position. Ron mounted the stone horse with a determination that belied the tremor in his hands. The moment they were all in place, the board came to life with a sharp crack, and Ron made his first move.
“Pawn to E4,” he announced, his voice echoing through the chamber.
The air grew instantly heavier, thick with tension.
The black pieces responded immediately: a black pawn slid diagonally forward.
Ron moved another pawn straight after, clearing the way for Harry to make the next move.
But when that same black pawn’s turn came again, it struck with lethal grace—its gleaming sword slashed so precisely that the white pawn shattered into marble shards.
“Bloody hell!” Ron yelled, shielding his face with his arms. “This is properly real!”
“Did you think it'd be what, a parlour game?!” Hermione shrieked, her voice piercing. “If one of those things hits us—”
“It won't!” Ron cut in, his blue eyes burning with an intensity Harry rarely saw. “Trust me, alright?”
Hermione shot Harry a look that screamed help, and he responded with a nod that tried to be reassuring, though his own sweat-slick hands betrayed his terror. Neville shut his eyes and focused on his breathing.
The game progressed with hypnotic brutality. Every capture was met with an explosion of marble and the guttural crunch of metal on stone. At one particularly harrowing moment, Neville was forced to take a black pawn—the enemy piece simply drove its sword into its own chest before crumbling, leaving Neville as white as their allied pieces.
Ron was drenched in sweat now, his forehead gleaming under the torchlight as he calculated each move. Harry saw his jaw muscles twitch with every play—there was no room for calculated sacrifices here, not when the “pieces” were his best friends.
“Listen,” Ron said suddenly, his voice hoarse. “I know how to win, but... I need to take that rook. Otherwise, it'll get Neville next turn, and their bishop will cut right past Hermione.”
“What does that mean?” Harry asked, though part of him already knew the answer, his stomach lurching.
“It means the knight has to sacrifice himself to the queen,” Neville explained, his voice quivering like a Mandrake's leaves.
“W-what? But you're the knight!” Hermione spluttered, gesturing wildly.
“I know,” Ron said grimly, gripping his marble horse tighter. “But there's no other way.”
“No!” Hermione screamed, her eyes bulging. “There has to be another move, Ron! You can't just—”
“There isn't!” Ron interrupted roughly.
Even without Ron's chess talent, Harry could see the trap closing around them like a stone fist.
“We're wasting time! Snape could have the Stone by now!” Ron exploded, his fists clenched. “I'm doing this, and that's final!”
His resolve was unshakable, but Harry noticed how his knees trembled against the marble flank of the horse.
“He takes the rook... and you, Hermione, get a clear path to the king,” Neville said, as if dictating his own death sentence. “Checkmate.”
Ron adjusted his seat on the stone horse, his trembling fingers gripping the carved reins.
“Exactly,” he confirmed. He took one last deep breath before commanding, in a tone that brooked no argument:
“Knight to C6.”
The stone horse moved with an agonising creak, each step echoing like a hammer on a coffin. The silence that followed was so thick Harry could hear his own blood pounding in his ears.
BAM!
The black rook exploded into a hail of shards that rained over the board.
For a moment that stretched eternally, nothing happened.
Then, with a motion as graceful as it was deadly, the black queen pivoted on her pedestal and advanced.
No one breathed as she raised her jeweled sceptre.
CRASH!
The strike was lightning-quick—the sceptre hit Ron with a crack that reverberated through the chamber, hurling him into the far wall like a ragdoll.
“RON!” Harry, Hermione, and Neville shouted in unison, but their friend lay motionless on the ground, his red hair the only splash of colour in the sea of white marble dust.
Hermione and Neville impulsively moved to step off their squares.
“NOBODY MOVE!” Harry barked. “The game's still on. Hermione, you need to go to that square. Then it ends!”
Hermione threw a anguished look at Ron but obeyed, shuffling on shaky legs to the indicated square. When she reached it, she declared firmly:
“Checkmate.”
The black king, defeated, drew its sword and beheaded itself. The marble head thudded at Hermione's feet, making the floor tremble and crack.
At once, the door ahead swung open—but they ignored it entirely.
All three sprinted to Ron, who still lay unmoving. Neville reached him first, rolling him onto his back.
“Is he breathing?” Harry asked, voice strained.
Nervous, Neville pressed his ear to Ron's chest, listening for a heartbeat.
“Check his pulse, Neville!” Hermione snapped impatiently.
Neville flushed with embarrassment. “Oh... I don't know how—”
Hermione rolled her eyes, huffing, and knelt beside Ron. Pressing two fingers to his neck, she let out a shaky sigh of relief.
“He's alive... at least he's alive.” She relaxed her shoulders.
Harry and Neville dragged their hands down their faces, relieved.
The silence that followed made Harry acutely aware of his exhaustion. He had no idea how long they'd been here—minutes or hours.
“D'you think I should stay with him?” Neville asked. “You two could go on... I'm not as useful as you.”
Harry frowned. “Don't say that. If it weren't for you with Popcorn and the Holoplunc—”
“That's not what I meant,” Neville shook his head.
Then Harry understood his friend's anguish; Neville had no confidence in his spellwork, likely thinking he'd just be a liability.
They couldn't leave Ron completely alone either—if something happened or he woke up, someone ought to be there to help.
Harry looked to Hermione for guidance.
She looked utterly exhausted, her hair wilder than usual, covered head-to-toe in marble dust. But her eyes still held that same sharp glint they always did.
He probably didn't look much better himself, and Neville might as well have stepped out of a horror story.
“What d'you reckon?” Hermione asked quietly. Her eyes offered unwavering support for whatever he decided.
“We can't leave Ron, but we don't know what's ahead either. If we carry him unconscious, it might make things worse,” Harry decided. “Hermione and I will go on. When we find a way out, we'll come back for you. If we take too long, wait for help.”
Neville nodded, settling beside Ron. “Go on, but just—be careful, please.”
Harry and Hermione took one last look at their friends before advancing toward the next chamber, leaving Ron in Neville's care.
The next room was vast and desolate, with a single door at the far end like all the others they'd passed through.
But what awaited them was gruesome, and an acrid, unbearable stench hung thick in the air.
A mountain troll with bluish skin lay sprawled on its back, eyes wide and mouth slack in a final, eternal spasm of surprise—the same vacant, horrifying expression Harry remembered from the dead unicorns in the forest. His stomach lurched at the sight. The troll's club rested abandoned by its outstretched arm, while a trickle of blood oozed from its brutally slashed throat. The putrid stench of the creature mixed with the metallic tang of blood soaking the floor made Harry feel queasy, and Hermione, trembling beside him, nearly vomited, clapping a hand over her mouth.
Harry had seen a dead troll before—he'd been responsible for that creature's death, a memory that would haunt him forever. But Hermione hadn't; she'd escaped before witnessing that brutality, never re-entering the bathroom to see the aftermath.
Heart clenching, he stepped closer, positioning himself between her and the troll's corpse to block her view.
“How awful...” she moaned, covering her face with shaking hands, her breathing ragged.
She gripped Harry's arm with near-crushing force, burying her face in his dirty robes to avoid seeing anything.
Harry stood firm.
“Easy,” Harry said softly, hesitating a moment before placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You don't have to look. Just stay with me, alright?”
“Just... let's get out of here,” she whispered, head bowed, fear plain in her voice.
Harry skirted the enormous pool of blood surrounding the troll and, without glancing back at the grisly scene, pushed the door open for her.
The moment they crossed the threshold, both jumped as purple flames erupted behind them, sealing the entrance, while black fire blocked the exit ahead.
In the room's center stood seven potion bottles of different colors—blue, purple, white, black, red, green, and yellow—all arranged on a stone table.
A scroll lay curled on a small pedestal beside the potions.
Hermione shut her eyes briefly, forcibly compartmentalizing the troll's image, focusing on the present.
She couldn't afford to be a burden to Harry—she had to be the problem-solver.
They scanned the room until she sighed, realizing their predicament.
“It's Snape's challenge,” she said, approaching the table.
“How d'you mean?”
“Each professor contributed their own obstacle. Sprout planted all those magical plants and the Holoplunc, Flitwick charmed the keys and hid the door, McGonagall transfigured the wizard chessboard, and Snape brewed the potions... Though I can't imagine who added the troll.”
“Quirrell. He handles Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Hermione considered this briefly before nodding.
“Yes, that tracks. But what's this now?”
She picked up the scroll and read intently, brow furrowing.
“Oh, it's a logic puzzle...” she mused. “Well, given how wizards handle reasoning so oddly, I expect most'd be stuck here indefinitely.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Is that good or bad news?”
“Depends,” Hermione replied thoughtfully. “I've been a witch for a year, but grew up Muggle for nearly eleven—same as you. The only formal logic in our world is Arithmancy, but few take it or truly grasp it, and even that works differently from traditional logic puzzles.”
“Can I read it?”
“Of course,” she said, handing it over.
Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find
One among us seven will let you move ahead
Another will transport the drinker back instead
Two among our number hold only nettle wine
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;
Second, different are those who stand at either end,
But if you would move onwards neither is your friend;
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.
Harry read it all and frowned.
“I don't understand a word of this,” he said simply.
Hermione studied the potions carefully.
“So three of these are deadly poisons,” she pointed out. “Two are nettle wines—also poisonous but not as much. One will send us back, and the last will let us go forward.”
“Which one's the right one?” Harry asked tensely, pinning all his hopes on her.
He'd always been rubbish at logic, preferring to trust his instincts, but here, if forced to choose, he was certain his pick would either make his heart explode or poison him in seconds.
“Let me see.” Hermione bit her lower lip, rereading the scroll several times and muttering to herself.
After a few moments, she pointed to two bottles: a large one with purple liquid and a small, dull blue one that could barely hold five drops.
“The big one's for going back, and the small one will take us forward,” she explained, voice slightly shaky as she carefully held the bottles.
Harry took a deep breath, feeling the chamber's cold air burn his lungs.
“There's barely enough for one person,” Harry observed, disappointed.
His fingers trembled slightly as they closed around the potion bottle, but his voice was steady when he spoke:
“I'll go forward. I'll try to delay Snape.” His green eyes shone with a determination even he didn't know he possessed. “You take the other potion and go back to help Nev and Ron... but if the troll—”
“I'll be fine, Harry,” Hermione interrupted, forcing a smile that didn't reach her brown eyes—usually so lively, now dark with worry.
Harry nodded, though he knew deep down his chances were slim.
“Wait for help,” he insisted. “Dumbledore will notice something's wrong. He'll send someone... at least I hope so.”
Hermione bit her lower lip so hard Harry saw it turn white under the pressure.
"Promise you'll be all right?" Her voice was as fragile as a spider's web.
Harry stared at her, his emerald eyes reflecting the purple flames that stood between them and the way back.
"I... I'll try."
"Promise me..."
"All right, I promise. It'll be fine."
Hermione blinked rapidly, several times, as if fighting stubborn tears. Her chin trembled visibly before—in an impulse that seemed to surprise even herself—she threw herself at Harry in a hug so tight it nearly made the bottle slip from his fingers.
“Hermione!” he exclaimed, his voice coming out higher than intended.
Hermione's brown curls tickled Harry's face. He suddenly noticed she had a peculiar smell—not perfume, but something more natural, like old parchment and grass after rain, with an indefinable quality that was simply... Hermione. After their exhausting day from confronting Popcorn to the deadly chess match, it was nearly miraculous she didn't smell of sweat and fear.
Harry froze, his arms suspended mid-air as if he didn't know what to do with them. No one had ever hugged him like this before.
Truth be told...
He'd never been hugged in his life.
His cheeks burned as if on fire.
But she didn't seem to notice his embarrassment, holding the hug for a moment that felt like eternity. And then Harry felt something strange—a peculiar warmth that started somewhere between his chest and stomach and spread through his whole body, like drinking hot chocolate on a cold day.
It was... comforting, in a way he'd never experienced before.
His aura seemed to bounce joyfully inside him, like a ping-pong ball, as if trying to nestle closer to her, wanting to preserve this feeling forever.
“Harry, you're a great wizard, you know?” Hermione murmured, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye.
Her face was as red as Harry's.
“Me? Not nearly as good as you,” Harry replied, genuinely perplexed.
Hermione let out a nervous little laugh.
“Me! Books and cleverness!” She made a face. “There are more important things... friendship and bravery, and—oh Harry, please be careful!”
“I will,” he promised, his voice quiet but firm. He pointed to the bottles. “You drink first. Sure about which is which?”
She nodded decisively and, without hesitation, brought the larger bottle to her lips. The moment the liquid touched her tongue, her face twisted into a grimace.
“Not poison, is it?” Harry asked, his fingers tightening involuntarily around his own bottle.
“No but it's horribly bitter,” Hermione replied, her nose wrinkled as if she'd sucked on a whole lemon.
Harry placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning forward. “Quick, go, before it wears off!”
She still seemed hesitant to leave him.
“Good luck, Harry... and come back if—”
“GO!”
The urgency in his voice made her recoil as if pushed. For a moment, she seemed to want to say more, but instead turned and ran toward the purple flames, disappearing into their ghostly glow without looking back.
He hoped she would be okay going through the troll again.
The moment Hermione was gone, Harry felt a sudden chill envelop him, as if someone had switched off all the lights at once. The chamber's silence, broken only by the crackling of magical flames, now felt oppressive.
“It's now or never,” he muttered to himself.
Plop!
The sound of the small potion's cork coming out echoed off the stone walls.
The liquid tasted strange—like grass mixed with something metallic.
The moment he swallowed, a wave of courageous warmth swept through him, banishing all doubts. Without hesitation, Harry strode toward the black flames, feeling only a slight tingling as he passed through, like walking through a curtain of warm air.
The corridor ahead was long and dark, lit only by faint torches on the walls.
Harry advanced cautiously, descending a dimly lit staircase leading to the final chamber. He caught his breath in surprise upon entering.
It wasn't who he'd expected to see, yet somehow it made perfect sense.
Standing right before the Mirror of Erised, Quirrell was watching him intently. The moment he noticed Harry in the reflection, he spun around to face him.
“I knew it!” Harry exclaimed, his throat tight.
“Knew?” Quirrell raised an eyebrow, his voice surprisingly calm without a trace of his usual stutter. “I'm not surprised you came here, Potter. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, aren't you?”
Harry clenched his fists. “Where's your partner in crime?”
Quirrell laughed coldly. “Partner? What are you on about?”
“Snape!” Harry fired back.
Quirrell let out a hollow chuckle.
“Me and Snape? Working together?” he said as if the notion were absurd. “Are you naive or just stupid?”
“But you both tried to kill me during the Quidditch match!” Harry protested, pointing an accusing finger.
“No, you blithering idiot,” Quirrell sneered with disdain. “I was trying to kill you. Snape was protecting you. If someone hadn't set fire to our robes, I'd have succeeded... he was maintaining eye contact to counter my jinx.”
Harry felt his blood run cold. The idea of Snape protecting him had never crossed his mind—it seemed nearly impossible to believe.
“At the next match, he refused to referee,” Quirrell continued. “Preferred to keep close watch on me to ensure I didn't try again. But Dumbledore and the other professors were too vigilant by then.”
“But I saw Snape cornering you in a corridor, demanding to know which side you were on!”
“Of course you did,” Quirrell said with a contemptuous twist of his lips. “He wanted to know whose side I was on—Dumbledore's and the school's or... the Dark Lord's.”
The reference to Voldemort made Harry's mouth go dry. The mere idea that he might still be alive was terrifying.
Quirrell sighed impatiently. “You've been far too meddlesome this year. Still don't understand how you dealt with my troll at Halloween... that's when I realized you'd be trouble.”
“Your troll?”
“Exactly. I have a natural gift with them. After years dealing with foolish, ignorant people, you develop a knack.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “The one you saw on the way here was particularly cross, so I... calmed him, as you likely noticed.”
Quirrell's smile turned malicious.
“It was I who let the troll in on Halloween. A perfect distraction... or it would've been, if not for Snape!” His long fingers twitched with rage at the name. “He grew suspicious and rushed to the third floor to stop me. Though that idiotic griffin at least left him a painful souvenir, didn't it?”
A chill ran down Harry's spine. While Quirrell's words confirmed his suspicions about the professor's involvement, hearing them aloud was different.
“And that stupid troll,” Quirrell continued, his smile twisting into a snarl, “failed miserably at its task. But don't worry, Potter...” His tone became almost comforting, as if sharing a secret. “Today I'll correct these little... mishaps.”
Before Harry could react, Quirrell flicked his wrist.
“Incarcerous!”
Thick, serpentine ropes shot from nowhere, hissing through the air before coiling around Harry's body with terrifying strength, pinning his arms to his sides and binding his legs together. He struggled, but the more he fought, the tighter the ropes constricted, cutting off his circulation.
He toppled to the floor, immobilized.
As Quirrell returned to the mirror, Harry writhed desperately. His wand was out of reach.
He needed to buy time.
“But Snape hates me!” he said, trying to divert Quirrell's attention. “He... he might want me dead!”
“Oh, absolutely,” Quirrell agreed, still studying the mirror. “Back in their Hogwarts days, he and your father were enemies—sworn enemies, in fact.” He reconsidered. “But Snape never wanted you dead... if he had, he'd have done it on your first day and none would be the wiser. Slit your throat and dumped you in the Black Lake, for instance—they'd never find you.”
The cold, clinical way he spoke bordered on psychopathy. Harry barely recognized this man as the same professor who'd taught him all year. Quirrell has been a brilliant actor this whole time.
“So you were the one who broke into Gringotts that day? Trying to rob the vault?”
Quirrell smiled bitterly.
“I tried... and failed. For which I was punished. I found my master during my travels abroad. I was foolish and innocent then, still believed in those childish notions of good and evil.” His tone turned regretful. “But the Dark Lord showed me the truth—that there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.”
Quirrell's voice grew strained, and Harry felt a fresh spike of fear.
“When I failed at Gringotts, my master was... displeased. He doesn't tolerate failure. He punished me. And then brought me closer still, to ensure I'd never fail again.”
Suddenly, everything clicked into place.
How had he not seen it before? Harry had stood right beside Quirrell on the day of the attempted robbery... he should have known.
“Blast it!” Quirrell snarled, frustration twisting his features. “What now? Smash the mirror? Try a spell? A blood ritual?”
Then something deeply unsettling happened.
Quirrell seemed to be talking to himself, but in a low, hissing whisper that made every hair on Harry's neck stand up.
“Use the boy... He is the key...” the dark voice murmured.
Harry's scar seared with pain—he desperately wanted to clutch his forehead but couldn't move.
Quirrell immediately vanished the ropes binding Harry with a sharp: “Relashio!”
“On your feet, Potter.”
Struggling against his fear, Harry slowly stood.
“Come here,” Quirrell ordered, gesturing to the mirror.
Harry approached, swallowing hard, determined not to show weakness—knowing he likely wouldn't leave this room alive.
“Tell me... what do you see?” Quirrell demanded.
Harry took a steadying breath, expecting to see his parents again... but instead saw his own reflection holding a glistening red stone the size of his palm.
The Philosopher's Stone.
His mirror-self grinned mischievously and winked, pocketing the stone.
A shockwave coursed through Harry's body as he felt the stone's weight in his pocket, subtly confirming its presence there.
Now it was with him. How was this possible?
“Well? What do you see?” Quirrell pressed.
“I... I see myself... and the rest of the Gryffindor team, holding up the House Cup.” Harry lied quickly, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I'm shaking Dumbledore's hand and everyone is happy with the victory.”
“Blast it!” Quirrell spat, frustrated. “I don't know what to do... I need your help, Master. How do I get the stone?”
“The lie... he's lying,” whispered that dark voice.
Quirrell pointed a shaking finger at Harry.
“Potter! Tell me the truth this instant, or you'll wish you'd died with your parents!” he hissed.
Harry's blood ran cold as he took several steps back, powerless to react.
“SPEAK!” Quirrell roared.
“Let me... let me speak to him,” murmured the dark voice.
“But Master... you're still too weak,” Quirrell replied hesitantly.
“I am NOT weak!” the voice thundered.
“AAAH!” Quirrell scream in pain, clutching his head.
That was simply bizarre. Harry didn't know what to do at that moment, his mind trying to think of a quick escape.
He had drunk the entire potion to enter this room and probably the effect had already worn off, looking around, there was no way out. And even if he could go back, it would put Hermione, Neville and Ron in danger, and that he could never allow.
He was completely cornered by Quirrell and that thing.
“Never call me weak!”
“Y-y-yes, Master. I swear on my soul, I meant no disrespect!” Quirrell stammered, trembling with genuine fear. Now his stutter was real.
“So do as I command!”
“Yes, Master.”
Quirrell turned his back to Harry.
“Ah!” Harry gasped.
He brought his hand directly to his forehead with a pained grimace. His scar exploded with searing pain, as though split open with fire.
He watched Quirrell begin unwinding his turban. Knowing he might die if he didn't act, Harry fought through the pain and seized his chance.
In one fluid motion, Harry drew his wand from his pocket. He'd practiced the same spell Malfoy had used on him months ago, waiting for payback. The little he had trained with Neville in those days before Halloween was still fresh in his mind.
“LOCOMOTOR MORTIS!” Harry shouted.
A jet of red light struck Quirrell in the back.
Quirrell grunted as his legs snapped together, sending him crashing face-first onto the stone floor.
“Fool!” snarled the voice as Quirrell desperately groped for his wand.
Harry didn't hesitate. In his panic, he used one of the few useful spells he'd learned in Defence Against the Dark Arts.
“Flipendo!”
“Protego!” Quirrell countered, deflecting the spell.
Harry's mind blanked—his inexperience, fear and desperation overwhelming him. He couldn't recall a single defensive spell.
He reacted too slowly.
With practiced ease, Quirrell swirled his wand in a 'U' shape
“Depulso!”
The white bolt hit Harry square in the chest, hurling him backward into a pillar.
The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, leaving him dazed and disoriented.
“Get up, you incompetent wretch!” the sinister voice commanded.
Quirrell ended the leg-locking curse with a simple “Finite!”
“I wish to speak to him...” the voice said calmly
Trembling, Harry pushed himself up against the pillar as Quirrell finished removing his turban.
When he turned—Harry clutching his scar which burned worse than ever—what Harry saw was grotesque:
A horrifying face with malevolent red eyes embedded in the back of Quirrell's head
Voldemort.
The evil radiating from that face reminded Harry of what he'd felt in the Forbidden Forest months prior. It was suffocating—a terrifying presence that seemed to poison the very air.
Harry tried to retreat, but his legs refused to obey.
He was paralyzed.
“Harry Potter...” the face spoke in a cold, calculating voice. “You've got courage, I'll grant you that. Few would face a Dark wizard this way. I don't wish to kill you. Just give me what I want, and you may leave... The Stone in your pocket. Hand it over.”
“Why do you want the Stone? Riches?” Harry pressed his back against the wall as those red eyes bored into him with cold, restrained hatred.
“Riches are for fools who care only for this fleeting life,” Voldemort replied disdainfully. “I seek immortality... I've survived on unicorn blood too long. The Stone will give me a new body... eternal life.”
Harry's mouth went dry.
If he gave Voldemort the Stone, the wizard who murdered his parents would have everything he wanted.
He couldn't allow that... not when his parents died because of this monster. Their sacrifice couldn't be in vain.
“I'LL NEVER GIVE IT TO YOU!” Harry shouted, clutching the stone tighter in his pocket.
Voldemort studied him intensely, as if peering into his soul.
“I can... bring your parents back,” he negotiated coldly. “Just give me the Stone, and all can be as it should.”
“LIAR!” Harry retorted, voice cracking. “They—they're dead. Because of you! You destroyed everything I had!” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Fool!” Voldemort snapped before composing himself with an icy smile. “I see you don't know the full truth about that night... Perhaps if I tell you, you'll understand why you should give me what I want.
Harry's stomach twisted as those sadistic eyes locked onto his.
“I went to your parents' house to kill you,” Voldemort stated simply. “It was Halloween night. As I approached, a boy saw my face and ran screaming. I considered killing him then, but it would have wasted my time.”
Harry stood frozen, compelled to hear this macabre tale that would haunt his days. Tears welled in his eyes
“Your father tried to fight me, but he was unarmed—they didn't know I was coming. I killed him in the upstairs hallway. He fell dead, still begging me to spare you and your mother.”
Harry couldn't stop the tears now. They streamed down his burning cheeks as his breath came in ragged gasps.
“Then, I entered your nursery...”
“P-please stop...” Harry whimpered, his breath hitching in ragged sobs.
“Your mother tried to protect you, standing in my way. She begged me to spare you, to take her instead...”
“Please...” Harry's heart hammered against his ribs like a caged bird.
The aura within him writhed like never before, something dark and tempestuous straining against its confines.
“She could have lived—I was merciful, gave her the choice to step aside, even patiently offered it more than once—but she wouldn’t move. Died like the filthy, unworthy fool she was to call herself a witch. So unless you hand over the stone—”
Harry couldn't bear another word.
Nothing this monster said would change anything.
His legs buckled, sending him crashing to his knees, hands clamped over his ears in a futile attempt to block out the voice.
Then something inside him finally shattered.
A scream tore from Harry's throat, carrying a pain that came from the very depths of his soul—for the parents he'd lost, for ten miserable years with the Dursleys, for watching other children live the life he'd been denied—the life with parents who would have loved him unconditionally. That fleeting Christmas vision in the Mirror of Erised, showing what might have been, now revealed itself as the cruelest lie of all.
And now his parents' murderer, the monster who'd stolen everything from him, was feasting on his anguish like a starved man at a banquet, relishing how Harry withered under the weight of happy memories he'd never experience.
That would never be his.
A burst of melancholy blue energy erupted from Harry's core, pulsing through the chamber in a magical storm—sparks flying, lightning-like tendrils lashing the walls and leaving deep fissures in their wake.
Voldemort was flung against the wall like a ragdoll, his skeletal form hitting with a sickening thud.
But this was nothing like the Dursleys' punishment—this explosion was more powerful, more alive. Magic crackled around Harry like a living entity, desperately trying to purge the consuming grief, only amplifying the hollow ache in his chest.
The majestic Mirror of Erised—so heavy ten men couldn't lift it—soared through the air like paper, shattering into a thousand glittering fragments that rained down as stardust. The entire chamber quaked violently, chunks of ceiling collapsing in massive slabs that crushed everything beneath.
The torches snuffed out simultaneously, their iron brackets twisting free from the walls under the raw magical force. Debris swirled in a chaotic vortex, orbiting Harry like planets around a blue sun.
Strangest of all was the light—a sorrowful blue aura radiating from Harry himself, illuminating the ruined chamber with an unearthly glow. It cast tall, wavering shadows that danced grotesquely across the walls. The air smelled of ozone and salt, charged with the electricity of raw magic Harry never knew he possessed.
In that moment, he wasn't just Harry Potter anymore—he was a tempest, a maelstrom of pain and power no spell could contain. At the eye of this storm, his green eyes blazed with terrifying intensity, locked onto Voldemort's cowering form as the chamber continued collapsing around them.
“I HATE YOU!” The scream tore from Harry's very soul, carrying a lifetime's worth of loss and anguish.
Quirrell shrieked in agony as Voldemort, in a desperate bid for control, twisted his limbs at impossible angles with sickening bone-cracks that echoed through the chamber. The arms and legs contorted like dried twigs, held together only by strands of Dark magic glowing with sinister crimson.
Now Quirrell's body was fully turned toward Voldemort's side, as if the limbs belonged to him, yet still positioned horribly backwards.
Quirrell's wand rose against his will, and Voldemort sent a purple curse slithering through the air like a starving viper. But before it could strike Harry, the uncontrolled magic surrounding him repelled it with a blue flash—an instinctive Protego reacting to pure survival instinct.
Voldemort began flicking his wand in rapid succession, spell after spell, each jet of light more vicious than the last, yet none had any effect.
All his attempts were batted away by Harry's raw magical force as though they were nothing.
Voldemort, still too weak to cast Unforgivables, swirled his wand with sinister grace, weaving a translucent black barrier that cocooned him in profane energy. It radiated such putrid darkness that merely approaching it might burn one's soul with despair.
Staggering violently, he began advancing against Harry's magical storm—each step requiring superhuman effort, as if walking into a hurricane.
When he finally reached Harry, his skeletal hands closed around the boy's throat with murderous pressure. But the moment Quirrell's skin touched Harry, it began disintegrating.
“IT BURNS!” Quirrell howled, his voice equal parts pain and terror, as his hands smoked and crumbled into greyish sand.
Harry, fighting for breath and driven by primal instinct, raised his own hands and pressed them against Voldemort's evil face. An inhuman screech echoed through the chamber as the flesh began bubbling and sloughing away grotesquely—his eyes bulging unnaturally as skin peeled from the orbs, only intensifying their malevolent red glow, before they too turned to dust.
In the blink of an eye, Quirrell's body disintegrated completely, leaving only his empty purple robes and a writhing black smoke that twisted through the air like a wounded serpent.
Harry felt his body falter suddenly, as if someone had cut the strings holding him upright. The magic surrounding him dissipated in dying blue sparks.
“Harry! Harry!” A familiar voice seemed to call from very far away, but the world was already dissolving around him.
His heartbeat slowed dangerously, each pulse a struggle.
Breathing became agonizing labor, and his vision blurred, filling with a bright white mist. In his last flicker of consciousness, he saw that same black shadow swooping toward him, passing through his chest like an icy blade while unleashing a final howl of hatred.
That dark touch was the final straw—his body, already at its limit, finally gave out.
He just felt himself start to fall backwards, with nothing to stop him.
And then... there was only darkness.
Notes:
This chapter ended up way longer than I expected! But to keep up with my weekly posting streak, translating and polishing it might’ve let a few grammar slips or pacing hiccups sneak in.
I hope I didn’t ruin anyone’s reading experience—but if you spot any wonky grammar or creative details that really need fixing, please call me out!
And if you liked it? Scream at me in the comments. I crave your thoughts. 😉
Chapter 15: A Place to Belong
Chapter Text
Harry felt his entire body throbbing with pain—from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. It was as though a lorry had hit him at full speed and reversed to finish the job, or perhaps a particularly ill-tempered Erumpent.
Even breathing was nearly an effort.
Gradually, however, the fog of unconsciousness began to lift, and he realised he was no longer where he’d fallen. It was bright; even with his eyes closed, the yellowish sunlight insistently tried to alert him to its presence, brushing lightly against his cheeks. The scent of potions and clean linen filled his nostrils, and a calm, familiar voice echoed beside him before he even opened his eyes.
“...and some have theorised that the site where Hogwarts was built was once the nest of an enormous dragon,” Hermione recited, reading casually from that book she nearly knew by heart. “After all, no one knows for certain the origin of the school’s motto: Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus, which translates from Latin as ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon’.”
Harry could make out the sound of her slowly turning the page.
“The founder Helga Hufflepuff had no idea what it meant and called it an ‘inside joke between Godric and Salazar’ when they still lacked an official motto. There is, however, a more obscure theory that they might have slain the dragon that lived there—perhaps even while it slept, though it wouldn’t have been in Godric’s nature to kill a defenceless creature—and dumped its body into the Great Lake, since in those days, dragons were seen as malevolent beings to be eradicated rather than relocated to reserves. But nothing was ever proven, and the mystery remains. To the keen-eyed observer, near the entrance to the dungeons stands a white marble statue of a sleeping dragon that doesn’t resemble any recorded breed—believed by some to be the very dragon that inspired the tale and the motto...”
Harry opened his eyes slowly and found himself back in the hospital wing, in that same bed as always.
Beside him, a mane of bushy brown hair nearly obscured Hermione’s face as she read aloud from Hogwarts: A History. Harry had lost count of how many times he’d seen her with that brick of a book in hand.
His throat was dry, and speaking was difficult, but he mustered his strength to get her attention.
“’Mione...” he croaked, his voice hoarse.
She looked up, eyes widening in surprise, and a broad smile lit up her face. Her prominent teeth gleamed alongside her brown eyes as the sunlight streamed through the window. She let her book fall to the floor, ignoring it entirely at the sight of her awake friend.
“Harry!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug. “Thank goodness you’re awake!”
“My... ribs,” he gasped.
She drew back quickly, her face flushing with embarrassment.
“Sorry... I was worried about you,” she said, clutching the hem of her jumper—her robe draped neatly over the chair.
“I can imagine,” he replied slowly with a faint smile.
“Mr Potter!” Madam Pomfrey appeared beside them with the air of a fretful mother. “You’ll be the death of me, boy. This is the third time I’ve seen you here this year!”
Harry tried to laugh, but even that hurt.
“Sorry, Madam Pomfrey... didn’t fancy a visit. Not looking to become a permanent resident either,” he joked, if only to distract from the pain.
The matron sighed.
“I’d be shocked if you said otherwise. You must be aching all over—here, take this.” She shoved a spoonful of thick, purple potion into his mouth.
The taste was foul, bitter, and Harry grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon far sourer than it ought to be.
“Tastes like dirt mixed with iron.”
“What did you expect? Peach juice? You’ll forget the taste soon enough when the pain’s gone, mark my words.” Madam Pomfrey assured him, already mixing more potions at the bedside table.
Harry glanced at Hermione, who gave him a small smile, her hand resting over his—warm under the hospital blankets. It was a comforting anchor.
“You nearly drained your magic completely, you know?” the matron continued, disapproval sharp in her tone. “Like a leaky cup of water—no matter how full you fill it, eventually it'll drain completely empty.”
Harry sank deeper into the pillow, exhausted. “What happens if I had drained it?”
Hermione shifted uneasily in her chair.
“You’d... die,” her voice faltered. “Every witch or wizard is born with their magic—it matures with age. It’s nearly impossible for someone to exhaust their magic to the point of death past eleven or twelve... but while it’s still developing, at this stage... the wizard would likely suffer cardiac arrest.”
A chill ran down Harry’s spine, and he swallowed hard. He hadn’t realised how close he’d come.
Madam Pomfrey busied herself with another spoonful, this time a yellowish potion—less vile, though that wasn’t saying much. It tasted vaguely of grass juice.
The pain ebbed slowly, like grime washed away by clean water.
“Now, what happened? Minerva was pale as a ghost when she brought you in, and Albus gave no clear explanation. All we know is Quirinus died down there trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, but nothing beyond that...” She sighed deeply. “How did it come to this? A teacher stealing from the school and leaving students hospitalised? Dark times are upon us again.” Her sniff was thick with disdain.
Harry shuddered at the memory of Voldemort’s grotesque face, those scarlet eyes screaming as the flesh burned beneath his hands. Now didn’t seem the time to dwell on it.
He felt no guilt or remorse—only a hollow emptiness. He’d ended a life, even if it was Quirrell’s. And if he hadn’t, Hermione, Neville, and Ron might not have survived the chamber.
“And how did we get out?” he asked.
“Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall pulled us out,” explained Hermione, giving his covered hand a slight squeeze. “You were brought in unconscious... and you were very pale and... magic was leaking from your fingers while you trembled.”
Harry frowned and slowly pulled his hands from the sheets, staring at them in disbelief. He’d been leaking magic from his hand? Just how unstable had he been down there?
If he was honest with himself, he didn’t remember everything in perfect detail—especially not his magical outburst.
“In all my years at St Mungo’s and here at Hogwarts, I’ve never seen anything like it,” declared Madam Pomfrey, hands on her hips. “At least, not someone releasing magic while unconscious.”
The door to the hospital wing swung open, and Dumbledore entered, smiling at the sight of Harry awake.
“Ah, splendid. I see our dear patient has finally returned to us. How are you feeling, Harry?”
“Better, Headmaster. Thank you,” Harry smiled.
The Headmaster’s bright blue eyes twinkled as they settled on Hermione, still seated in the chair.
“And I see Miss Granger remains here as well,” he chuckled lightly. “She’s spent every day at your side in that chair. It was quite the task prying her away—she always insisted on staying just a bit longer, so I’ve been told.”
Hermione averted her gaze, suddenly finding her shoes fascinating.
Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait... days? How long have I been here? Wh-what day is it?”
“Do not fret, Harry,” Dumbledore stepped closer. “Today is the 8th of June. The House Cup will soon be announced. Fortunately, you haven’t missed the remainder of the term.”
Harry relaxed slightly—but only until he remembered something important. His eyes widened further before contorting as if struck by an invisible pain.
He groaned, burying his face in his hands.
“The match against Ravenclaw...”
“Ah, well,” Hermione gave him a sympathetic look, “we suffered our worst defeat in 300 years.” She tried to sound casual, but there was a pang of sadness—she was a Gryffindor, after all. “I didn’t go to see the match, but... they said it was rather dull to watch. And Oliver wasn’t exactly pleased, to put it mildly.”
“He’s going to kill me...”
“Do not worry,” Dumbledore said reassuringly. “Unfortunately, there was no viable time to reschedule the match—your teammates understood your situation. A misfortune, I’m afraid.”
Harry knew Oliver would never accept a loss like that as mere “misfortune.”
“Poppy, Miss Granger, might I have a moment alone with Harry?” asked Dumbledore.
“See you later,” said Hermione, offering a small smile before leaving.
Dumbledore settled into the chair Hermione had occupied and regarded Harry with a compassionate gaze.
“I know you’ve endured a great deal this year, Harry, and... I believe you deserve some answers. Ask me anything you wish, and I shall answer to the best of my ability.”
Harry swallowed hard, adjusting himself in bed.
“Voldemort... he’s back, isn’t he?”
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Of all your questions, this is perhaps the most complex. He never truly ceased to exist; he lingered, hidden in the shadows, until Professor Quirrell found him.” He fell silent for a moment. “His aim was to seize the Philosopher’s Stone to regain a physical form, but he failed... thanks to you.”
A spark of hope flared in Harry. “So he’s gone for good? I saw Voldemort and Quirrell...” He trailed off, the gruesome memory of Quirrell crumbling into sand, screaming in agony, flooding back.
“Professor Quirrell perished that night, yes. But I fear Voldemort may yet return. Dark magic likely holds other means for him to do so.”
Harry clenched the blanket, his stomach churning at the thought of Voldemort still lurking out there.
“What happened to the Stone?”
Dumbledore leaned back.
“After lengthy discussion with Nicolas, we deemed it prudent to destroy it—to prevent further temptation toward dark purposes.”
“But... without it, he’ll die,” Harry said sadly. “His wife too. I remember Hermione mentioning he had one.”
Dumbledore offered a comforting smile.
“I assure you, Nicolas and Perenelle accepted this with serenity. At a certain stage of life, Harry, some view death as the next great adventure. Both felt their time had come. Death is but a good night’s sleep.”
Harry’s shoulders relaxed, and the two lapsed into silence, each lost in thought.
“I saw Voldemort and Quirrell melt, screaming... he tried to choke me, but when I touched his face...” Harry shuddered. “He died. Why?”
Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed kindly.
“There is something in you, Harry, that Voldemort has never possessed and never will... something your mother gave you before she left. It protected you that night.”
“My mother? What did she give me?”
“Love, Harry. She gave you love,” said Dumbledore softly. “She sacrificed herself for you, and that profound love remains within you, shielding you.”
Harry’s throat tightened. He fought back tears, his green eyes glistening—still unused to the idea that his parents had loved him so deeply. Even if his only good memory of her was that fleeting illusion in the Mirror of Erised, it didn’t matter.
He ached to feel her hug, her fingers carding through his hair, her voice humming softly again.
“Can I ask one more thing, sir?”
“Of course, Harry. What would you like to know?”
“My mother... what was she like?”
Dumbledore smiled, his gaze drifting as if sifting through distant memories.
“Ah, Lily was a remarkable witch—kind-hearted,” he said, voice thick with nostalgia. “I remember how the professors praised her. Her dedication was exceptional, particularly in Potions. Always prepared, always striving. I heard she’d read books years ahead of her level.”
A strange ache bloomed in Harry’s chest.
He remembered the time he’d carried a copy of Potion Opuscule to class, hoping to better understand the potions that always seemed like indecipherable riddles. Yet he soon realised it didn’t make much difference—the potions were rarely the same, making it hard to glean anything useful, and the tips included didn’t apply to the ingredients he worked with. Still, Harry never forgot the odd expression on the professor’s face the first time he saw him with that book... as if it were something unexpected.
Dumbledore continued, his eyes now twinkling faintly behind his half-moon spectacles.
“As for your father,” he said with a subtle smile, “he had excellent reasons to fall for her. It was hard not to notice Miss Evans.”
Harry grinned, imagining his young father gazing at his mother lovestruck.
How did they actually get together? The Headmaster probably wouldn’t know the details.
“So she liked Potions?”
“Oh, very much. She was one of Professor Slughorn’s favourite students when he taught Potions. It wasn’t just anyone who caught his attention, but Lily was an exception. She joined his exclusive club for the top of the class, and Slughorn loved boasting about her skill to anyone who’d listen. From what I recall, she was one of his prized pupils.”
Harry nodded, feeling a peculiar warmth in his chest as he uncovered this new fragment about his mother.
What would it have been like to have a Potions professor like hers? Perhaps, in that case, he might’ve genuinely maintained an interest in the subject from the start...
But what exactly had captivated his mother about Potions? Pure passion? Natural talent?
A doubt hovered in his thoughts: Would she have wanted him to pursue it? Would she have been proud if he had? The idea left him pensive for a moment. Maybe... just maybe... without Snape poisoning every lesson with his bitterness, there could be something truly fascinating to uncover in those intricate concoctions.
But that was precisely the jagged stone in his shoe—Snape, with his hooked nose always thrust where it wasn’t wanted, his honeyed voice dripping venom with every syllable.
How do you separate the subject from the professor who makes it unbearable?
Which brought up another confusing point.
“Speaking of Potions, sir... I know this might sound accusatory, but I thought Professor Snape wanted to steal the Stone. Quirrell said he wasn’t—that he was protecting me. Why... why me?”
Dumbledore steepled his fingers.
“Severus did, in fact, protect you this past year. I know he can be... difficult to decipher, but his intentions aren’t malicious. He was repaying a debt to your father.”
Harry frowned, piecing it together. “But Quirrell said they were practically enemies—that they hated each other.”
“Not all is black and white, Harry. We often dwell in the grey. Severus owed your father a life debt; James saved him in a particularly... fraught situation,” Dumbledore explained, choosing his words carefully. “But I’m afraid I cannot elaborate further. It would be an invasion of our professor’s privacy. Perhaps one day, if he’s willing, he’ll tell you himself.”
Harry highly doubted Snape would ever give him the time of day. Still, at least he understood the root of the professor’s bitterness—which only made it more infuriating. He wasn’t his father, and taking it out on him felt downright petty, no matter Snape’s reasons.
“Since we’re speaking of your father, there’s another answer you might not have thought to ask for,” Dumbledore mused.
Harry blinked. “About what?”
“Your Invisibility Cloak.” Dumbledore raised a calming hand as Harry shifted uncomfortably. “No need for alarm. I was the one who gave it to you this Christmas.”
“Really?” Harry’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, sir, that was really kind—but why did you have it? No offence, just...”
“None taken. You’ve every right to ask.” Dumbledore smiled. “I realise it must seem odd that I’d keep such a personal artefact, but your father—before he died—entrusted it to me to study its enchantments. I hadn’t finished my research in time, and James never reclaimed it. So I kept it safe until I could pass it to its rightful heir. You deserve to know, given how... frequently you’ve used it.”
His knowing glance made Harry gulp.
Before he could reply, Neville and Ron came barrelling toward Harry’s bed, skidding to a halt at the sight of Dumbledore.
“Oh, s-sorry, Headmaster, we didn’t—er—see you there,” Neville stammered.
Dumbledore rose gracefully.
“Not to worry, Mr Longbottom. I was just leaving. I suspect Harry has much to discuss with you all. Good day.”
With a final nod to Harry, he departed.
“How’re you feeling?” Harry asked Ron, recalling his friend’s unconscious state after the chess match.
“Never better!” Ron grinned. “I mean, I got knocked out by a queen, but at least it was a lady, right?”
“Actually... it was a statue,” Neville corrected, snickering.
“You know what I meant,” Ron said airily.
“Learned that one from Fred this morning and won’t let it go,” Neville stage-whispered.
“I’ve only said it three times,” Ron protested. “Better than admitting a woman beat me up!”
“Merlin, if Hermione heard you…” Harry teased.
Ron’s eyes darted to the door as if expecting her to materialise.
“Don’t tell her I said that, or she’ll hex me till next term,” he hissed.
Harry and Neville burst out laughing.
“Madam Pomfrey says you’re free to leave, Harry,” Neville said cheerfully. “House Cup ceremony’s tonight.”
Ron groaned. “That git Malfoy... if he hadn’t wasted time ratting us out, we might’ve won! Now Slytherin’s miles ahead.”
“We did what needed doing. No regrets,” said Harry firmly. “If we hadn’t, Hagrid could’ve been in real trouble—or worse.”
“Yeah, I know... but that dragon! Thought I’d croak before we reached the hospital wing—that venom burned,” Ron said, rubbing his leg. “Felt like my brains were melting. Proper weird.”
Neville suddenly giggled.
“Still fancy that pink unicorn?” he quipped. “Bet Hagrid’s got one.”
“Oh, not this again—” Ron rolled his eyes but gave up when Harry and Neville dissolved into laughter. “Just you wait—six more years of this! A good chess player’s patient. Your day’ll come.”
Later, the three left the hospital wing and found Hermione. They spent the afternoon playing Exploding Snap in the common room.
Hedwig spent much of her time perched on the back of his chair, occasionally receiving a treat from Harry or a gentle stroke on the head.
“Don’t worry,” Hermione smiled, watching Hedwig’s delighted reaction to seeing Harry again. “We looked after her—I made sure she got all the treats you usually gave.”
“Yeah, she stayed with me in the hospital wing sometimes too,” Neville chimed in. “When Madam Pomfrey wasn’t around, she’d peck at the window until someone let her in to be with you for a bit.”
“Is that so?” Harry grinned at his owl, who nipped his finger in confirmation.
When word got out that Harry had left the hospital wing, Oliver, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia sought him out, their faces a mix of concern and steely resolve. Harry felt a warmth in his chest at the sight of his teammates’ support, as if this small group were a fortress against the injustices of the wizarding world.
Oliver, eyes blazing with pure determination, crossed his arms and declared:
“This isn’t about winning or losing anymore, Harry.” His voice was grave, charged with near-religious fervour. “It’s about honour. We’ll crush Slytherin so thoroughly they won’t recover their morale for the next three years!”
Katie Bell gave a slight shrug, but her eyes glittered with vengeful spark.
“If we can’t win, we can at least take out years of frustration on them,” she said, as if suggesting a minor tactical adjustment.
Alicia laughed. “Good point. What’re they gonna do? Cancel Quidditch this year?”
“A broken arm here, a few sore arses there…” Angelina smirked, mischief dancing in her expression. “Might make them think twice before cheating again.”
Harry couldn’t help but smile. Their energy was infectious, and for the first time since the match announcement, he felt that maybe there was justice in Quidditch—even if they had to wrench it free themselves.
At the end-of-term feast, Gryffindor sat glumly, watching the Great Hall adorned with enormous green Slytherin banners—their eighth consecutive year winning the House Cup.
Dumbledore rose, calling for silence.
“If I might have your attention for a moment,” he began, waiting for the hall to quieten. “First, I’d like to thank everyone for another marvellous year at Hogwarts. It warms my heart to see our seventh-years, soon to depart, returning to the very boats they arrived in as first-years… ah, I still remember your wide-eyed wonder upon entering this hall for the first time, as small and curious as our current first-years.”
Some students chuckled, while a few seventh-years blinked back tears.
“And to those who’ve spent nearly a decade under Hogwarts’ roof, I offer my deepest congratulations for your outstanding achievements. From the bottom of this old heart, I wish you every success in becoming the witches and wizards you were born to be. For all you’ve accomplished—through laughter, tears, and countless struggles—let’s have a round of applause.” Dumbledore clapped, and the hall erupted in celebration.
Harry wondered how he’d feel when his time came: joy or longing?
Already, the mere thought of returning to the Dursleys this summer made him nostalgic, so perhaps the answer was more obvious than it seemed.
“Now, it’s time to award the House Cup,” Dumbledore continued serenely. “The standings are as follows: in fourth place, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and sixty points; third, Gryffindor, with three hundred and eighty; Ravenclaw, with four hundred and forty-two; and Slytherin, with five hundred and sixty-four.”
The Slytherins cheered raucously, and Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes at Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy’s smug grins.
“Yes, yes, congratulations to Slytherin,” Dumbledore said, smiling. “But before we celebrate the winners, I have some last-minute points to award, owing to recent events.”
The Slytherins’ smiles faltered.
“First, to Neville Longbottom—for his exceptional herbological knowledge and unwavering loyalty to friends in need—fifty points.”
Neville’s eyes bulged, flushing crimson as Gryffindor erupted in applause—he’d never earned points before, only lost them, particularly in Potions.
“To Ronald Weasley, for his mastery of wizard’s chess in providing the most thrilling match ever witnessed—fifty points.”
Ron beamed as Fred and George ruffled his hair from either side.
“That’s my little brother!” Percy crowed to nearby students. “He’s the one who took on Professor McGonagall’s giant chessboard!”
The Slytherins exchanged nervous glances, their smiles withering.
“To Hermione Granger, for her brilliant logical thinking, sharp intellect, and steadfast friendship—another fifty points.”
Hermione buried her face in her hands, but Harry saw tears slipping through her fingers. The Gryffindor table roared.
Harry’s heart swelled with pride. Without Neville, Ron, and Hermione—their loyalty, courage and brilliance—he’d never have reached the Philosopher’s Stone.
Gryffindor was back in the game—those hundred and fifty points had narrowed the gap. They needed just thirty more to win!
“And finally, to Harry Potter…”
The hall fell silent. Harry wished he could vanish under the table as all eyes turned to him. Everyone knew what he’d faced—not every detail, but enough. The story had somehow spread after all.
“For his courage and unshakable resolve… sixty points.”
The Great Hall exploded. Whistles, cheers, and stamping feet drowned out all else—except the Slytherins’ stunned silence.
Harry had never felt so seen.
He saw Neville receiving more hugs than he’d ever had in his life, Hermione beaming at him brightly, while Ron thumped him on the back and slung an arm over his shoulder, laughing at some joke from the twins about snakes and dungbombs.
“I think a change of decor is in order!” said Dumbledore, clapping his hands three times.
In an instant, the green banners transformed into Gryffindor’s scarlet and gold.
Harry had never seen Professor McGonagall wear such a broad smile—the polar opposite of Snape’s thunderous scowl.
That was, by far, the best feast of Harry’s life. When Gryffindor discovered they’d won the House Cup, the celebration was instantaneous.
As usual, the twins ensured snacks, sweets, and butterbeer from their “secret suppliers,” and no one dared ask who they were to avoid exposing them.
Professor McGonagall was present and, though she could have scolded the twins, surprisingly turned a blind eye—even downing two mugs herself.
“Let’s keep this between us,” Harry heard her whisper to the seventh-years, the most carefree of the lot. “But we’ve earned a drink after seven years... And it’s rather satisfying to see Severus taste his own poison—healthy competition, of course.”
The group burst into laughter.
Amid the revelry, sipping a frosty mug of butterbeer, Harry finally got a chance to chat with Fred and George.
They didn’t go into detail about what they’d done to the Slytherins that night on the third floor, but from what they hinted, it was enough to leave Crabbe slumped on the floor in tears; Malfoy as pale as a candle, stammering apologies; and Goyle with a traumatised stare.
As for Pansy Parkinson, the twins claimed they’d had the “decency” to spare her.
“Code of honour, you see,” said Fred, waving a hand as if citing some ancient Ministry decree. “Don’t mess with witches unless they start it.”
“We can only jinx her if she jinxes us—or any other witch,” George added, shrugging before taking a long swig of butterbeer. “Rules are rules.”
“So you’ve got rules?” Harry arched a playful eyebrow.
“You thought we were what? Outlaws?” Fred feigned offence.
“We’ve always had rules!” George insisted.
Harry laughed, shaking his head as he watched Neville sneak another sugar quill from the table, as if no one would notice.
“So you follow rules, just... not conventional ones?” he suggested.
“Exactly!” they chorused.
Though they’d left Pansy unharmed, they’d warned her that if she told anyone what she’d seen, she’d face serious consequences. The threat worked so well that during Harry’s hospital stay, the Slytherins went out of their way to avoid Neville, Ron, and Hermione.
It was strange, almost surreal, adjusting to their newfound reputation.
After that historic House Points turnaround, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville became known as the “Golden Quartet.” The name sounded rather pompous, even silly, but it carried undeniable weight—as if speaking it reminded people of what the four were capable of.
Fred and George, of course, seized the chance to cement the legend.
“That table there, by the window?” Fred announced loudly, pointing to their usual spot. “As of today, it’s hallowed ground. Heritage of the Golden Quartet.”
“There’s even an invisible plaque,” George added, tapping the air as if touching something solid. “Reserved for heroes and chocolate frog connoisseurs.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“That’s ridiculous. House tables aren’t owned,” she said, crossing her arms. “And no one here eats chocolate frogs.”
Harry and Ron immediately shot accusatory looks at Neville, who scratched his neck and averted his gaze.
She huffed. “Fine, except Neville.”
“I only have them occasionally…” Neville mumbled, shrugging.
Harry laughed and clapped him on the back. “I’d say ‘occasionally’ is doing some heavy lifting.”
Despite Hermione’s protests, Harry noticed that for the entire victory feast, no other student dared sit at that table.
It remained empty, untouched, as if protected by some invisible charm—or perhaps simply by the respect the Golden Quartet now commanded.
Who’d have thought a bunch of first-years could wield that kind of power? Not even Harry in his wildest dreams would’ve imagined it.
The days passed, and Gryffindor’s Quidditch team was in full swing, training non-stop for the upcoming match against Slytherin. It was disheartening to think they wouldn’t win the Quidditch Cup, and Harry felt guilty for missing the previous game against Ravenclaw.
The performance had been so poor that the point gap was practically insurmountable. Oliver and the girls tried to reassure him, saying they were already happy with the House Cup... but for Harry, a lingering frustration remained.
He wished he could’ve made his father proud in some way.
The silver medal, however, was still up for grabs.
The match against Slytherin would decide second place, and in an unexpected surprise, Ravenclaw’s team offered to help Oliver and the others train. For anyone who wasn’t a Slytherin, seeing that house lose everything was pure satisfaction.
Harry noticed the vengeful glint in the eagles’ eyes; if they could, they’d invent a fifth place just to shove the snakes there.
Training with a rival house was odd but also fun.
Surprisingly, there was no taunting from the Ravenclaw players. In fact, they showed empathy, checking on Harry—after all, they hadn’t played against him and found it unfair to mock Gryffindor when their Seeker was absent, especially given the reasons why.
The air on match day was thick with near-palpable tension.
Both Slytherin and Gryffindor had nothing left to lose, and the taunting between houses had reached fever pitch in recent days.
For the snakes, this match was more than simple revenge—it was a matter of honour. They believed, with near-religious fervour, that Dumbledore had manipulated the points at the last second, stealing their rightful victory to gift it to Gryffindor.
“By some trick of that insufferable quartet of idiots,” they muttered amongst themselves, faces twisted with resentment.
And, of course, no one had forgotten the Dungbomb incident—an unsolved mystery, but one many in Slytherin blamed on the lions, since no convenient scapegoat had emerged from their own ranks.
“So, if it's not one of ours, it must have been something from that house we hate, right? Because in this case, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw don't exist.”
That was their logic.
Which wasn't far from the truth—though solid proof remained as elusive as a Snitch in a thunderstorm.
The Gryffindors were far from saints themselves.
Their murmurs ranged from veiled accusations to open threats. The humiliation of the first match, when Harry’s broom had been cursed, still burned like a fresh wound.
The truth—that Quirrell was behind it all—remained a closely guarded secret known only to a privileged few. Meanwhile, throughout the corridors of Hogwarts, suspicion continued to hang over Slytherin like a poisonous mist, fuelling the crimson fury of the Gryffindors.
Some even entertained the “absurd” possibility that Snape and Quirrell were involved together. But without concrete proof and faced with the laughable improbability of that theory—because they were professors, after all, weren’t they?—the rumours soon settled on the more convincing narrative: that the manipulation had been the work of some bloody Slytherin.
And someone had to pay for it—didn’t matter who, so long as they wore green and silver.
In the changing room, Harry adjusted his gloves, his heart racing to the sound of the crowds already echoing through the stadium—a cacophony of shouts and chants that seemed to vibrate in the very air.
George grinned broadly and nudged Oliver in the shoulder.
“Captain, are we cleared to break a few bones today?”
“If they start playing dirty, hit back,” Oliver replied tersely. “I’ve said it’s a matter of honour. I won’t be humiliated again.”
“This’ll be fun...” Fred murmured, eyes gleaming with a light only the Weasley twins could muster.
Wood then launched into one of his motivational speeches—full of tactics, formations, and warnings about the opponents’ weaknesses. But no one there cared for strategy. There was no House Cup at stake anymore, just blood and the sweet promise of revenge.
It was primal.
Realising his words had as much impact as a feather dropping to the floor, Oliver sighed and threw his hands up.
“You know what? Just don’t kill anyone. The rest is fair game—”
“KILL THEM ALL!” Fred shouted suddenly, making Angelina jump.
“BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!” George began chanting, stomping his feet like a warrior before battle.
It was so absurd, so quintessentially Weasley, that before anyone could think, Harry, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie joined the chorus, marching toward the exit like a pack of savages about to storm a battlefield.
Oliver shook his head but couldn’t suppress a smile.
“BLOOD!” he roared, raising his fist.
Even having faced the Quidditch pitch twice before, Harry still felt a chill in his stomach as he tightened his grip on his Nimbus 2000, waiting for the signal to enter.
GO GRYFFINDOR! GO GRYFFINDOR! GO GRYFFINDOR!
The sound of feet pounding the stands above echoed like distant thunder, the Gryffindor crowd buzzing with renewed energy, hungry for victory after the humiliation against Ravenclaw.
“And now… the Gryffindor team!” Lee Jordan announced, his voice magically amplified, making the stands erupt in cheers.
Harry entered the pitch alongside his teammates, executing a rehearsed manoeuvre—quick, swooping pirouettes that made the red-and-gold colours of the crowd ripple like flames in the wind.
The roar of the crowd was so deafening that, in the midst of the euphoria, Harry barely noticed when Madam Hooch blew the whistle to start the match.
The Quaffle was tossed into the air, and in an instant, the pitch became a frenzy of broomsticks, colliding bodies, and brutal plays. Gryffindor’s Chasers, agile as birds of prey, clashed with the brute force of the Slytherins, who seemed more intent on knocking opponents off their brooms than scoring.
“Angelina takes the Quaffle from Bole in a spectacular pirouette—what skill! But Derrick’s lining up for a Bludger straight at her! He’d better miss!”
“Jordan!” Professor McGonagall reprimanded, but her tone was more exasperated than truly scolding.
Harry flew in circles, eyes scanning the pitch for the Golden Snitch, when suddenly he felt a presence beside him.
“Best stay still, Potter, or this time I’ll split you in half if you try to catch the Snitch!” Higgs snarled, flying so close Harry could see the aggressive gleam in his eyes.
For someone who’d faced a mountain troll, smuggled a baby dragon under cover of midnight darkness, escaped a giant carnivorous plant, and survived a rain of enchanted keys—not to mention a Dark wizard possessed by Voldemort himself—the threat sounded quite comical.
Harry looked at Higgs as if he were a particularly irritating insect.
“Try to split me in half, Higgs, and I’ll shove your broomstick where the sun doesn’t shine!” Harry shot back before kicking the Nimbus into a sudden burst of speed, leaving the Slytherin in his dust.
“Potter seems to have spotted the Snitch and he’s off like a rocket! Higgs, distracted, loses his rhythm—and WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT! What a spectacular save from Wood! He kicks the Quaffle clear and denies Slytherin another point!”
“ALICIA! YOU’RE LEAVING THE LEFT FLANK OPEN!” roared the captain, his voice already turning hoarse. “DON’T JUST STAND THERE, MARK SOMEONE!”
“I’M TRYING, OLIVER!” Alicia bellowed, dodging a lunge from Adrian Pucey.
The match only grew more intense by the minute.
Collisions between players turned violent, insults grew more creative, and the crowds mirrored the teams’ fury with jeers and deafening applause.
“WATCH OUT!” Katie Bell screamed, and the twins narrowly avoided being clipped as Harry and Higgs shot past like two comets on a collision course.
“OI, WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU TWO PLAYING AT?!” Oliver roared, gesticulating wildly. “HIT THEM BACK!”
“Merlin’s beard, what was that?! Alicia Spinnet shoulder-charged by Flint—she drops the Quaffle—that’s FOUL PLAY, someone fetch a referee who isn’t blind!”
“JORDAN! Respect for Madam Hooch!”
“Yes, Professor…” Lee muttered, without a shred of remorse.
George, hefting a Beater’s bat, tossed a Bludger into the air and with a swift swing sent it hurtling toward Graham Montague, who retaliated with a desperate strike.
“COME CLOSER IF YOU’RE A MAN, YOU FILTHY GINGER!” Montague spat, face red with rage.
“GO SUCK FLINT’S BALLS, YOU PRAT!” Fred shot back, circling him with a taunting grin.
“ALL YOU CAN TALK ABOUT IS BALLS. OBSESSED MUCH?”
“MAYBE IF YOU PULLED YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR FUCKING ARSE, YOU’D HEAR OTHER INSULTS!”
It was impossible to keep track of everything at once. While the central pitch devolved into a warzone, Harry and Higgs dueled in the skies, chasing the Snitch in perilous zigzags.
“MOVE OVER, POTTER!” Higgs bellowed, trying to cut Harry off.
Harry didn’t respond, laser-focused as he pulled into a risky loop that drew a collective gasp from the stands.
The match raged on. Slytherin deployed every dirty tactic—cutting off the Chasers, aiming Bludgers at bodies instead of brooms. In retaliation, Gryffindor matched them blow for blow, trading furious glares and creative profanity. Madam Hooch intervened sporadically, only halting the most blatant fouls.
The roar of the crowd blended with the whistle of broomsticks and the crack of bats against Bludgers. The score was tight, but the tension on the pitch was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Harry's eyes locked onto a golden flicker near the highest hoop. Without thinking, he accelerated, wind screaming in his ears as sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead.
Higgs, shadowing Harry like a vengeful spectre, snarled and wrenched his broom sideways to block him.
“NOT GETTING AWAY THIS TIME!”
But Harry, nimbler and hellbent, twisted into a tight corkscrew that nearly scraped Gryffindor's hoops. Undeterred, Higgs positioned himself beneath and yanked his broom upward, deliberately trying to ram Harry into Slytherin's goalpost.
“LOOK AT THAT CHEATING BASTARD!” George howled, blocked from intervening by Montague.
Harry felt Higgs' shoulder slam into his—a blatant attempt to unseat him. He wobbled but clung to the Nimbus, fingers burning from the strain.
“GIVE IT UP, POTTER!” Higgs sneered, raising his broom to strike again.
“PISS OFF, YOU WANKER!” Harry snapped, patience gone.
Then fate intervened.
Higgs, so fixated on Harry, didn't see the left hoop looming—
CRACK!
The deafening collision echoed stadium-wide as Higgs smashed into the metal rim. His broom spun wildly onward while his body folded like a crumpled parchment over the hoop.
For one horrifying moment, he plummeted—until Madam Hooch’s Cushioning Charm snatched him midair, sparing him a bone-shattering landing.
The crowd collectively held its breath.
Wind knocked out of him, Higgs vomited his full English breakfast onto the grass—half-chewed beans splattering the pitch as spectators wrinkled their noses in disgust.
Neville made a noise between a gag and a whimper, turning away to scrub at his eyes as if erasing the image.
“Merlin, Nev, look somewhere else!” Ron groaned, shoving him while grimacing.
“Seeing sick makes me queasy too,” Neville protested, his face taking on a concerning greenish hue.
Hermione stood frozen, her brown eyes fixed not on Higgs but on Harry. Her fingers twisted nervously around the railing, weight shifting between feet.
“Higgs just face-planted the hoop like a drunken owl! Someone tell him the goal is to fly THROUGH it!” Lee Jordan crowed, as Gryffindor’s stands erupted in laughter.
“FORGET THE QUAFFLE! GET HIM!” Flint roared, face contorted with fury.
Without their Seeker, Slytherin’s chance of winning was gone—so their new objective was clear: inflict as much damage as possible.
And the damage, in this case, was Harry.
If he were knocked off “accidentally,” by the rules, without their Seeker the game would end with the total points scored by the Chasers—and Slytherin was narrowly ahead at that moment.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, Harry spotted the three hulking green-and-silver players soaring toward him like a squadron of demons. He tightened his grip on the Nimbus, took a deep breath, and dove, focusing solely on the Snitch.
He had to catch it now.
POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!
The Gryffindor crowd chanted his name, a fervent chorus that seemed to vibrate in the very air.
“PROTECT HIM, DAMMIT!” Oliver bellowed desperately as the Chasers and twins tried in vain to intercept the Slytherins.
“GO, HARRY!” Hermione shrieked, hands clenched against her chest, eyes wide with worry and exhilaration as he streaked past like lightning.
Beside her, other Gryffindor girls cheered with equal fervour—at that moment, it didn’t matter if they thought Harry was cute or just the lucky new kid.
He was their Seeker, and they wanted that victory more than anything else right then.
The boys, however, were even more raucous.
“FINISH THEM, HARRY!” Ron roared, shaking his fists at the sky, his face red with excitement.
“KICK THOSE GITS’ ARSES!” Dean added.
“HOLY SHIT, WHAT A FAKE!” Seamus yelled exultantly in a group shoulder-hug with Neville, Dean, and Ron.
Montague appeared beside Harry like a green spectre, but the boy swerved upward at the last second, sending the Slytherin careening straight into the stands’ curtains.
“Montague takes himself out! Another snake off the pitch!” Lee announced with palpable glee.
Pucey and Flint, however, weren’t giving up.
“Someone fetch a referee for this Slytherin lot!” Lee protested indignantly. “This isn’t Quidditch, it’s attempted murder!”
Thud!
“Fuck!” Harry gasped as Flint body-checked him from above, nearly unseating him.
Fred, out of patience for clean play, seized a Bludger and hurled it with surgical precision.
CRACK!
“Uff!” Flint doubled over when it struck his ribs, losing control of his broom and spiralling downward.
“That’s right, you tosser! Flint’s out of the game!” Lee crowed, no longer caring about McGonagall’s scolding.
Fred raised his hands to Madam Hooch.
“Accidental hit!” he claimed.
Meanwhile, Alicia Spinnet positioned herself in front of Pucey, forcing him to brake sharply to avoid a collision.
And then, amidst the chaos, Harry inched closer—the golden Snitch flickered just metres away.
Without hesitation, he stretched his arm to the limit, fingers closing like talons...
And seized it.
Lee Jordan leapt from the commentator’s seat, almost toppling over.
“POTTER GETS THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS!”
The Gryffindor stands erupted in a triumphant roar; even Professor McGonagall clapped proudly, momentarily forgetting to reprimand Lee for his excessive enthusiasm.
The green-and-silver players stood frozen, staring at the ground in defeated silence.
Harry raised the Snitch, panting.
On the pitch, landing shakily on legs still wobbly with adrenaline, the Gryffindor team flew toward Harry, enveloping him in a mid-air group hug.
Fred and George chanted: “BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!”
“AND ONE IDIOT HITTING THE HOOP!” George added, pointing at Higgs, who was still struggling to rise, his face scarlet with humiliation and rage.
Oliver hugged Harry so tightly he nearly dropped his broom.
“That was brilliant, Harry! BRILLIANT!”
Meanwhile, the battered Slytherins groaned on the ground, while the survivors huddled in a corner, shooting venomous glares at the victors. Miles Bletchley—the Keeper—muttered something about “sheer luck,” but no one cared.
Harry, drenched in sweat and still gasping, clutched the Snitch to his chest, his heart pounding.
And so, under Gryffindor’s thunderous applause and Slytherin’s frustrated groans, another chapter in the legendary rivalry between the two houses was written—with blood, sweat, some broken bones and an unforgettable touch of public humiliation.
It wasn’t long before the rest of the house stormed the pitch, all cheering as if this were the year’s greatest triumph, embracing the team members.
Harry was utterly immersed in the triumphant uproar when, without warning, a missile of bushy brown hair slammed into him with enough force to make him stagger.
“You did it, Harry! You did it!” Hermione cried, her arms wrapping around him in a hug so enthusiastic he took two steps back, nearly losing his footing on the damp grass.
“I reckon so,” he laughed.
Still dazed from the adrenaline of catching the Snitch, Harry took a moment to process the affectionate assault. When he did, he immediately recognised that familiar scent—ink, old parchment, and a faint trace of cut grass—that always seemed to cling to Hermione.
She didn’t seem to mind that he was drenched in sweat and probably didn’t smell too pleasant; her happiness for him outweighed that.
For a brief moment, Harry felt that odd urge to nestle closer, to prolong the contact.
Instead, he just smiled, letting her pour out all that affectionate energy. He still didn’t know what to do with his arms, so for fear of doing something wrong, he kept them at his sides.
If he were honest with himself, he thought, maybe he was getting too used to Hermione’s hugs.
Neville appeared next, his round face alight with excitement.
“That was the best match I’ve ever seen!” he exclaimed, eyes shining like the sunlight now bathing the stadium.
Before any of them could respond, Ron burst onto the scene like a ginger hurricane, slinging an arm around Harry and Neville’s shoulders with excessive force.
“That—was—BLOODY AMAZING!” he bellowed, shaking them like ragdolls. “Did you see Higgs’s face? Looked like a manatee that fell out of its tank! And Flint? Too bad Fred didn’t hit him in the bollocks—bloke deserves to die childless after that match!”
Harry laughed, the sound coming out louder and freer than he'd expected.
He let Ron drag them into the heart of the celebration, where the other Gryffindors were dancing and singing victory chants.
Hermione smiled at the sight of them — those three ridiculous boys, so exhilarated by a simple Quidditch match.
Well... perhaps she was a little exhilarated too. Just a little.
But if she were honest, when Harry was on the pitch, the game itself hardly mattered to Hermione. She'd always be there, front and centre, cheering for that impossibly talented, brave friend of hers.
No matter what happens, she thought, watching Harry laugh as Fred and George tried to hoist him onto their shoulders, she'd always stand by him.
And in that moment, with the sun painting the sky in increasingly vibrant gold and her friends' laughter echoing through the stadium, everything felt perfect.
Hermione would treasure that memory fondly in her mind, like a colourful Polaroid snapshot.
With three days left until the return trip on the Hogwarts Express, the exam results finally arrived during breakfast.
The tension was palpable, particularly among the first-years, while the older students watched the novices' despairing expressions with amusement, knowing their own results wouldn't arrive for months.
Hermione was especially fidgety, her legs bouncing and hands clenched as if she were desperately praying to calm herself.
“Merlin, someone fetch her results already, or Hermione'll have a seizure right here!” said Ron, making Harry and Neville guffaw.
“Very funny...” Hermione huffed. “I just want this over with, that's why I'm nervous.”
“Out of everyone here, you've got the least reason to be nervous,” Harry said with a reassuring smile.
“Yeah... stay calm, it'll be fine,” Neville supported.
“Course she doesn't need to worry. Who was the nutter who thought it'd be clever to do... what'd you call it? Pre-studying?” Ron arched an eyebrow mockingly.
Hermione shot him a withering look.
“Call me a nutter again, Ronald, and I swear I'll show you what nutter really means,” she said swiftly, danger lacing her voice.
Ron gulped and shrunk back, leaning toward Harry and Neville.
“She might be brilliant, but she's bloody terrifying,” he whispered.
Harry and Neville exchanged glances and had to agree.
When the owls finally began delivering the post, the Great Hall grew tense.
Each student read their results with a mix of relief and anxiety.
Hermione was first to open hers and let out a squeal of joy, burying her face in the parchment, her feet nearly dancing with excitement. She'd clearly achieved the best marks in their year.
Harry asked to see her grades and smiled at her elation. Hermione had received “O”s—Outstanding—in every subject, the highest possible.
Ron opened his next.
His results weren't nearly as impressive as Hermione's, but he was chuffed—he'd passed everything.
“Like I said, be normal, have fun, pass your exams. See? My strategy works too,” the redhead crowed proudly.
Hermione merely ignored him, unable to tear her eyes from her results.
She was too euphoric to argue—especially since, without her help these past weeks, Ron would likely have repeated the year.
Neville gulped before opening his envelope.
His “A”—Acceptable—in Potions nearly made him faint; it was even more thrilling than his “O” in Herbology. He sighed in relief to see he'd scraped through the other subjects.
Harry had been anxious too, but noticing even Crabbe—thick as a castle door—had passed, he felt more confident and finally opened his.
Transfiguration — O
Charms — O
Potions — E
History of Magic — E
Defence Against the Dark Arts — O
Astronomy — E
Herbology — E
Harry stared at the parchment in his hands, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Three Outstandings!” he exclaimed, warmth of satisfaction flooding through him like a weight lifted from his shoulders.
Hermione, peering over, beamed with radiant pride as if she'd earned those marks herself.
“Really? Oh, Harry, congratulations!” she said, voice overflowing with pride.
“Not surprised about the 'O' in Transfiguration,” Neville added shyly. “You worked so hard. You earned it.”
Harry felt a pleasant warmth in his chest.
“Cheers, Nev.”
Ron, chewing toast, raised his eyebrows and chuckled.
“After that key test, when you used that spell to reveal the door? If you hadn't got an 'O', I'd've gone to Professor Flitwick myself!” He shook his head as if the idea of Harry not topping the subject was outrageous. “That was proper first-rate wizardry!”
Harry laughed, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.
The last days before leaving for summer holidays were delightful.
They played several rounds of Hero Path, with Neville as game master. Harry had created his virtuous paladin, Ron his mercenary rogue, and Hermione—who'd never played before—crafted an elven priestess.
Upon discovering there was a rulebook and supplemental manuals for characters and adventures, she immediately perked up.
“I'll read all of these over summer!” she vowed.
“Finally reading something the rest of us can understand,” Harry teased.
She rolled her eyes but nudged him with her shoulder.
“You understand me perfectly,” she murmured. “Stop playing daft.”
On departure morning, after clearing their trunks and packing their belongings, Harry helped Neville search the common room for Trevor, eventually finding him hidden behind a bathroom plant pot.
Meanwhile, Fred and George had nicked Percy's badge and were tossing it between them, laughing uproariously while Percy chased them in desperation. Ron, with Scabbers perched on his shoulder, watched the spectacle with glee.
With everything ready, it was their first time taking the carriages back to the train—they'd only ride the boats again upon graduating seventh year.
As they boarded one, Harry scratched his head with the same confusion Neville and Ron shared.
“Er... where's the horse?” Neville asked, seeing no animals pulling the carriage. “Shouldn't there be one?”
Ron agreed. “Yeah, that's weird...”
“Know anything about this, Hermione?” Harry inquired.
“No,” she said slowly, equally puzzled. “Perhaps a locomotion charm makes them move.”
“What surprises me is there being something at this school you don't know,” Ron joked.
“As much as I'd like, I can't always be perfect,” she replied lightly. “But nothing stops me from researching it later.”
She entered the carriage first, followed by Harry, Neville and Ron.
Through the window, Harry watched seventh-years returning by boat across the lake where he'd first met his three friends and seen Hogwarts.
He thought that despite the sadness of leaving, he'd tell his year-ago self everything would be worth it. That no matter how grey some days were, sunrise always came eventually.
“What would I tell myself six years from now?” he wondered.
Well, that answer would have to wait.
At the station, before boarding, Hagrid called Harry over.
“Harry... I...” Hagrid cleared his throat, looking down. “Got summat that's yours. Reckon it's time yeh had it... bin keepin' it too long.”
Neville shot quick looks at Hermione and Ron, and the three stepped away to give Harry privacy.
“We'll save you a compartment,” said Neville kindly.
Harry nodded and turned to Hagrid. “What is it?”
Hagrid took a deep breath and, with surprising delicacy for such large hands, rummaged through his enormous pockets—having forgone his usual coat in summer heat for a patched button-up shirt that looked decades old.
Finally, he produced a thick photo album, its cover worn but clearly cherished.
“Yer parents' album. Got pictures o' them an' their friends... Found it in me old trunk.”
Harry's eyes widened, staring between Hagrid and the album that might as well have been solid gold.
The cover showed a magical photo of his parents smiling as baby Harry giggled in his father's arms.
Feeling a lump in his throat, Harry quickly wiped escaping tears.
“Thank you...” he whispered hoarsely.
Hagrid smiled warmly, eyes suspiciously bright himself.
“Ah... weren't nothin', Harry. Shoulda given it yeh sooner.”
As the train whistle blew, Hagrid nodded toward it.
“Off yeh go now, 'fore it leaves!”
Harry gave one last smile before boarding.
“Thanks, Hagrid… For everything.”
He found his friends in a nearby compartment, tucking the album away carefully—he'd look through it properly when alone.
The return journey was lively, filled with laughter and mountains of sweets from the trolley.
They spent hours testing Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, howling whenever someone got a foul one. Harry proved particularly unlucky, biting into earwax, earthworm, and vomit-flavoured beans in succession.
Amidst the jokes and camaraderie, Harry couldn't have been happier. He wasn't returning home...
4 Privet Drive was cold, never his home.
Hogwarts was his true home now, with his best friends and people who genuinely cared. He ached for summer to pass quickly.
“You lot should visit! You're all invited,” said Ron eagerly. “I'll send an owl. Yeah?”
“I'd love to,” Harry said gratefully—anywhere beat the Dursleys'.
“You can visit me too, if you like,” Neville added shyly. “Mandy would love to meet you all.”
“Mandy?” Hermione blinked. “You've a sister? I thought you were an only child!”
Neville laughed, flushing. “No, Mandy's our house-elf.”
Ron's eyes bulged. “Blimey, you've got your own house-elf? Wicked!”
Hermione straightened up in her armchair, looking more serious.
“I read in Hogwarts: A History that house-elves tend to the kitchens and clean the castle,” she informed with respect in her voice. “But they don’t like to be seen unless they have to be.”
“Hang on, there are elves in the castle?” asked Ron, furrowing his brow.
“Where d’you think all the food you ate all year came from?” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes.
“Er… the kitchen?” Ron retorted, smirking.
Harry and Neville laughed while Hermione sighed and shook her head.
“Ron only thinks about eating, never where it comes from,” Harry explained, amused. It’s impossible for anyone to compete with his red-haired friend when it comes to who eats more, he thought.
“At least someone gets me!” Ron sniffed, with a satisfied grin.
Neville chuckled too and patted his own stomach. “Well, Mandy’s always stuffing me with sweets. Reckon it’s her fault I’ve got like this.”
When the train finally stopped at King’s Cross Station, warm goodbyes began. Many students waved at Harry as he stepped off the train.
“Happy holidays, Harry!”
“See you next year, Potter!”
Harry waved back, not recognising every face. Even after a year, he still found it hard to grasp the fame surrounding him.
“Ever thought of starting a fan club?” Ron teased beside him.
“If they start a fan club, you can shoot me,” Harry muttered, laughing.
Hedwig, in her cage, hooted in agreement.
“Shoot?” Neville asked, puzzled. “But shoot with what?”
Hermione answered promptly: “In Harry’s case, ‘shoot’ is a Muggle expression, related to firearms.”
Ron frowned, even more confused. “Hang on… Muggles have like, arms that shoot fire?”
“That’s not magic? Muggles don’t do magic,” Neville added, surprised.
Harry laughed. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
They joined the crowd on the platform, each searching for their families. Harry inhaled the familiar scent of the station, an aroma that transported him back to his first arrival there nearly a year earlier. For a moment, he forgot he was returning to the Dursleys.
“There’s Mum, Dad, and Ginny!” Ron exclaimed, waving.
“Look, Mum! It’s Ron. And that’s Harry Potter!” Ginny whispered excitedly, pointing discreetly.
“Hush, Ginny! And put that finger down, pointing’s rude.”
The four friends approached the Weasleys, while Hermione and Neville craned their necks to spot their own families.
“Hello, Mrs Weasley,” Harry greeted with a smile.
“Oh, Harry, it’s lovely to meet you. How was your year?” Mrs Weasley asked warmly.
“Brilliant, mostly… aside from a few hiccups here and there,” Ron sighed, shooting Harry a playful look.
“It really was amazing,” Harry agreed, grinning. “Oh, thanks for the Christmas jumper, Mrs Weasley. I loved it.”
“Me too!” added Neville, smiling. “It must've been loads of work.”
“Oh, nonsense! I’m glad you liked them,” Mrs Weasley replied, beaming.
Harry glanced at Ginny, Ron’s younger sister, but she just shrank behind her mother, her face completely flushed when he looked at her. Maybe I’ve got something on my face, he thought briefly.
Then Mr Weasley extended a hand to Harry. “Heard you filled Charlie’s shoes nicely as Seeker. True?”
“He’s loads better!” the twins, who were saying goodbye to Lee Jordan in the background, called out, making everyone laugh and Harry go pink.
Just then, Hermione spotted her parents and let out a little shriek. “There’s Mum and Dad!”
Her parents, John and Emma Granger, hurried over, embracing their daughter.
“Good heavens! Our little princess has grown!” said John, pulling her close.
“Dad!” Hermione protested, blushing, as the others laughed.
Hermione introduced Ron and Neville to her parents, and the Grangers greeted them warmly. Already familiar with Harry, Mr Granger shook his hand firmly but, for some reason, gave the boy a long once-over, as though sizing him up.
Harry didn’t notice, but Mrs Granger, with a light touch on her husband’s arm, brought him back to reality.
He cleared his throat, looked away.
Meanwhile, Percy and the twins had joined the group, and Mrs Weasley introduced her sons with visible maternal pride. Shortly after, Neville’s grandmother arrived—Augusta Longbottom—a tall, stately woman wearing a vulture-adorned hat and carrying a scarlet handbag.
“There you are, my grandson,” she said stiffly to Neville, who hugged her, softening her rigidity slightly.
She greeted everyone with utmost politeness, including Harry, whom she scrutinised from head to toe with a sharp glint in her eye.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Longbottom,” Harry said politely.
“Merlin’s beard, boy, you’re the spitting image of your father,” she remarked, smiling. “Don’t you think, Molly?”
“Oh, absolutely! But he’s got Lily’s eyes,” Mrs Weasley replied, a touch wistfully.
“My grandson’s spoken very highly of you,” she said, and Neville beamed. “Must’ve inherited your father’s knack for making friends and your mother’s heart, I’m sure.”
“Well… from what I hear, I suppose so,” Harry gave a half-smile, unsure how to respond.
Augusta shot him a look that hovered between stern and amused.
"And if the stories my Frank used to tell me are all true, I hope you haven't inherited James's knack for trouble as well."
“Oh, so it runs in the family!” Fred exclaimed, winking at Harry.
“Knew there had to be an explanation,” George added.
Everyone laughed, while Harry felt his face grow hot, half-wishing he could sink into the ground.
But before the conversation could continue, a familiar, surly figure emerged through the crowds of wizards and Muggles.
Vernon Dursley, glowering and impatient, folded his arms.
“Ready, boy?” he snapped.
It was as if all the joy and colour of the reunion withered instantly. Harry sighed, feeling the weight of that grey routine already closing in.
“Yes, sir,” he replied quietly.
“Good. Hurry up. Haven’t got all day,” Vernon huffed, turning away with an impatient wave for Harry to follow.
The group around them stared, taken aback by the uncle’s coldness.
Augusta, in particular, frowned severely, studying Vernon as if he were some particularly contemptible creature.
Harry said his goodbyes, waving to everyone.
“See you after the holidays,” he forced a last smile before turning back to his grey life in Surrey.
“I’ll write!” Hermione called, her eyes already brimming with longing.
“Me too!” said Neville, grinning.
“And we’ll make sure ickle Ronniekins writes as well!” the twins chorused, winking at Harry.
“Hey, I don’t need reminding!” Ron protested, flushing.
“Yes, you do,” Ginny retorted, mischief in her eyes. “You’ve always been lazy.”
“I’ll show you lazy!” Ron shot back.
He made a lunge for Ginny, who dodged behind their mother, while Mrs Weasley tried to stop the two from chasing each other.
Harry laughed, watching the three families amid their farewells.
He turned at Vernon’s pointed cough and spotted Dudley beside him—a bit taller than last summer, but just as porky as ever.
Dudley stared blankly, his face utterly expressionless, as if looking straight through Harry. Beside him, Petunia’s gaze remained fixed and distant on the Hogwarts Express.
As he walked toward the Dursleys’ car, Harry knew the summer at Privet Drive would be as dreary as ever. More silent dinners, hostile glares, and thankless chores awaited.
But this time, one certainty warmed him: he had friends who’d be waiting, a place where he was wanted, and a real home to return to in a few months’ time.
With that comforting thought, Harry cast one last look at the Hogwarts Express, gleaming in the sun like a silent promise that everything, indeed, had changed forever.
One small consolation, though—the Dursleys, Dudley especially, didn’t know he wasn’t allowed to use magic outside school.
That’d make things a bit more fun.
At least until the humour wore off after that unexpected visit to his bedroom that night.
Chapter 16: Unwelcome Visitors and Precious Friendships
Notes:
⚠️ CONTENT WARNING ⚠️
The next chapter contains scenes or mentions of themes that may be emotionally triggering for some individuals. Please proceed with caution and prioritize your well-being.
Potential triggers include:
▸ Mentions of child abuse
▸ Descriptions of injuries and bodily harm
Chapter Text
The night on Privet Drive was immersed in a silence so thick Harry could almost hear the beating of his own heart.
A fine, persistent drizzle drummed against the windowpane, capturing the pale glow of the streetlamps and turning them into liquid ghosts that trickled down the glass. It had been a month since his return from Hogwarts, and never had life under the Dursleys' roof felt so suffocating, so cruelly designed to crush him.
He knew.
He knew that if things continued like this, he wouldn’t survive much longer.
He was wasting away, after all—each day thinner, more wretched.
Perhaps he wouldn’t make it back to Hogwarts in time... perhaps he wouldn’t even see his birthday, now just two weeks away.
The room was plunged in darkness, illuminated only by the faint reflection of streetlight, which sketched slender shadows onto the walls. The unmade bed, the wardrobe carved with old kick marks, the locked door—everything seemed more hostile under that cloak of gloom. Outside, flickers of light and the muffled murmurs of the Dursley family filtered through, who, as usual, acted as though he didn’t exist.
The silence was oppressive, broken only by the hungry growls of his stomach and the thirst scratching at his throat.
Sat on the floor, his back against the bed, Harry tried to ignore the pain burning across his shoulders—a throbbing reminder of what had happened earlier. With every breath, a sharp twinge made him grit his teeth, and his hands still trembled, as if his body couldn’t forget the terror that had gripped him minutes before.
"Shite, he went harder this time..." he thought.
When Vernon decided he needed "disciplining," he never held back.
But this time had been worse.
Truth be told, he'd never suffered as much as he was suffering now.
That night, he’d seemed even more motivated than usual, with a surge of energy Harry had never seen before—the result of a disastrously anxious week, since Mr. Mason had ignored him entirely and said he’d no longer do business with him after the fiasco that occurred.
Harry frowned, a bitter taste flooding his mouth as he turned the thought over in his head. Only a few days ago, he’d still been naïve enough to believe none of that could happen to him.
In his first year, during his very first days at Hogwarts, while organising his meagre possessions in the dormitory cupboard, he’d found the bronze coin Professor McGonagall had given him. It was his only guarantee of safety outside the castle, a last refuge if the Dursleys ever crossed every line.
All he had to do was hold the coin and say her name, and McGonagall would appear in an instant at the front door, just as she had on her first visit when she’d come to deliver his acceptance letter with Hagrid.
But Harry—thinking now how stupid and even prideful he’d been in a way—had never imagined his uncle would dare raise a hand to him after the burst of magic that had nearly reduced the Dursleys’ house to rubble.
Convinced he’d never need it again, he’d returned the coin to the professor.
“Are you quite sure, Mr Potter?” Professor McGonagall’s firm voice echoed in his memory, her sharp eyes behind square spectacles studying him with a hint of suspicion.
“I think so, you can keep it. I won’t need it. But thank you for everything, Professor.” He’d replied with a confidence that now struck him as ridiculous.
If only regret could kill…
Not that anyone needed to bother helping him—or so he kept telling himself. He’d always managed on his own, and this time would be no different.
But it was Hedwig, his loyal owl, who truly worried him.
She was as thin and frail as he was, her once snow-white feathers now dull and ruffled. Harry’s heart clenched as he looked at her, and he averted his gaze, ashamed of his own stupidity.
His uncle had even debuted his new leather belt, the one bought specially for the Mason dinner, which was supposed to open doors for his promotion at Grunnings—the drill manufacturer where he worked.
That whole week had been a tense operation for the Dursleys.
Vernon and Dudley shopping for brand-name dinner suits to make an impression, while Petunia scrubbed the house clean, humming as she polished every corner. Everything had to be perfect, and Harry wasn’t allowed to help—because, according to his aunt, he’d "just ruin it, like always."
The dinner had promised to be a grand triumph, and Harry, deep down, had hoped it would go as they wanted.
Then, perhaps, he might’ve had a slightly more bearable summer—and a Vernon slightly less of a git, for once.
But of course, it all went wrong... and of course, it was his fault.
"Fucking stupid elf," he muttered, clenching his fists—his nails digging into his palms—as he remembered.
Just thinking about what that elf had done made him unconsciously summon a weak magical breeze that swirled around him, nearly knocking him out for a few seconds.
His aura—what seemed to be keeping him awake—was already weak. Wasting it wasn’t wise.
"Bugger..." he gasped, still dizzy, holding on to the bed for a moment.
He remembered this odd detail, something that since last year seemed to surface in his darkest moments, when his emotions spiralled out of control.
It was like an invisible wind—though sometimes very visible—a current of power surrounding him, sometimes a whisper, other times so strong it threatened to swallow him whole.
He’d had plenty of time to reflect on what had happened during his year. Apparently, when he had outbursts of rage, it was always a hot, reddish energy that surrounded him. But when driven by sadness, it turned blue.
Not that it made much difference. Either way, it was bad. Destructive.
Harry knew that when he was calm, he could hold this power back, keep it locked inside. But the fear was always there, like a malevolent spirit haunting him.
He feared what might happen if he ever let it loose again.
Memories of Halloween night returned, vivid and terrifying. The troll in the bathroom, the force that erupted without warning... and what he’d done with it. He hadn’t just defeated the monster—he’d killed it.
What if it happened again?
What if, in a burst of anger or despair, he did the same to his uncle?
If he accidentally unleashed some kind of power that turned him into something like that troll...The thought made him shudder. No matter how much Vernon Dursley infuriated him, no matter how cruel the man was, Harry never wanted Vernon to meet the same fate as that creature.
And that was why he fought, with everything he had, to keep control.
Even if it meant being whipped with a belt every night. Even if it meant biting back screams of pain and resisting the urge to throttle the fat walrus who paid the bills.
Because, deep down, the fear wasn’t just about what he might do to others. It was about what he might become.
Though now, he didn’t have to worry about losing control and killing his uncle. He felt so weak, he could barely stand at times. He’d learned that in this state, he couldn’t hurt anyone.
As he remembered that night—the dinner where everything went wrong—Harry tried to adjust himself, wincing as he attempted to sit cross-legged, hoping the discomfort might ease. But all he managed was to look like a hunched-over zombie, glaring at the floor.
The Dursleys’ plan had been simple: impress Mr. Mason, nothing more.
Hence all the ridiculous theatrics. Petunia had outdone herself in the kitchen, even baking a layered cake with cream and strawberry frosting.
On the big day, all Harry had to do was lock himself in his room and pretend he didn’t exist, as usual.
The Masons arrived, and the Dursleys dove into their performance: food, laughter, rehearsed jokes Harry had heard Vernon practising in the mirror earlier. Everything was going to plan.
Until that creature appeared in his room...
A soft pop sound pulled Harry’s attention from the book he’d been reading on his bed.
Harry jumped at the sudden appearance.
The creature was scrawny, standing no taller than a metre, with arms and legs as thin as twigs and a head dominated by enormous, bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. It had pointed, bat-like ears and a long, sharp nose.
"Who are you?"
The small elf gave an exaggerated bow before replying in a squeaky, shrill voice.
"Hello, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. I is Dobby, a house-elf."
Harry blinked, startled.
The elf wasn’t wearing the conventional festive garb one might expect—no cliché green-and-red Santa’s helper costume with a pointed hat—but rather what looked like a grubby pillowcase crudely stitched into a ragged tunic. Stranger still, it had only four fingers on each hand and toe on each foot.
He vaguely remembered Hermione mentioning house-elves after devouring that brick of a book—Hogwarts: A History—and Neville had once mentioned having one at home. But Harry had never actually seen a real house-elf before.
He sighed, his thoughts drifting for a moment to his friends. They hadn’t sent a single letter all summer. After trying to contact each of them five times… he’d given up.
"Maybe they just didn’t want to talk to me..." he thought bitterly.
His stomach twisted at the melancholy thought, but he steadied himself as he looked back at the elf.
"Right… well, nice to meet you, Dobby. But what are you doing in my room?"
Dobby’s eyes widened, and he let out a shaky gasp, his eyes welling up.
"Mr. Potter thinks it is nice to meet Dobby? No one has ever been so kind to Dobby, sir—"
Before Harry could react, Dobby was already sniffling loudly and wiping his nose on his ragged tunic.
"Hey—hey, stop crying!" Harry hissed, alarmed. "There’s a party going on downstairs, in case you hadn’t noticed!"
With some difficulty, Dobby finally composed himself, and Harry braced for the next move. The sooner he could get the elf to leave, the better. If anyone discovered a magical creature in his room, Harry would be in serious trouble—and this was the worst possible time for some creature or magic to pop up out of nowhere.
"So, what did you come here for, Dobby?" he asked hurriedly, hoping to speed things along.
"To warn Harry Potter, sir," Dobby whispered conspiratorially. "Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts!"
Harry frowned. That was quite possibly the stupidest idea he’d ever heard.
"What? Dobby, Hogwarts is my home, the only place I really belong. No one here wants me around. Why can’t I go back?"
From downstairs, the muffled laughter of Vernon and the Masons floated up, and Harry was certain it involved some offensive joke about the size of Japanese golf clubs.
Dobby shuddered. "I begs you, sir! Terrible things will happen at Hogwarts. But Dobby… Dobby cannot say more. Dobby’s master has forbidden it."
"Master? Who’s your master?"
Dobby’s eyes bulged, and he paled. Without warning, he began slamming his head against the dresser.
"Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" he wailed, punishing himself.
The noise was enough to summon Vernon, whose heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Harry barely had time to shove Dobby behind the door before his uncle yanked it open, glaring down at him.
"What the ruddy hell is this racket?" Vernon growled in a low, furious voice.
"I—I stubbed my toe on the dresser. Sorry," Harry lied, though it was painfully obvious he was rubbish at deception.
Luckily, Vernon was even worse at detecting lies.
His uncle narrowed his eyes and jabbed a finger into Harry’s chest.
"One more sound, boy, and you’ll regret it," he hissed darkly. "Don’t ruin this night. I told them it’s just me, your aunt, and your Dudley living here. You’d better not breathe louder than you’re meant to."
"Yes, sir," Harry said tightly, his hand clamped over Dobby’s head behind the door.
The moment Vernon left, muttering about "that damned cat making noise," Dobby resumed his pleading.
Harry shook his head impatiently. "Dobby, I am going back. Whatever it is, I’ve faced danger before."
"But this time is different, sir!" Dobby insisted, nearly frantic.
Harry exhaled, tired of the circular argument. "If it’s so dangerous, you could at least tell me—please—without hurting yourself this time."
Dobby trembled, as if fighting an internal battle.
"Dobby… Dobby—cannot—say… sir." He began shaking again, and Harry gripped his shoulders to stop him from resuming his self-punishment.
With effort, Dobby calmed and wiped his nose on his rags.
"Dobby can offer Harry Potter something… if he promises not to return to Hogwarts." He rummaged in his tunic and pulled out a crumpled handful of letters.
Harry’s eyes narrowed, his stomach lurching. This had better not be what he thought it was.
"What are those?" he asked, his voice dangerous.
"Dobby has been intercepting Harry Potter’s friends’ letters. They would insist he return to Hogwarts… so Dobby had to stop them—"
"Give. Me. Those. Letters. Now."
Dobby flinched but held the letters in trembling hands, inching toward the door.
"Only if Harry Potter promises not to go back to Hogwarts!"
Harry rubbed his face, remembering that conversation with Dobby as he sat in his room. The lotus position was starting to hurt his legs, so he unfolded them—there was no truly comfortable way to sit after the thrashing he’d taken this time.
"And why the hell didn't I lie?" he reflected silently. "I could've lied and said I wouldn't go, then he'd have left and I could've just taken the Express without saying anything. What's wrong with me?"
He sighed, remembering exactly what had happened after he'd stubbornly insisted like an idiot.
As if he could forget.
"I am going to Hogwarts, and I won't argue about it," Harry said firmly, staring into Dobby's large green eyes.
The elf shuddered as if struck by a wand.
Before Harry could say another word, Dobby let out a muffled squeak, hurled the letters onto the bed, and bolted from the room like lightning.
"Oi! Get back here!" Harry whispered urgently, sprinting after him.
He crept downstairs carefully, each step calculated to avoid making a single sound that might alert the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon's booming voice carried from the living room, where he, Petunia, and Dudley were entertaining the Masons. The guests had their backs turned, seated on the sofa their uncle had meticulously positioned to face another sofa—both angled toward the front window with its drawn curtains—the guests' attention remained fixed on the Dursleys. They sipped wine and made pleasant conversation, utterly absorbed as they laughed at Vernon's tasteless, bigoted jokes.
Harry caught sight of Dobby disappearing into the kitchen and followed, his heart hammering. But as he entered the dining room, stealthily, without his uncles or Dudley seeing him behind the Masons' shoulders, he was met with the sight of the elf standing before Petunia's magnificent strawberry cake, his expression shifting from despair to dangerous resolve.
"No," Harry pleaded silently, shaking his head, eyes wide with desperation.
Dobby looked at him, his huge eyes full of a wordless question:
"Still insisting on going to Hogwarts?"
Harry hesitated—and that was enough.
With a swift motion of his bony hands, Dobby sent the cake floating into the air, hovering like a cloud of cream and fresh strawberries, straight into the centre of the dining room.
Harry tried to run silently—if such a thing were possible—but only managed to grab at empty air, attempting to intercept it.
Dobby had been quicker.
Snap!
With a simple snap of the elf's fingers, the cake dropped with perfect comedic timing splat right onto Mrs. Mason's head.
The silence that followed was so thick Harry could hear the drip-drip of cream sliding from the woman's immaculate curls. Slowly, she looked up, and Harry realised with a sinking stomach that his own hands were still outstretched—as if he were the guilty one.
"GOOD LORD! Who is this boy?!" roared Mr. Mason, his face turning as red as a pepper.
Vernon and Petunia looked as though they'd been Petrified.
Vernon's eyes bulged from their sockets, while Petunia's frozen smile trembled like ice about to crack. Harry didn't need Legilimency to know what that expression meant.
He was in trouble.
Deep trouble.
The result?
The dinner was ruined. The Masons stormed out, taking Vernon's promotion hopes with them.
The following morning at breakfast, Harry went downstairs to fetch the post as usual, keeping a cautious distance from the Dursleys after the previous day's incident. Vernon refused to even look at his face, still fuming over the ruined dinner, sorting through the mail with his usual disdain. Harry had spent most of the night locked in his room, avoiding Uncle Vernon's furious glares and Petunia's muttered complaints. But then, hearing tapping at the kitchen window, he went to investigate—only to find a majestic owl (not Hedwig, but a dark-plumed bird with piercing eyes) swoop in and drop a letter into his hands before flying off.
"Bloody owls!" Vernon snarled. "I've told you I don't want that ruddy post here! One's bad enough!"
"Yes, sir," Harry replied automatically, as if it would make any difference.
The envelope was of fine parchment, stamped with the purple wax seal of the Ministry of Magic.
Before Harry could open it, however, the letter rose into the air, hovering before his face as if levitated by invisible hands. The voice that emerged was calm, clear, and perfectly audible to everyone in the dining room—including the Dursleys, who froze mid-bite of their buttered toast, gaping as the floating letter addressed him.
"Dear Mr Potter," it began in a bureaucratic yet firm tone, "we have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence last night at nine twenty-two p.m. As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform magic outside Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where you are enrolled. Further violations may result in your expulsion from said school, as per the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery in effect since 1875, Clause Eight, Subsection C."
Harry's blood ran cold. He hadn’t even touched his wand last night! How could—
The letter continued, relentless: "We would also like to remind you that any magical activity which risks attracting the attention of Muggles—members of the non-magical community—constitutes a breach of the International Statute of Secrecy, Section 13, in effect since 1692. We wish you a pleasant holiday."
And before Harry could protest, the voice concluded crisply: "Yours sincerely, Mafalda Hopkirk, Improper Use of Magic Office, Ministry of Magic."
The letter folded itself and dropped back into his hands as Petunia and Dudley’s eyes bulged like saucers. Vernon, meanwhile, had gone puce, his moustache quivering—not with shock, but with manic triumph.
"So you can’t do magic? Can’t call your lot here?" Vernon said loudly. "Good. Up to your room. Now."
And in that moment, life at Privet Drive would never be the same again.
Apparently, Dobby's magic had been detected, and since Harry was the only underage wizard in the area, he was automatically blamed.
And that was the tipping point.
Knowing Harry couldn't defend himself if he wanted to return to Hogwarts, Vernon shed any fear of magical retribution and began taking out his fury on Harry.
Every day at seven sharp, when he returned from work.
Without fail.
Harry had lost track of how long it had been—days spent locked up, surviving on a miserable diet of water, stale biscuits, or fridge scraps while Vernon "disciplined" him religiously for “ruining” his career, when in fact, he just didn't get his promotion, earning well enough as he always did.
As if Harry were to blame for the whole mess. If he could, he'd throttle that wretched creature until his fingers lost all strength.
Dobby had stolen his friends' letters. Appeared uninvited. Explained nothing. And worst of all, revealed the one thing that had kept him somewhat protected in this house.
Vernon had even installed a cat flap on the door and padlocked Harry's window shut to prevent escape—or "further incidents." Harry was permitted bathroom trips twice a day and had to train his body to cope with the restriction.
With a sigh, Harry rested his head in his hands, hearing a weak hoot from Hedwig's cage.
His loyal friend was as miserable as he was.
Locked up for days, she'd grown thin and weak, her feathers dull and patchy. Harry shared every scrap of food he could with her, but his heart ached seeing his only comfort in this house suffer so much.
Gritting his teeth, Harry hauled himself up, steadying himself against the bed before staggering to Hedwig's cage. He slipped his fingers through the bars, stroking her head. She leaned into the touch, too weak to respond as she normally would.
"Sorry, girl...," he whispered, his voice thick, eyes burning. "Wish I could get you out of here, but... I can't."
Suddenly, footsteps approached the door, and Harry's heart skipped a beat.
It couldn't be.
He just prayed it wasn't another beating—and so soon. Vernon rarely came back for extra rounds. Luckily, his uncle's sedentary lifestyle meant he lacked the stamina for more than one "session" a day.
Then Harry heard the soft shhk of something sliding through the cat flap—a plate being pushed silently into the room.
Aunt Petunia. Leaving him crumbs.
Letting out a shaky breath, he lunged for the food on the floor and dragged it closer. A few dry crackers and a cup of tepid water—that was dinner.
After eating half, he broke the rest into pieces for Hedwig, who pecked at them slowly. Not exactly a proper meal for an owl—let alone a large one like her—but it was all they had.
Harry cupped some water in his palm and let her drink through the bars.
Then he heard muffled voices from his aunt and uncle's room. He stilled as best he could on his weak legs, listening.
"I told you he shouldn't be fed! Stop giving him food this often!" Uncle Vernon grunted, irritation sharp in his tone.
"I gave him a few crackers and water, that's all," Aunt Petunia retorted tightly.
"That was more than he should've got!"
"Do you want him to die, Vernon? Is that it?" Petunia's voice had gone shrill, in a tone Harry rarely heard from her.
"You've always treated him better than he deserves!" Vernon barked. "Look what he's done to our future! To my standing at work? I had to explain why there was some strange boy living here. Made me out to be a liar when I said it was just me, you, and Dudley! Mason won't even look at me now—I'm a laughing stock!"
"You're going too far with the beatings," she said. "I've never stood against you—you know that—but he can barely stand!"
"Good. Makes my job easier—won't have to chase him round the room!"
"If someone knocks and sees him like that—"
"Let them try," Vernon said darkly.
"You know it doesn't work like that!" she hissed.
The silence that followed was thick as smoke.
"Don't you remember last year?" Vernon pressed on. "All that ruddy business was because of him! They broke into our house because of him!"
"We've no choice in the matter!" Petunia snapped, her voice razor-sharp now. "He's my sister's boy, born to that—that freak! What did you expect? Want me to pretend none of it's real? That he simply doesn't exist? I try, but sometimes it's impossible! That blasted letter he got proves it—magic's stuck to that boy, there's always something unnatural about him!”
She drew a shuddering breath, trembling with rage.
"I took you to that blasted dinner before they married—I didn't want to, but Lily insisted! Wanted you two to meet. You asked if he followed football—he didn't know a single team. Asked if he liked cars, and what did he say? That he had a flying broomstick instead—a bloody broomstick! D'you think it was easy for me to tell you any of it? D'you think it was easy going to that—that circus of a wedding where I didn't know a single normal soul? Having to look that—that despicable monstrous old man in the eye! The same one who—"
Silence again. Petunia let out a sigh so loud Harry heard it through the wall.
"The same one who what?" Vernon demanded.
Petunia took too long to answer. "Doesn't matter... not anymore."
His uncle's heavy footsteps creaked on the wooden floor as he seemed to weigh his response.
"I've always said I'd keep it all—"
"Well, you'd better!" Petunia cut in, sharp. "You promised me that night."
Vernon huffed like a bull. He began pacing, his steps thudding dully in the tense quiet.
"If he dies from this, Vernon," Petunia's voice wavered slightly, but she pressed on, throat tight, "after they came here... you know what happens. You know they'll come. And you know what'll become of us! That's if the police and social services don't get here first—it only takes that hag next door suspecting something and reporting us. The iron bars on his window aren't exactly subtle."
Harry knew the "hag" she meant—either their neighbour at Number Seven, whom Petunia liked to spy on for gossip, or the one at Number Six, whose visiting daughter drew less vitriol.
Another long silence stretched between his aunt and uncle, as if they were weighing their options.
"I'll decide what to do with him tomorrow," Vernon muttered, cold as ice.
The conversation ended there.
Harry heard no more.
Swallowing hard, he looked down at the remnants of his meagre meal and forced another dry biscuit into his mouth.
When finished, he dragged himself miserably to the bed and lay down, trying to ignore the gnawing hunger and the constant ache in his body.
"Best get some sleep, girl... I..." Harry didn't finish what he was going to say. There was nothing left to say.
Hedwig gave another soft hoot, as if she understood exactly what he meant.
Perhaps if he slept, the discomfort would ease—though experience told him it never did.
BOOM!
Harry woke with a start as a sharp crack of thunder rattled the house, illuminating his bedroom with a brief white flash just as he'd finally managed to fall asleep.
Hedwig's cage rattled as she stirred, letting out a soft hoot of protest at the sudden loud noise.
Harry rubbed his face, wincing at the ache of exhaustion and the pains that seemed to radiate from every part of his body.
The adrenaline that had previously masked the worst of the belt marks from Vernon hours earlier had now faded, leaving him acutely aware of every bruise—from his shoulders to his thighs—in a burning, nagging pain. Outside, the light drizzle still fell, wetting the windowpane further, and it was clearly only a matter of time before it escalated into a violent storm.
Harry glanced at the alarm clock.
2:32 a.m.
Still groggy with sleep, he spotted a strange light flickering past the window before vanishing. At first, he thought it might be lightning, but there was no accompanying thunder, and the light pulsed on and off in a steady rhythm—like a failed attempt at Morse code.
Curious, Harry grabbed his glasses, hauling himself up with difficulty and creeping silently toward the window, one hand pressed to his throbbing shoulder.
Peering outside, he frowned as he spotted four figures half-hidden behind the garden tool shed—their heads barely visible in the darkness. Suddenly, a bright light shot straight toward his face, making him squint and throw up a hand in defence.
For a moment, Harry thought they might be burglars, but burglars wouldn’t draw this much attention, would they?
Then the torchlight swung back to illuminate their own faces, revealing the strangers’ identities. Harry’s eyes widened, a broad grin spreading across his face as he recognised three redheads and one mousy-brown head.
“Merlin’s beard… what are they doing here?” he muttered to himself, stunned.
Ron, Fred, George, and Neville stood there, their hair plastered to their heads, clearly soaked by the drizzle. One of the twins made a hand gesture, urging Harry to open the window.
“Can’t open it,” Harry whispered, shaking his head and pointing at the external lock, holding the iron bars that could be opened.
The torch beam focused on the padlock, and he watched as all four exchanged glances before lightly smacking their foreheads.
Neville looked nervous, his eyes darting to every window in the house as if expecting someone to wake at any second, while Ron gestured frantically, arguing something with his brothers.
Harry shifted uneasily, transferring his weight from one foot to the other as he watched his friends.
After a quick, silent consensus, the four crouched and moved stealthily across the garden, approaching the wall beneath Harry’s window.
One of the twins pulled a small pouch from his back and, shoving nearly his entire arm inside, drew out a long rope that definitely shouldn’t have fit—unless it was enchanted.
As soon as he unravelled it, the rope twisted on its own, slithering up the wall like a snake before coiling tightly around the wooden roof beam above Harry’s window.
Checking the rope was securely fastened, one of the twins took a lockpick from his bag and clamped it between his teeth, beginning to shimmy up the rope while the other three stood guard, scanning their surroundings—particularly the glass door leading to the gardens and the second-floor window of his aunt and uncle’s bedroom.
Harry’s heart raced.
What were they doing here?
Had they just come to check on him?
If Vernon caught them, it’d be their end.
The twin reached the window ledge and, with a quick grin, gave a thumbs-up. The enchanted rope coiled around his waist, anchoring him as he plucked the lockpick from his mouth and slotted it into the padlock with practised ease.
Using both hands, tongue poking out in absolute concentration, he twisted with a final, decisive jiggle.
Click!
At last, Harry opened the window and helped his friend in as he opened the iron bars without making a sound.
“What’re you lot doing here? And which one’re you this time?” Harry whispered, grinning as he greeted him.
“Fred, and we’re here to rescue you, ’course. Bloody hell, Harry, they lock your window? Never thought I’d need a lockpick, but George insisted. ‘Never know,’ he said,” Fred murmured back, appalled. “Can’t use magic neither, but… Merlin, didn’t see this coming.”
Harry shrugged, embarrassed.
This was the part of his life he hated explaining.
“Yeah… my uncle locked it. Long story,” he muttered.
Hearing they cared enough to rescue him—Harry felt a flicker of energy return, a faint light rekindling in his green eyes, though his overall appearance remained wretched.
If Fred noticed—and he surely did—he made no comment.
“We’ve been trying to reach you for a month with no answer. Got worried. Thought you’d been snatched by banshees or summat.”
Harry gave a weak chuckle and sighed; there was too much to unpack.
“Quick version? Blame a house-elf—told you it was long.”
Fred nodded sagely. “Right, we’ll save that. First, we need to get you out.”
Harry’s face brightened. “Anywhere’s better than here, but… where?”
“The Burrow, ’course. Mum and Dad said yes—since Nev’s staying with us—reckoned you could spend the rest of summer there too. If you want.”
“I want,” Harry replied at once. “But… only if it’s no trouble,” he added hastily, not wanting to sound desperate.
Fred grinned.
“No trouble at all, relax.” He leaned out the window and flashed an all-clear to the others below. Harry joined him.
“Oi, Harry!” Ron whispered, nearly drowned by the thickening rain.
Neville and George beamed, waving soundlessly.
Harry waved back. “Alright, lads?”
"Chuck the stuff down, we’ll catch it," George whispered, barely audible.
Fred nodded and began creeping as silently as possible around the room, scanning the space.
"Reckon waking someone up wouldn’t be brilliant, eh?" he said, hands on hips, assessing the situation.
Harry snorted a laugh. "You scaled the wall and broke into the house. D’you want me to answer that?"
Fred planted his hands on his waist. "Fair point. Where’s your stuff?"
"Locked... in my cupboard," Harry said hesitantly, jerking his head toward it.
Ever since that business with Mr and Mrs Mason’s visit, Vernon had padlocked all his belongings, declaring he wouldn’t have "freakish rubbish" lying about. Harry’s wand, broom, and books were all imprisoned inside.
Fred strode to the cupboard and, with the same lockpick, had the padlock open in seconds.
"George and I used to practise pickin’ locks all the time," he murmured under his breath. "Didn’t have a wand at six, did we? And Mum had too many cupboards she didn’t want us in—give us a hand here."
Harry helped him haul out his heavy trunk—which held nearly everything he owned in the world. He’d shrunk most of it with the Shrinking Charm Hermione had taught him one night in the common room days before term ended.
"Wait a mo’, let me grab a few things," Harry said.
He yanked a dusty old rucksack from under the bed and hastily stuffed in bundled clothes—shirts, pants, socks, trousers—and, most importantly, the photo album of his parents.
He’d never leave without that.
As he gathered his things and shoved on his shoes, Fred looked around the room.
The cat flap in the door caught his eye, as did the stack of empty plates and cups piled in the corner. His frown deepened when he noticed Hedwig’s listless state—and, having already clocked Harry’s own condition, it didn’t take him long to piece things together.
His face hardened, and if Harry had ever imagined seeing Fred look this grim and silent, he’d have called it impossible.
Harry followed his gaze around the room and swallowed thickly, shame and self-consciousness crashing over him. This was the part of his life he never wanted anyone to see.
"Just... if you could not…" he tried, voice tight.
"Won’t—not if you don’t want me to," Fred vowed seriously.
Harry nodded gratefully, avoiding his eyes and hunching his shoulders.
Fred hefted the trunk and brushed Harry’s arm lightly—it stung, but Harry schooled his face blank.
"Ready?" Fred whispered, manoeuvring the trunk toward the window.
"Ready," Harry nodded, still tense, adjusting the rucksack on his back.
Hedwig gave a soft hoot, rustling in her cage to remind Harry she existed.
Harry smiled at her. "’Course you’re coming. I’ll get you in a sec."
"Bugger, this is heavy..." Fred grunted, straining to shove the trunk out the window.
"Lower it careful-like," George’s voice hissed from below.
"How—shite!" Fred tried to ask, but between the now-driving rain and his sweaty grip, the trunk slipped from his hands, plummeting straight down.
Neville, gulping a gasp, lunged to catch it before it hit the ground.
Thump!
"Uh..." Neville groaned softly in pain.
He'd managed it, but the weight sent him sprawling onto the ground. The impact knocked the wind clean out of him.
Immediately, the neighbour’s dogs began barking furiously, roused by the noise. Soon, others joined in, creating a cacophony of yapping.
Time was running out. From his aunt and uncle’s bedroom, the weak yellow glow of a lamp flickered on.
Below, Ron pointed silently at the window while George hauled Neville upright.
Everyone looked visibly rattled.
"Fuck! We've been made! Hurry the hell up down there!" Ron hissed, his voice barely cutting through the thunder that drowned him out.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The heavy footsteps of Vernon’s began vibrating through the house, accompanied by his usual grumbling.
"Bloody hell, we need to go now!" Harry hissed, shaking Fred’s arm.
"Chuck the rucksack down and start climbing! I’ll get Hedwig’s cage," Fred said rapidly.
Without hesitation, Harry did as told—wincing at the thought of the photo album crumpling—but Ron caught the bag just before it hit the ground.
Gulping, Harry swung a leg over the windowsill and gripped the rope with white-knuckled force. If he fell now, he’d likely break something.
The icy wind cut through his clothes, raising goosebumps head to toe, but he ignored it, clamping his hands tighter as he began lowering himself.
Tension thickened as the footsteps grew louder, Harry struggling to find footing on the rain-slicked wall to descend safely—and quietly.
"What in blazes is that racket?" Vernon snarled, his voice muffled through the locked door.
Fred shot Harry a look and mouthed soundlessly: "Say something!"
"Erm—nothing, sir!" Harry called from the window, failing miserably to sound convincing. “I… woke up with lightning, I think the dogs did too”
Fred, finally unlocking Hedwig’s cage, lifted her out carefully.
The owl swooped straight to the windowsill. The loud whoosh of her wings drew Vernon’s attention from behind the door.
"That ruddy owl again? Should’ve got rid of that blasted thing—I’ll sort it now!"
The jangle of keys echoed, and the lock began turning.
Harry watched Hedwig dive downward, landing neatly on Neville’s outstretched arm, while Fred hurled the empty cage out.
George caught it deftly.
Harry was barely halfway down when his uncle’s voice boomed:
"Who the devil are you?!" Vernon roared, equal parts shock and fury.
"Your fucking fairy godmother!" Fred shot back, seizing the rope and launching himself out the window.
"Harry, let go!" Ron bellowed.
Harry didn’t hesitate. He released the rope—landing hard on his arse. The drop wasn’t far, but the shock sent his heart jackhammering.
"AAAAH!"
Petunia’s shriek sliced through the air as Vernon’s stomping footsteps reached the window.
"Get back here, you thieving little shit!" Vernon bellowed, leaning out.
"Kiss my arse!” Fred retorted.
The twin—far more practised—shimmied down swiftly while Vernon swiped at empty air, grasping nothing.
He looked at Harry with an expression of rage, his face as red as a ripe pepper.
“Get back here, boy, now!” Vernon bellowed.
“No!” Harry shouted back, still sprawled on the ground.
He got up with Neville’s help while his uncle hurled threats from the other side of the window.
“Get back to your room this instant! Or I swear you’ll regret it!” Vernon roared.
“Come on, Harry!” Neville exclaimed, gripping his friend’s shoulder as Ron already grabbed the trunk.
Fred hastily stuffed the magical rope into his bag, darting toward the tall fence surrounding the house.
Hedwig, perched on Neville’s arm, took flight into the drizzly sky, vanishing from sight. She knew where Harry was going. Magical familiars always did.
“Over the fence!” George yelled, helping Ron heave the trunk over.
Fred scrambled up quickly, Hedwig’s cage in hand.
On the other side, Vernon vanished from the window, still bellowing—likely charging down the stairs at full speed.
Petunia stood frozen, stunned, her face pressed against the glass, while Dudley, who’d just arrived, gaped at the scene in confusion, his eyes bulging.
Harry adjusted the rucksack on his back, adrenaline surging as he began scaling the fence. But suddenly, he heard Neville’s trembling voice behind him.
“I... I can’t climb up by myself!” Neville whimpered, distressed.
Harry turned to see his friend shaking nervously.
“I’ll help you,” he replied, dropping back down.
George was already boosting Ron over the fence, and Fred sprinted toward the front of the house.
Without wasting time, Harry laced his fingers together to give Neville a foothold. Struggling, Neville tried to reach the top but couldn’t hold on.
“I... I can’t do it!” Neville sobbed, eyes desperate as the others shouted at them to hurry.
The sound of a car engine revving echoed down the street, muffled by the now-pouring rain and thunder.
“Come on, Nev, you can do it!” Harry urged, frustrated.
In his desperation, he spotted Vernon’s old lawnmower parked near the tool shed.
“Help me push this to the fence!” Harry said, gesturing to the cart.
The two moved in sync, and with a quick count, rammed the cart into the fence. Luckily, they hit a loose section—badly nailed planks flew off, causing the wooden fence to tilt just enough to create a small gap.
Harry slipped through easily, lean and agile, while Neville took longer—his stocky, round frame struggled—but he made it too.
They sprinted across the sodden grass, footsteps splashing through puddles mingled with the rain, toward the frantic car horns blaring from the street.
“GO! RUN!” George shouted from the window of a blue car.
Ron’s eyes widened, pointing toward the corner of the house. “HARRY, LOOK OUT!”
Before Harry could react, a large, meaty hand yanked his hair hard.
“Got you, little brat!” Vernon hissed, tightening his grip.
"LEMME GO!" Harry yelled, thrashing wildly.
"LET HIM GO!" Neville shouted, desperately trying to pry Harry from Vernon’s grip.
But Vernon’s size and strength made the effort useless. Neville began throwing frantic little punches, but a child’s fists made no difference against Vernon’s thick, beefy frame.
"You’re goin’ back inside! One way or another!" Vernon snarled, dragging Harry toward the door. He glared furiously at Neville, who ignored him, still battering at him. "Piss off, you delinquent!"
With his free hand, Vernon grabbed Neville’s head and shoved him backward hard, sending him stumbling several steps away.
Vernon was nearly inside now, threatening to slam the door shut.
Harry’s survival depended on every last scrap of strength he didn’t have—but had to find.
Desperation took over.
Acting on pure instinct, he did the only thing he could think of in his panic at being trapped again.
"AAARGH! You filthy little bastard!" his uncle bellowed in pain.
Harry took the hand he used to push Neville away, and sank his teeth into Vernon’s hand with all his might. The grip loosened for just a second—enough to wrench free.
“RUN!” he shouted at Neville, and both bolted as fast as they could.
Vernon, livid, was right behind them, his face puce, a vein throbbing on his forehead.
Ron flung the car door open, and the two tumbled inside in a heap.
“GO!” Ron bellowed, eyes wide.
George didn’t hesitate.
He slammed the gearstick and accelerated, tyres screeching as Vernon barely missed grabbing Harry’s leg, still half-out of the car.
“FREAKS! BLOODY FREAKS!” Harry heard Vernon’s scream fading into the rain as the car sped down the road, leaving his uncle soaked and seething behind them.
Neville shut the door with a shaky sigh, and everyone in the car slumped—Harry most of all, feeling the adrenaline drain away, leaving only exhaustion.
“Blimey, Harry, what was that?” Ron exclaimed, still staring out the rear window, visibly rattled.
“Don’t worry… just my… uncle,” Harry panted, struggling to get the words out between gasps.
“Just your uncle?” Fred’s eyes bulged. “That bloke’s a complete nutter! He called us freaks!”
“Not just us—you too,” George added, white-knuckling the steering wheel while glancing at the compass in Fred’s hand, guiding their route.
“What happened back there, anyway?” Ron asked, turning to Neville.
"I couldn’t jump the fence," Neville muttered. "Harry and I had to throw some Muggle thing at it to get through." He sighed. "Sorry... I nearly ruined everything."
Neville looked down at himself, resentful.
“You didn’t… mess up… and you don’t… need to apologise,” Harry forced out, fighting to stay conscious.
Harry blinked, his vision blurring—and this time, it wasn’t just the rain on his glasses.
The edges of his sight dissolved, the world tilting.
“Harry… you alright?” Neville’s voice sounded distant, as if underwater.
A firm hand gripped his shoulder—probably Ron’s—but all Harry could do was stare blankly, his breathing ragged.
“I’m… fine,” he whispered, voice unsteady. “Don’t… worry…”
“What happened?” Neville pressed. “We tried contacting you, but you never replied—”
“Elf… stole… letters,” Harry managed.
“Crikey—he’s gone pale!” Ron said, alarmed, the words barely registering as Harry’s body sagged.
Fred reached back from the front seat and shook Harry’s knee. “Merlin’s bollocks, he’s fainting!”
“Harry, stay awake!” Neville demanded, shaking his shoulder.
“Step on it, George, step on it!” Ron urged, but the voices floated away, swallowed by the hum of the engine.
The last thing Harry heard before darkness took him was the car’s roar and the drumming rain on the roof.
His friends’ panicked faces were the final thing he saw—then nothing.
Harry woke with a jolt and an involuntary leap as the car hit the ground roughly.
“Merlin’s pants! You need to practise your landings or you’ll end up busting the bumper again!” exclaimed Fred from the front seat.
“You’re seriously worried about the fucking bumper?!” George retorted, nervous.
The rain continued to pour heavily, as hard as Harry remembered it when leaving Privet Drive, and thunder still rumbled around them. The sound was muffled, but he could feel the vibration.
Harry blinked, confused and still groggy, beginning to grasp where he was.
Neville, beside him, was fanning him with his hands, while Ron held his shoulders, trying to keep him from swaying too much.
“He’s waking up!” announced Neville, with a mix of relief and excitement.
“Good, grab his things. George and I will get him inside!” said Fred quickly, opening the door and letting the deafening sound of rain invade the car.
Everything seemed a blur to Harry.
He felt weak, barely able to move, only aware that someone was helping him out. The darkness was near-total, but he recognised a faint light coming from a house, signalling they’d finally arrived.
The twins supported him by the shoulders as they half-carried him inside, passing a small wooden fence and what was probably a tiny garden—the darkness made it difficult to see anything.
Cold raindrops struck his forehead, soaking his already heavy, damp clothes further.
“I’m…alright… guys,” murmured Harry, his voice weak and exhausted.
“No, you’re not,” said Fred flatly.
“Not even close,” agreed George. “D’you reckon Mum’ll kill us for leaving?” he asked, a hint of nerves in his voice.
“Later, probably, but I reckon she’ll want to murder his relatives first,”
Harry—who was trying not to trip over his own feet—felt the rain stop hitting him as he was guided into the house, and soon the welcoming warmth of the Burrow enveloped him.
He was so exhausted he could hardly make out the details around him, but soon he saw a red-haired figure approaching—it was Mrs Weasley, her face set in a scowl, ready to give them a telling-off.
“What in the name of—Merlin, what happened?!” she exclaimed, her voice thick with worry.
Harry felt her careful hands on his face, assessing his state with a stern, alarmed expression.
“We rescued him,” said George, adjusting Harry’s arm over his shoulder.
"Literally..." Fred added darkly.
Molly touched Harry’s shoulder, and he flinched involuntarily with a grimace of pain.
The previous day had been particularly bad; Vernon seemed to have thought it a good idea to focus on his shoulders. She noticed the reaction and narrowed her eyes, clearly concerned.
Fred exchanged a dark look with her. “He’s... really not okay. The situation there’s... pretty ugly.”
Molly’s eyes widened—the twins were rarely this serious; they always cracked jokes, even in tense moments. She knew, from their expressions, that something was gravely wrong.
Ron and Neville came in right behind, drenched and carrying Harry’s things.
“Put him on the sofa. I’ll fetch some potions,” said Molly hurriedly.
Fred and George helped Harry settle onto the sofa, where he collapsed, strengthless, trying to suppress a hiss of pain as the sensitive skin of his back brushed against the soft upholstery.
She turned to Ron and Neville with a firm look while simultaneously rummaging through some vials in a cupboard.
“You two, straight into the bath!” she ordered authoritatively.
“Er—” Neville murmured, his gaze darting from Harry to Mrs Weasley.
He was hesitating, unwilling to leave him at that moment.
Molly simply gave him a knowing look and nodded silently, as if to say he’d be alright. That was enough to make him start heading upstairs.
“But I’ve already had a bath—” Ron began, but was cut off.
“Ronald Weasley! get in that bath!” Molly commanded sternly.
It wasn’t wise to argue with his mother a third time.
Ron let out a resigned sigh and followed Neville upstairs.
“And then, straight to bed as well,” she added.
“What’s going on?” Harry heard a young girl’s voice from the stairs. “Why are Ron and Neville soaked?”
Ginny came down the stairs, still rubbing sleep from her eyes with a stuffed bear clutched in her arms. When she saw the scene in the living room and Harry’s state, she swallowed a gasp, a mix of surprise and fright flashing across her face.
“This is no time to be up, Ginevra, back to bed this instant,” Molly said, pointing a finger toward the stairs.
Ginny, wide-eyed, flushed at the sight of Harry and, hugging her bear tighter, scurried back upstairs faster than she’d come down.
Tired, he didn't notice her presence nor did he notice the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.
George watched Harry uneasily, while Fred seemed lost in thought, observing him with concern.
Harry remained silent, trying to focus and give the impression that everything was fine. Yet he knew that if he pushed himself any further than he already was, he’d probably pass out again.
The sound of rain and thunder mingled with the muffled noise of showers being turned on upstairs. Then, footsteps approached.
Mr Weasley came down, wearing blue-and-white striped pyjamas and slippers, his face slightly weary behind his spectacles.
“What’s all this commotion downstairs?” he asked, noticing Harry. “Oh, Harry, how long—are you alright?” He frowned as he took in his condition.
“I’m... I’m fine, Mr Weasley,” murmured Harry, attempting a forced smile.
“He’s not fine at all,” said Fred bluntly.
“Not one bit,” George added.
“Blame that ruddy uncle of his!” Fred remarked, putting his hands on his hips and pacing slowly in front of the fireplace.
Suddenly, Arthur seemed to shake off his tiredness, straightening up as he recalled that rude, boorish man.
“The fellow who picked you up from the station?” he asked, adjusting his glasses.
“The very same,” the twins confirmed in unison.
Arthur stepped closer and fixed Harry with a look as worried as Mrs Weasley’s.
Harry had never paid much attention to Ron’s parents’ appearance when he’d first seen them on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters — that day, his mind had been far too occupied with the prospect of returning to Privet Drive. Now, however, with their eyes fixed on him, even through the fog of exhaustion clouding his vision, he could make out some familiar traits.
Arthur Weasley had the same vibrant red hair all his children had inherited, though his was beginning to thin at the temples. His green eyes sparkled behind round spectacles. He was tall and thin, features Percy and Ron had apparently inherited.
Molly Weasley, in contrast, was short, with a round face and warm features that radiated instant kindness. Her brown eyes — so like Ginny’s, if Harry’s blurred memory served — scrutinised him with a mix of maternal concern and steely determination as she simultaneously hunted for the right potions. Like a highly experienced mother, she could keep a watchful eye on her children while doing three other things at once. Her plump little frame was wrapped in a knitted cardigan.
Harry tried to focus on these details, fighting the dizziness threatening to swallow everything again.
"We went to fetch him by car since he wasn't answering any letters," began George, his expression serious. "Nev insisted something was wrong."
"Who'd have thought he'd be right..." muttered Fred, more to himself.
"And how did he know something was wrong?" Arthur asked.
George sighed. "He said he and Harry started writing letters to Ron and Hermione during Christmas holidays and... I reckon it became sort of a tradition between them, or something. So him not sending anything wasn't normal behaviour."
It was true.
Neville had always written to his gran regularly—far more than even Ron and Hermione wrote to their own parents. At Christmas, being his first away from her, this routine had intensified further.
Harry, watching Neville immersed in his letters night after night, had eventually taken to the idea himself. At first, he'd only written to keep his hands busy, but soon found he liked keeping up with his friends' holidays. He sent letters to Hermione and Ron whenever he could, and receiving replies made the days slightly easier to bear.
Over time, it had become a quiet, comforting ritual they maintained occasionally.
Neville hadn't received a reply from Harry, even after sending over twelve letters.
Worried, he confided in Ron, who in turn mentioned it to Fred and George.
The four of them then began plotting a rescue mission. Though none would snitch, the car idea had been Ron's. He suggested they at least check on Harry and, if all went well, convince him to spend the rest of the holidays at the Burrow—having already cleared it with his parents.
The twins, of course, were the ones who prepared the magical equipment and smuggled their father's tools from the garage for the "mission," just in case.
After recounting this part, Fred crossed his arms and added: "So we thought we'd see how he was but... we had to run for it."
"Run for it?" Arthur raised a surprised eyebrow.
"His uncle's barmy, Dad," George continued.
"Proper called us freaks," Fred said, that shadowed look not leaving his face.
He glanced at Harry, who seemed lost—staring blankly at the coffee table.
"Freaks?!" Arthur exclaimed, shocked.
He'd never heard a Muggle insult a wizard so deliberately before.
George watched Fred, who was silently staring into the lit fireplace.
Something was clearly off—he'd been strange ever since leaving Harry's relatives' house. George knew his brother was hiding something, and it probably wasn't good.
"So we did it for good reason," George added quickly.
Arthur shook his head, putting his hands on his hips.
"I see... since taking the car was for a genuinely good cause, I'll let it pass this time," he said, managing a weak smile.
The twins nodded silently in response.
Molly returned with quick steps, holding a box filled with colourful potions. She sat beside Harry and began examining him carefully; he offered no resistance.
In the light of the room, all the Weasleys present noticed that Harry looked very different from the boy they remembered—before, even if scrawny, he had been rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed.
Now, he was visibly worn down.
Harry was thin to the point of looking skeletal, far more than usual, with hollowed cheeks from days without proper meals. His eyes, once a bright green, were now dull, lifeless, as if happiness had been drained from him. Small, deep dark lines of exhaustion framed his eyes, giving him a haunted appearance.
His hair was unkempt—not from natural rebelliousness, but from neglect. It looked heavier and darkened by grease, hanging messily over his forehead. Small clumps stuck together, and the faint scent he gave off made it clear he hadn’t had a proper wash in some time.
He felt ashamed, almost humiliated, to present himself like this in front of the Weasleys. But the shame, though present, was nearly buried under exhaustion.
Molly shot a quick glance at her husband, who responded with a subtle nod, as if sharing the same concern.
“Fred, George, off to the bath and then straight to bed,” said Molly in a firm tone.
Plunc!
She opened one of the vials and prepared a potion for Harry.
George opened his mouth to protest, but Fred tugged his arm.
“C’mon, I’ll need to remind you tomorrow to practise your landings before you smash the bumper again.”
“Snitch,” grumbled George, punching his brother’s arm.
“Smashed the bumper?” Arthur frowned.
“I’ll fix it tomorrow, promise,” said George hastily before disappearing upstairs with Fred.
“No, you won’t…” Arthur sighed, removing his glasses to rub his eyes before sinking into his armchair, watching Molly and Harry.
Now alone, Molly gently placed a hand on Harry’s knee.
“Dear, I need to see how you’re doing. May I help you take off your shirt?” she asked, her tone as soft as it was firm.
“I…” Harry hesitated, glancing at Mr Weasley, who offered him a reassuring smile.
“It’s all right, Harry. You’re safe here,” said Arthur soothingly.
Harry nodded hesitantly and began lifting his shirt, hands trembling as he pulled it over his head with Molly’s help.
As the fabric rose, it revealed a thin, marked body—the weight of abuse and neglect etched into his pale, taut skin.
A heavy silence fell over the room as Molly and Arthur held their breath, shock and sorrow plain on their faces.
Harry averted his gaze, feeling exposed and vulnerable.
His torso was covered in bruises at various stages of healing—his ribs starkly visible beneath his skin. Dark purple marks stained his back and sides, blending into yellowed and greenish patches, the scars of old wounds still tender. On his shoulders and along his ribs, fresher injuries—red and inflamed—stretched in painful lines. Small open cuts, some beginning to fester, showed swollen, red edges.
Molly pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes shining with unshed tears as she took in his condition. Arthur pressed his lips together in silent fury.
They exchanged a look only parents could understand.
Harry, meanwhile, stared at the floor but made no effort to hide his injuries.
He felt too drained to resist, too weary to disguise the truth his body revealed without a single word.
Arthur stepped closer and placed a firm but gentle hand on Harry’s uninjured shoulder.
“It’s all right now, Harry,” he assured him. “You’re safe here.”
Molly reached out and carefully touched one of the inflamed cuts, her face a picture of sorrow and outrage.
“Oh, my dear… this is unforgivable.”
Harry swallowed thickly.
“If you could… just not tell them,” he murmured weakly.
The Weasleys remained silent, absorbing what they saw—the evident suffering etched into Harry’s body was hard to accept. He looked away again, fixing his gaze on his hands in his lap before continuing.
“I don’t… want them to see me like this. Not like this, if you don’t mind.”
Arthur and Molly nodded in unison, needing no explanation.
Harry hated people pitying him, and being in this state—so wretched and weak—gave plenty of reason for those looks. He didn’t need his friends thinking such things when they saw him.
“Of course, dear,” Molly said softly. “I’ll need to tend to these wounds, all right?”
Harry nodded, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. “Just… thanks… and sorry for turning up like this.”
“There’s nothing to apologise for, Harry, nor to thank us for,” said Arthur kindly, settling into a nearby armchair. “This is the least we can do for you.”
Molly, wasting no time, cast a silent spell that cleaned the blood and grime from Harry’s infected wounds. She then leaned in to treat the more delicate injuries.
“Episkey,” she murmured, tapping her wand to the sore spots.
Harry flinched at the slight sting but clenched his fists to keep from crying, enduring in silence as the wounds began to close, leaving only fresh red marks.
Molly gave him a motherly, healer’s look as she inspected the bruises covering his back—after tending to seven injury-prone children, she was more than experienced in patching them up.
“Who did this to you, Harry? Was it your aunt and uncle?” Molly asked, sorting through a few potion vials.
“Just my uncle, Vernon,” he replied with a sigh. “A house-elf turned up at my house and… caused a scene. He dropped the cake on Mrs Mason’s head. They all thought it was me, so… well, this happened. They said I was the cause of it.”
Without a word, Arthur summons a glass with a quick Accio and filled it with water using Aguamenti, handing it to Harry.
“Here, if you’re thirsty.”
Harry hesitated, not wanting to seem rude, but then drank it all in a few gulps, realising just how parched he was.
“Thanks.”
“Not at all,” said Arthur thoughtfully, refilling the glass in case he wanted more. “A house-elf in a Muggle neighbourhood? He wasn’t just out for a stroll, I reckon.”
Harry shook his head, taking another sip of water, more slowly this time.
“No. He came to warn me,” he explained, frowning as he tried to make sense of the visit. “Said I shouldn’t go back to Hogwarts… that terrible things were going to happen.”
Molly pursed her lips, indignant. “More terrible than a troll nearly killing two students and the Philosopher’s Stone being kept at the school?”
“Not to mention the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest and Voldemort possessing the back of a teacher’s head,” Harry thought but kept to himself.
He let out a sigh, wincing as Molly smeared a sticky green ointment over his sore shoulders.
“I dunno why he was there,” said Harry. “I asked him what the danger was, but he started hitting himself, saying his master had forbidden him to tell.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes, adjusting his spectacles.
“House-elves usually serve old, wealthy wizarding families. If he’s got a master, it’s someone important. Did he mention a name?”
“Dobby. That’s what he called himself, anyway.”
Arthur nodded, scratching his chin. “Elves don’t lie unless ordered by their masters. But it’s odd… seems he was acting against orders by speaking to you.”
Molly huffed impatiently.
“Bet the Malfoys have something to do with this,” she said disdainfully. “No one can stand that man, and I wouldn’t be surprised if even his elf wasn’t loyal.”
“Could be. It’s a long shot, but could be,” agreed Arthur. “Lucius is one of Hogwarts’ governors, and he’s got elves. He’s always trying to increase his influence over the school—everyone at the Ministry knows it; information leaks like a sieve there.”
“Hogwarts governor? What’s that?” asked Harry curiously.
“It’s a council of twelve wizards who, in theory, oversee the school’s policies,” Arthur explained. “One of them’s always the current headmaster. They’ve got quite a bit of sway—make decisions on everything from uniform styles to serious matters, like suspending or sacking the headmaster or even shutting the school down if needed. Never happened, but they could.”
Arthur sighed, staring into the fire.
“If this Dobby really is Lucius’s elf,” Arthur continued, “he might’ve tried to warn you against orders. Elves are loyal, but… seems this one had personal concerns for some reason. Or maybe it was his master’s order—we don’t know.”
Harry took a deep breath. “He seemed a bit mad, to be honest. He was the one who nicked all my letters and stopped me from talking to anyone. And when I insisted I’d go back to school, he… he decided to wreck the dinner. Reckon he didn’t know what my uncle would do after.”
He looked into the fireplace, his face shadowed.
A heavy silence lingered until Molly lightened the mood.
“All this about elves only serving rich families… oh, if it weren’t the case, I’d love an extra pair of hands round here,” she sighed, preparing another ointment. “Be good company for our ghoul too.”
“Ghoul?” Harry repeated, surprised.
He knew ghouls were slimy, fanged creatures, usually harmless, but couldn’t picture one living there.
“Oh, yes,” replied Molly, rubbing another glob—this one orange—onto his back, now layered with different salves. “Our ghoul’s lived in the attic for years. Likes to rattle the pipes when the house is quiet.”
With a flick of her wand, Molly murmured a spell.
“Ferula!”
Bandages conjured themselves, wrapping snugly around Harry’s torso. She nodded approvingly as they settled into place.
Harry turned to thank her and saw her still scanning him for injuries.
“That should do it. Anywhere else hurting, dear?”
“No, think that’s all,” he said, feeling unexpectedly rejuvenated. “Thanks again, Mrs Weasley.”
“The bandages and ointment’ll have you healed in a few days. Till then, no straining yourself, understood?” She used that no-nonsense mum voice that brooked no argument.
Harry gave a tired smile and nodded as he pulled his shirt back on. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Before anyone could say more, a loud growl came from Harry’s stomach, making him flush with embarrassment.
“Hungry? I reckon there’s some dinner left,” said Molly, standing. “Unless Ron’s eaten it all.”
“You… you don’t have to, Mrs Weasley,” Harry mumbled.
“Ah, but your stomach says otherwise. And I don’t let my children go to bed hungry—you won’t either,” replied Molly, kindly but firmly. “Have a bite. Then you’ll have a bath—don’t fret, the bandages won’t get wet and it will be so easy to wash as if you weren't even wearing anything. Neville’s asleep in Ron’s room; there’s space for one more. I’ll get things ready for you.”
Harry managed a small, relieved smile. For the first time in weeks, he felt safe.
Soon after, a tapping at the window drew their attention. Hedwig, soaked and nearly collapsing from exhaustion, perched outside.
“Hedwig…” Harry murmured, trying to rise, but Arthur stopped him.
“Stay put and rest, lad. I’ve got her.”
He opened the window and fed her treats, which she devoured ravenously. After eating and drinking, she fluttered to the sofa arm beside Harry, who stroked her feathers gently.
He met her amber eyes, whispering just to her:
“If I have to go back there… I won’t keep you trapped with me. I’ll… figure something out, but I can’t do that to you, girl…”
Hedwig nipped his finger—harder than usual—making him hiss.
Her way of disagreeing: a firm protest that she’d never leave him.
Harry sighed, smiling faintly. “How d’you manage to be more stubborn than me?”
She gave a soft hoot in reply.
Harry sighed, staring into the dancing flames of the fireplace.
Some of Mrs Weasley’s homemade ointments and potions must have kicked in, because he felt a faint surge of energy—just enough to eat a little, take a hot bath, and stagger to bed, where he’d collapse like a sack of flour with no intention of moving anytime soon.
His body felt numb, the sharp pain that had plagued him now gone, leaving only a deep, comforting exhaustion.
For the first time in weeks, he felt truly safe.
The Weasleys treated him with a kindness that almost hurt—not because it was unpleasant, but because it was so different from the "care" he’d received on Privet Drive.
As he watched the firelight shadows flicker across the wall, Harry turned over everything that had happened.
If not for Neville insisting on seeing him, for Ron coming up with the flying car idea, for Fred helping him escape and George taking the wheel… he didn’t even want to imagine what would’ve been left of him—or Hedwig. And now, Mr and Mrs Weasley had taken him in like he’d never dreamed possible.
His body still begged desperately for rest, but even so, a stubborn curiosity began to nag at him.
What would the next few days at the Burrow, with the Weasleys, be like?
Chapter 17: The Weasleys
Chapter Text
The morning stretched warm and slightly muggy over the Burrow, but summer seemed to have painted the scene in brighter colours than Harry had ever noticed before.
The grass shone in an almost blinding green, the sky—clear of clouds—was a blue so intense it hurt the eyes, and the flowers exploded in such vibrant hues that the Weasleys' red hair blended into the garden's rainbow. A welcoming breeze blew, cooling anyone who ventured under the relentless sun.
But it wasn’t just summer that brought liveliness to the house.
Harry smiled as he realised Ron had, without a doubt, inherited his family’s boisterousness.
Cracks, whistles, and laughter echoed through the rooms as Fred and George raced about, chasing something that had apparently escaped their latest arsenal of pranks—an arsenal that, they promised, would make the next year at Hogwarts “truly unforgettable.”
That was always the promise—according to Ron—so perhaps it was just more of the same. Even if the “same” wasn’t exactly ideal for those who didn’t share the twins’ enthusiasm.
And two such people were undoubtedly Molly and Percy.
Crash!
“Make that thing stop right now!” Percy’s exasperated voice mingled with the crash of falling and breaking objects upstairs.
“It’ll only stop if you give it—” Fred began.
“—a Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Bean!” George finished, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.
Percy paused, and a thread of hope seeped into his voice:
“Have you got any on you?”
Something small and lightning-fast shot past the open window, followed by a deafening crash and the sound of several objects toppling over.
“It knocked over my bookshelf!” Percy roared, fury trembling in every word. “That thing knocked over my bookshelf!”
“Hang on…” said one of the twins.
Thud!
A dull thump sounded.
“Blimey, almost got it!”
“For Merlin’s sake, just give me a bean and I’ll get it out myself!” Percy demanded, patience worn thin.
“Dear brother, the trouble is—” Fred began theatrically.
“—we might not have any beans on us at the moment,” George finished with a mischievous grin.
Percy let out a sigh so deep it seemed to empty his lungs.
“There aren’t any in the house?”
“Ronnikins ate the rest…” the twins confessed in unison, feigning guilt.
Two floors above, the window of Ron’s bedroom flew open with a bang, and the boy himself appeared, scowling.
“Oi! I’ve got nothing to do with this!” he protested, red up to his ears.
A brief silence hung in the air before Percy shouted again:
“Mum! Fred and George let a magical doll loose in my room, and the ruddy thing won’t leave!”
From inside the kitchen, Molly Weasley’s voice rose, firm and disapproving:
“Boys, remove that doll from your brother’s room and stop pestering him!”
“We’re trying!” the twins chorused back, as more sounds of falling objects and hurried footsteps echoed through the house.
Crash!
Bam!
Clim!
Pow!
Harry smiled, amused, as he watched the chaos unfold.
“The ghoul in the attic doesn’t even need to rattle the pipes… this house never goes quiet,” he reflected.
Three days ago, Harry had arrived in the early hours, exhausted, and since then, the Burrow seemed determined to repay him with some of the peace he’d lacked for so long.
On the first day, he only woke up well past noon—Molly had insisted that Ron and Neville let him sleep until he woke on his own. And as noisy as the Weasley household was, with its broomstick cracks, muffled laughter, and the constant hum of activity, Harry had slept like a stone, still and deep, as if his body knew that here, it could finally rest.
His wounds were healing quickly, thanks to Molly’s meticulous care. She used bandaging charms to change his dressings with near-maternal efficiency and reapplied potions and salves regularly.
Harry had never felt so looked after.
There was a sweetness in her manner, a concern he could barely put a name to—something he’d never known could belong to him. And Molly, ever attentive, made sure none of her children, not even the most curious, saw him during the dressings.
That, however, was a delicate subject.
As the days passed, It was impossible not to notice that Harry wasn’t well when they picked him up.
In the chaos of that stormy night and the adrenaline of their escape, perhaps it hadn’t been obvious. But in the sunny days that followed, it was plain as day that his face was sharper than usual, his shoulders bonier, and every movement seemed to require effort where none had been needed before.
Ron, at one point, stared him down with a look that mixed a friend’s worry and indignation at his state.
“What really happened to you, Harry?” he asked bluntly.
Harry averted his gaze, his fingers tightening involuntarily on the secondhand shirt from his cousin.
He couldn’t find an answer—or perhaps, deep down, didn’t want to give one. So he stayed silent and shrugged half-heartedly.
Ron, sensing his discomfort, flushed and muttered a “Sorry”, backing off as if he’d stepped on something fragile.
Neville, who’d watched the scene quietly, simply gave a small nod, as if he understood what Harry meant without a word. But between sideways glances and distant observations, it was still clear he was piecing things together in his mind—without success.
It would’ve been easy for an adult to read the signs.
But Ron and Neville?
They were just kids like him—friends who’d never imagined what Harry had faced.
They could say for certain that Harry’s relatives were... well, mad.
But what kind of madness left someone so thin?
So full of aches?
So withdrawn that he’d never speak of it?
Ron had taken his fair share of wallops from his mum when he misbehaved, and Neville knew the weight of his grandmother’s reprimands well. But neither of them—none of them—could even begin to guess the answer to that question.
And Harry preferred it that way.
Shame burned in his chest like embers.
If he could avoid talking about the Dursleys, avoid remembering, avoid thinking... all the better. He didn’t want to ruin this holiday, not when he finally felt safe. And somehow, his friends seemed to understand.
Even Fred and George watched him differently.
Fred, ever the joker, masked his concern with quips—but George, who still hadn’t learned about the cat-flap, studied Harry with a keener gaze, as if assembling puzzle pieces that made no sense.
If Percy had noticed anything, he’d stayed completely silent.
And Ginny, as innocent as the others, only blushed and looked at Harry in a strange way.
But those details didn’t bother him for long, and no one made much more of it—just as Harry wanted. They treated him normally, as if they’d last seen him at King’s Cross Station less than a week ago.
Harry wasn't surprised when Hedwig began spending most of her time outside the Burrow, perched on the highest points she could find—particularly the red-tiled roof of the Weasleys' house.
His snowy owl, who had been so frail after her imprisonment on Privet Drive, was now regaining her strength day by day.
He could see her up there, majestic against the summer blue sky, her snow-white feathers regaining their lost sheen.
She only descended at dusk, gliding silently to the windowsill of his bedroom, where she slept perched on her usual stand. Though it was odd for an owl to be awake by day and asleep at night, Hedwig seemed to have decided to adapt her habits to match Harry's, just as Hagrid had said often happened with familiars.
The exceptions came on the rare days she disappeared to hunt, staying out later than usual, doing “whatever owls do when their owners aren't looking,” as Ron often put it.
“She's getting more beautiful every day,” Harry heard Ginny remark one morning, watching Hedwig preen her wings meticulously in the sunlight.
Neville nodded, tearing his eyes away from his Herbology textbook to glance at the owl.
“Yeah, I barely recognised her either... when she first got here, I mean,” he replied quietly.
Harry stroked Hedwig's head gently when she landed on his shoulder later that day, warmth blooming in his chest.
His faithful companion was finally recovering—her feathers soft and gleaming, her amber eyes bright with life again. Despite all the suffering they'd endured, the owl always returned to him, whether to deliver an important letter or simply to rest beside him at night.
On the rare occasions Hedwig flew off to hunt, Harry would watch the horizon, waiting for her return.
And always, without fail, she reappeared like a white ghost against the twilight sky, landing with a soft blink that seemed to say, “Where else would I be, if not here with you?”
When Harry had recovered enough, Ron made a point of giving him a full tour of the Burrow, narrating every peculiarity of the house with casual flair. But Harry found himself marvelling at it all—he'd never imagined magic could feel so alive in a home, yet it pulsed everywhere.
He pointed out the magical clock in the kitchen wall—whose hands showed where all nine family members were instead of the time—and the enchanted shed out back, where seemingly ordinary objects took on lives of their own.
Neville, who'd joined the tour, still got turned around between rooms and floors—an easy mistake, given the house's labyrinthine, near-chaotic layout.
The Burrow was a tall tower that had been built piece by piece. From a distance, it looked visibly crooked, yet somehow never toppled over.
Ron explained that as each of his siblings was born, his father had expanded the house to fit another member into their home. What had started as a simple shed with just Arthur and Molly as a happy young couple first became a one-storey cottage, then grew to two floors, three, and so on.
The three friends were lodged on the fifth—and topmost—floor, in Ron's bedroom.
The rest of the Burrow was a delightful mess—windows of mismatched shapes, the exterior of its crooked storeys painted in warm hues of yellow, orange, and red. There were five chimneys, disproportionately tall, made of bricks in varying colours and sizes.
Harry could swear it sometimes seemed alive, swaying ever so slightly—but perhaps that was just the wind's force or the family's boisterous noise rather than anything magical.
Harry was pulled from his thoughts by Mr Weasley's voice.
“Harry, could you pass me that tool? I think it's the one we need here,” he said, reading from a battered manual titled Automobiles and Other Muggle Inventions.
“Of course, sir.” Harry handed over the tool.
He'd volunteered to help Mr Weasley repair the Ford Anglia, the cyan-blue car that had helped him escape the Dursleys days before. It was an old 1960s model, well-kept due to Arthur's devoted care.
Mr Weasley had acquired the car after its previous owner's death—a collector with no heirs. Most of the deceased's possessions had been repossessed, but the Ministry, unable to shrink the car for storage due to an enchantment placed by the owner himself to prevent “depreciation of this relic,” had been happy to let Arthur keep it.
“What's this tool called again?” Arthur asked, examining it with the reverence of a historian handling an artefact.
“Er... I think it's a spanner,” Harry guessed, though he wasn't entirely sure about tools.
Arthur beamed, eyes shining with enthusiasm.
“A spanner... Fascinating.”
It was fun explaining Muggle objects to Mr Weasley, who regarded them with the same wonder Harry felt for magic.
Arthur began tightening a part in the engine, murmuring spells that made the car's interior glow momentarily.
“What are you doing now?” Harry asked curiously.
“Running some tests. I want to see how a Muggle automobile reacts to different spells—and so far, nothing's exploded, which is promising,” he said, cleaning grease off his hands with a non-verbal spell. “Might even get it running without fuel, but I'm still working on that.”
Harry remembered how Vernon constantly complained about rising petrol prices—always blaming the government for the recession and high taxes. It was ironic that so many of Vernon's grievances could be solved with magic, the very thing he despised.
“I reckon plenty of Muggles would pay good money for a car that doesn't need fuel,” Harry remarked, pushing thoughts of the Dursleys aside as he passed Arthur a smaller spanner.
“That's precisely why such things mustn't reach them,” Arthur smiled.
“How d'you mean?”
“I work at the Ministry, in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We ensure enchanted Muggle objects don't end up in their world, or our secrecy could be compromised.”
“Makes sense. I've never seen magic in a Muggle object before—or at least I don't think so,” Harry said, as Arthur gestured cheerfully at the car.
“Well, now you definitely have.”
Laughing, Arthur glanced around to confirm no one was nearby before beckoning Harry closer.
“Since you've helped, I suppose I could show you a secret about this car even the boys don't know. Fancy a look?”
“Secret?” Harry asked, intrigued, watching him open the driver's door.
Arthur pointed to a small area beneath the steering wheel. “Look down there. See those two hidden buttons? The left one boosts the car's speed dramatically—dangerous if you don't know how to control it. Haven't tested it properly yet, but I think I might've overdone the charm and made it too powerful. Still needs calibrating.”
Harry's eyebrows shot up. “No one knows about this?”
“No. And trust me, I'd know if they'd found out,” Arthur said with a conspiratorial smile. “Especially Fred and George. Best they never see this, or I'll have Molly to answer to,” he chuckled. “Though after a year at Hogwarts with them, I expect you understand why.”
Harry couldn't help but laugh as he remembered the time the Slytherin common room had inexplicably been redecorated with shite. The memory unleashed a cascade of other pranks: Percy's prefect badge vanishing only to reappear painted shocking pink; the Great Hall benches coated in itching powder before breakfast; the dungeon corridors becoming so slippery even Slytherins themselves skidded like first-timers in an ice-skating lesson; and of course, those irresistible magical stickers that adhered to green-and-silver robes, proclaiming in flashing letters: “I'm a Git”
The best part?
It took a full day to remove them, requiring you to tear your robes to rid yourself of the honest advertisement.
Many of these inventions had earned Fred and George a permanent place in Argus Filch's office—not as visitors, but as distinguished members of his endless list of Banned Items.
“Arthur's right,” Harry thought, suppressing a grin.
“And this one?” he said aloud, pointing to the other button.
“The right one converts it to a cabriolet. Supposed to be quite the Muggle status symbol, so I thought I'd add it,” Arthur explained with a grin.
“Blimey, it turns into a convertible?” Harry's eyes shone with fascination.
Arthur chuckled as he closed the door. “In theory. Haven't tested that either, mind—might just detach the roof completely rather than retract properly. Meant to check earlier, but didn't reckon George would crack the bumper... again.” His tone turned weary.
Beyond the bumper, their desperate landing that night had been so harsh it burst the radiator, snapped the front axle, and wrecked the transmission—problems Arthur knew would take the rest of summer to fix, given it was just his weekend hobby. Yet he didn't seem truly cross with the twins; they'd had good reason, and they were good lads really.
Just then, Ron and Neville emerged from the Burrow. Their expressions—Neville's glum face contrasting with Ron's victorious grin—made the chess outcome obvious.
“Off you go with the lads, I'll finish up here,” Mr Weasley said, shooing Harry toward his friends.
Harry grinned, jogging over to where the pair waited by the front door.
“How was the match?” he asked, eyes dancing. “Bet Nev trounced you, Ron.”
“Oh yeah,” Ron drawled, throwing a sarcastic look. “Never been so humiliated at chess. Right, mate?” He gave Neville's shoulder a comradely thump.
Neville sighed, lips pursed in defeat. “Honestly don't know whether to be glad or gutted you're this good,” he muttered. “Though if you weren't... we'd have been in serious trouble last term.”
The whole Philosopher's Stone business seemed lifetimes ago now—the boys regularly joked about it, though never mentioning the slaughtered troll he and Hermione had faced, or Quirrell possessed by Voldemort.
“Fair point. Reckon we wouldn't be here at all,” Harry agreed. “Ron saved our skins.”
“Blimey girls, all this praise'll make me blush,” Ron teased, before peering past them into the house.
He spotted his little sister lurking shyly behind a bookshelf, stealing glances at Harry.
“Blush just like Ginny does when she looks at Harry!” he crowed loudly, grinning wickedly.
“I-I don't blush!” Ginny protested in a squeak, her face turning as red as her hair.
She went tearing off toward the stairs to her bedroom, visibly mortified.
“Ron, stop teasing your sister!” Mrs Weasley called from the kitchen.
Ron rolled his eyes with a resigned sigh.
“Yes, Mum,” he replied, flashing one last grin.
As Harry stood confused, scratching the back of his neck while watching Ginny flee in panic, Neville chuckled along with Ron.
To someone like Neville, the girl was at the very least amusing with her utterly flustered, desperate manner whenever she looked at his friend.
For Harry, this was undoubtedly the best summer of his life.
The scent of freshly cut grass and wildflowers mingling with the delicious aromas from Mrs Weasley's cooking made him understand why Ron ate so voraciously.
It was impossible to leave a meal without being stuffed, and Molly watched Harry's every mouthful with satisfaction, always managing to convince him to have “just one more bite.”
The truth was he could never be a worthy opponent to Ron in their eating contests, but simply participating seemed to be Molly's exact goal.
Without realizing it, Harry had begun gaining some colour in his cheeks, and the skeletal thinness he'd arrived with at the Burrow was gradually giving way to a healthier appearance than he'd had before the holidays.
Yet something puzzled him: these past few days, Neville had been refusing desserts—completely out of character.
Though he never competed with Ron during main meals either, it was well-known that Neville surpassed everyone when it came to sweets.
And there he was, turning down delicious puddings, treacle tarts, even the strawberry trifle that Harry considered better than Hogwarts'.
“You sure you don't want any?” Mrs Weasley pressed for the third time.
Neville smiled politely. “No thank you, Mrs Weasley, I'm quite full.”
“But I do!” Ron exclaimed through a mouthful of trifle.
“Be content with what you've had, dear—you've had two helpings already! If you eat more now, there'll be none left for tonight!” Molly scolded, snatching the dish away before he could reach it.
“But I took small portions! Only two helpings!” Ron protested with his mouth full. “You're counting the numerical quantity of dessert scoops, not the quality of the amount I took!”
“Never heard you count anything so complicated,” Ginny remarked with a smirk.
“Ron always turns into a great philosopher when seconds are involved,” Harry joked. “Hermione would be proud of that solid argument.”
“She can debate me all she likes,” Ron shrugged. “When it comes to food, I know best.”
“No idea how you eat so much, but you're definitely Hogwarts champion in that category, by miles!” George laughed, slapping his brother's back and making him scowl as he nearly choked.
“They charmed Ronnikins with a bottomless stomach and forgot to lift the spell!” Fred teased.
Ron muttered something unintelligible about the twins while the rest of the family—Harry and Neville included—laughed along. Percy merely rolled his eyes as if above such childishness.
After lunch, everyone enjoyed an hour's rest before gathering in the garden, where the young Weasleys—along with Harry and Neville—would dedicate themselves to the always entertaining—if somewhat brutal—task of de-gnoming the garden.
The garden gnomes, small and leathery-skinned, were plucked from their burrows and flung far away, squeaking and cursing as they sailed through the air. Ron in particular seemed to have a special talent for throwing them the farthest, while Ginny, despite her size, had a surprisingly powerful throw.
Harry always used this exhausting activity as an excuse for a lazy nap afterward—and Ron, as usual, followed suit, yawning and stretching on the grass like a contented cat. Neville, however, preferred staying in the garden tending plants with a dedication that left Molly Weasley amazed.
“It's so rare to see a young man with such patience for gardening!” she'd remarked once, watching Neville water herbs with near-reverent care, his earth-stained fingers moving precisely among magical flowers and fresh vegetables.
As Harry washed up after the task, warm water carrying away dirt and fatigue, his mind wandered freely as it often did during baths. This time, his thoughts settled on the Weasley family's peculiar dynamics—specifically, Percy's place in it all.
Percy was undoubtedly the most serious and reserved of the Weasleys—more so than even Ginny, who, though quiet, still had a sharp gaze and mischievous smile when she loosened up.
Though for some reason, she became visibly nervous whenever Harry was around—something he'd never quite known how to interpret.
Suddenly, a specific memory surfaced in his mind: his first meeting with Percy on the Hogwarts Express, when he and Hermione had been lost, unsure what to do with their trunks. Percy, already sporting his gleaming prefect badge, had spoken to them as if they were particularly slow creatures.
At the time, Harry had genuinely thought they were facing a professor in disguise rather than just an older student.
Now, nearly a year later, the memory was almost comical.
Percy had carried himself with such severity, as if it were inconceivable that two first-years wouldn't know exactly how to behave on the train—as if their parents, whoever they were, should have taught them all this before boarding.
Perhaps Percy truly believed that.
Believed that and that any successful wizard ought to work at the Ministry, but that was another matter entirely.
Harry let out a muffled laugh, picturing Percy's expression again—the slightly upturned nose, the perfectly straight glasses, the voice dripping with an authority he clearly took far too seriously.
During one of their final gnome-tossing rounds before his mandatory nap, as they started launching gnomes over the garden fence, Harry noticed Neville seemed especially pensive—more so than usual.
Neville had been distant lately, as if something weighed on his mind that he couldn't shake.
Harry recognised that look: the same worried, introspective expression he often wore at Hogwarts when something was wrong.
“You all right, Nev?” Harry asked suddenly, tossing a gnome skyward that shrieked insults in its reedy voice.
Neville startled, as if yanked back to reality.
“Eh? Oh... yeah, 'm fine, Harry. Why?” He fumbled a gnome that nearly escaped his grip, prompting high-pitched laughter from its fellows.
Harry studied Neville—something was clearly bothering him. He released his own gnome and turned fully to his friend.
“You seem... distracted. And that's the fifth or sixth pudding you've refused. Not really like you, is it?”
Neville hesitated, avoiding eye contact. He looked almost embarrassed, his cheeks beginning to flush. Finally, he heaved a sigh.
“Well, it's just... I thought I'd lay off sweets for a bit. Doesn't make much sense to you, but... might be for the best.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “No, it really doesn't. Since when do you turn down treacle tart and strawberry trifle? You love those.”
Neville hunched slightly, staring at his feet before continuing in a near-whisper.
“Remember that night?” he asked cautiously. “When we got you out?”
“How could I forget?” Harry replied.
“It's my fault your uncle nearly caught you... If I'd managed to climb that fence properly, you'd have got away much faster. Got tangled in the wire, and you had to stop to help me...”
Harry blinked, surprised, then let out a quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle.
“Nev, you can't be serious. This is why you're skipping pudding?” Harry's eyebrow arched higher.
Neville looked at his dirt-streaked hands folded over his bent knees and nodded.
“S'pose if I'd done it right the first time,” he mumbled weakly, “I could've helped instead of mucking things up like I did.”
Harry sighed, grabbing another gnome and throwing it harder than necessary.
“That wasn't your fault,” he said softly but firmly. “I know you wouldn't leave me behind, and I'd never leave you either. You know that.”
Neville's face still bore traces of guilt.
“But it wasn't fair,” Neville said, grabbing a gnome with oddly professional expertise by its arm and tossing it without receiving insults in return. “We made that plan on the spot, and everything had to be perfect and quick. Truth is, I just got in the way. We took too many risks, and I... nearly ruined everything.”
Harry shook his head, smiling. “Nev. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't even be here to begin with... you're the one who insisted on checking on me, and for that I'm really grateful.”
Neville gave a weak smile, his eyes still full of doubt. “Yeah... Thought it was odd you hadn't replied or sent anything. Didn't seem like you.”
“Not at all,” said Harry, a hint of scorn colouring his voice as he remembered Dobby and the confiscated letters. “I sent loads, nearly ran out of parchment. I didn't have much either, after classes ended there was almost nothing left, even so, I used what I had.”
Parchment, quills and ink were among the few things Vernon allowed him to use.
“At least he didn't hate sheets of paper...” Harry thought sarcastically.
Neville chuckled lightly. “You'd told me. So I was right, wasn't I? Since you write to Hermione every four days.”
Harry snorted a laugh and shook his head.
“Wrote to you and Ron every four days too, so no need to get jealous,” he teased. But then his smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression. “And to settle this guilt of yours—if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here. Full stop, no matter what you think. What's done is done. And look, we're fine now, aren't we? Besides, don't forget you're the one who stopped my trunk from smashing when it hit the ground too.”
Neville gave a timid smile, a visible weight lifting from his shoulders. After a silent moment, he looked at Harry.
“You really think I didn't... mess everything up?”
Harry shook his head firmly. “Not for a second.”
Neville seemed to finally relax before glancing at his stomach and feeling like a useless barrel of butterbeer again.
“But this still bothers me,” he murmured, pointing to his own round belly.
It wasn't news to Harry that Neville thought himself overweight. Sometimes when particularly down, he'd mutter about himself—this being one of the gloomy topics he'd whisper alone before bed or while working. He thought no one heard, but Harry sometimes listened.
Ron launched another gnome over the fence, which unleashed a torrent of curses about Mrs Weasley before disappearing. He approached his friends, brushing dirt off his hands and raising an eyebrow at their pensive expressions.
“What's up? Those long faces because a gnome kicked your arses?”
Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Not yet. They're too short for that.”
Neville chuckled too, his expression softening. “I've just learned about fifteen new swear words today. Your gnomes are incredibly... creative.”
“Oh yeah?” Ron arched an eyebrow with a mischievous grin. “At yours they're polite, is that it?”
Neville shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Not exactly. But Gran makes it very clear that if any swear at family on her property, they'll regret it. Don't know what she'd do, but... they've never tested her patience.”
Ron huffed, crossing his arms. “Maybe we should borrow your gran for a few days. These gnomes respect no one.”
Harry and Neville laughed as another gnome went sailing over the fence, shouting insults that only made Ron mutter something about “needing manners lessons.”
An awkward silence settled, and Ron looked between them, clearly waiting for an explanation of their serious expressions.
“Nev thinks he's fat,” Harry blurted suddenly, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
“I didn't say that! Well... not exactly in those words,” Neville admitted, shaking his head. “But my gran always says I've got a sturdier... build.”
“Oh, come off it! What d'you expect?” Ron said, gesturing dramatically at his friend. “You practically inhaled half of Hogwarts' sweets last year. No wonder!”
“Oi! Look who's talking!” Neville shot back, equal parts amused and indignant as he pointed at Ron. “You eat more than the entire Gryffindor team on practice days without even trying. And that's not counting sweets!”
Ron shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, it's not that hard if you think about it. Harry eats like a bird, and the girls... reckon they only have salad. Probably rationed. Dunno how they even stay upright.”
Harry remembered accidentally overhearing Alicia telling Angelina and Katie in the changing rooms after a gruelling practice that she wouldn’t go on a diet, mainly because she was afraid of losing her boobs and bum size, though her friends called that nonsense. Alicia wasn't remotely overweight—in fact, she had an athletic Quidditch player's build—yet it seemed standard for all three girls to randomly declare themselves fat at times, even though they are much thinner than most of the girls at school.
Harry never understood why they were so worried about something that wasn't true.
Neville sighed in defeat. Comparing Ron's eating habits to the Quidditch team's wasn't helpful—out-eating seven people hardly seemed a challenge for a hungry Ron Weasley.
“You know what I meant...”
Ron hummed exaggeratedly, flashing a cheeky grin. “So how do we fix that sour-pudding face of yours, eh? Any ideas, Harry?”
Harry glanced into the Burrow where a magical broom swept enthusiastically and Molly knitted while dishes washed themselves. An interesting thought began forming.
“If it really bothers you, Nev,” he said slowly, eyes gleaming with excitement, “I think I've got an idea to help...”
A few minutes later, Harry descended the stairs with his beloved Nimbus in hand, followed by Neville who looked ready to faint. His face had gone pale, and his fidgeting hands betrayed his nerves.
“B-b-but I can't fly, Harry!” Neville protested, voice slightly quivering. “I've lost count how many times I've fallen in Flying lessons! Remember when I nearly dislocated my arm and threw my broom at Hannah Abbott? I managed to not only fall myself but take her down too, and you might not remember, but I certainly recall the look she gave me—thought she'd skin me alive right then!”
“That happened once during early lessons—you improved after,” Harry replied with confident smile. “Remember when you helped catch that flying key?”
“But that was life-or-death necessity!” Neville countered, hands now flapping nervously.
Harry shook his head patiently. “You're just traumatised from that first flying lesson. Quirrell isn't here to mess with you anymore, and you passed last year's classes. Madam Hooch would've failed you and put you in remedial lessons this year if she thought you couldn't handle it.”
“Hermione passed too,” Neville pointed out, “and she hates it!”
Harry rolled his eyes impatiently, almost Hermione-style.
“Hermione hates it because she's scared of heights, and Madam Hooch went easy on her during the test when she found out—though she'd never admit it, her test was closer to the ground. You just got nervous in lessons, but I know flying doesn't actually bother you.” He paused and turned, looking directly at his friend. “Or d'you think I'd suggest this if I thought you were scared of heights too?”
Neville stared at him for a moment before looking away with a defeated sigh.
Outside, Fred, George, Ron and Ginny waited, each holding a broom.
The twins had their own professional brooms, the Cleansweep Five, even though these models were over forty years old. Ron and Ginny relied on the cheapest secondhand models money could buy—simple but serviceable. Ron held the spare broom meant for Neville in their improvised game.
Ginny looked as nervous as Neville, perhaps more so, given how she kept glancing at Harry only to look away abruptly whenever he met her gaze.
“Finally!” Ron exclaimed, hoisting the brooms with mixed relief and exasperation. “What took you so bleeding long?”
Harry smirked as he adjusted his glasses. “Nev was trying to convince me this was a terrible idea.”
“Still think so...” Neville murmured so quietly it nearly went unheard, his fingers twisting nervously.
Fred materialised beside him like lightning, clapping him on the back. “Ah, lighten up, Nev! No better way to get fit than a good Quidditch match.”
“And strengthen bones!” George added, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Did you know bones never break in the same place twice?”
Neville's eyes widened, his face paling further.
“B-b-break bones?” his voice cracked.
The twins couldn't contain their laughter at his horrified expression.
Ginny, who'd been watching amusedly, crossed her arms.
“Actually, they can break in the same spot.” All heads turned as she continued, “Remember when I broke my arm? Yeah, twice in the same place. Now I'm aiming to fall and break my legs—be proper annoying if I snap the same arm a third time.”
She laughed at herself, and Harry couldn't help joining in. Hearing him, Ginny flushed so deeply her cheeks resembled coals. She quickly averted her eyes from Harry, noticing Neville—who looked about as stable as melted ice cream on pavement.
“But that won't happen!” she added hastily. “It's rare, and we won't go hard, promise.”
Ron huffed, shooting a murderous look at his older brothers, who grinned like cats who'd swallowed canaries.
“If you're not helping, at least stop sabotaging! D'you know how long I've been trying to get Nev to play?”
Fred pretended to consult an imaginary pocket watch. “Well, by the time—”
“—eighteen days—” George continued.
“—nine hours—”
“—and eight minutes,” Fred concluded with a flourish.
“Pratts,” Ron grumbled, thrusting the spare broom at Neville before he could hesitate further.
“Just relax and don't overthink it, yeah?”
“Erm... right... okay,” Neville replied slowly, clutching the broom like a live grenade.
Harry watched as Neville eyed the broom warily. He just hoped he wouldn't faint mid-air.
They organised teams to balance skills as much as possible. Fred and George would be Keepers while Harry and Neville faced Ron and Ginny. Harry was used to playing almost daily with Ron and the twins, but having Ginny on the pitch was different. He noticed the youngest Weasley seemed genuinely nervous, her face flushed—though not from flying, he was certain of that.
“Must be the sun,” Harry told himself. Ron had mentioned Ginny loved flying since age six, when she'd sneak Charlie's old broom when Molly wasn't looking.
The match proved as clumsy as Harry anticipated. Neville seemed more likely to drop the Quaffle when passed to than actually attempt—and fail—to score. Ginny fared little better; every time Harry neared, she'd somehow fumble, either dropping the Quaffle or colliding with Ron while dodging.
Despite the evident lack of skill and general chaos, Harry was enjoying himself. He'd no idea where the twins conjured so many jokes to commentate, but their humour was infectious.
Fred launched into a deliberately awful Lee Jordan impression:
“And here comes Chaser Ronald Bilius—”
“No need for the full name!” Ron protested.
“Ah, he never liked being named after Uncle Bilius,” Fred continued.
Ron muttered something before seizing an opening, breaking past Harry to score.
“Bad luck, Forge!” said George, saving one of his shots.
“You're putting me off, that's not fair!” Ron finished, sounding cross despite laughing afterward.
Amid laughter and banter, Neville began to relax, shedding some of his initial nervousness. He even attempted to play more determinedly—though in Harry's opinion, he remained utterly dreadful.
Not that Harry blamed him; this was, after all, Neville's first ever Quidditch match.
Harry was pleased to note that no one mocked his lack of skill. Quite the opposite—everyone seemed genuinely chuffed he was participating.
And most importantly: Neville appeared to be enjoying himself, even if he looked visibly knackered by match's end.
In the end, Ron and Ginny won by a considerable margin.
Harry, noticing Ginny could barely keep proper hold of the Quaffle when he tried to block her, took pity and let her score a few times—making a show of effort in the process.
This proved far more entertaining than actually defending, especially when she eyed him suspiciously, as if the game had become too easy.
Fred likewise missed some easy saves, not from lack of trying, but because he'd occasionally get distracted roaring at George's terrible jokes.
When they finally landed and began stowing brooms, Neville was panting and sweaty—but smiling.
“You did alright,” Harry told Neville as they headed back to the house while the others chattered animatedly.
“No need to lie, Harry. I was rubbish.” Neville wiped his brow with a tired grin.
“Oh, come off it!” said Ron, giving his shoulder a light punch. “First match! And it's not like you even like flying, eh?”
“No judgement,” Harry added encouragingly. “Did you have fun?”
Neville shrugged with a small smile. “Wasn't awful...”
Ron nearly bounced with excitement. “So if we asked you to play again...?”
Neville frowned thoughtfully. “Well... maybe?”
Harry arched an eyebrow at Ron. “That's a 'yes' in my book.”
“Wasn't even a question,” Ron laughed, taking Neville's broom to put away.
Back in the kitchen, Molly was preparing pumpkin juice as they arrived, all flushed-faced—the Weasleys particularly so.
She waved her wand, casting a weak Glacius at the jug, instantly chilling the drink and creating tiny orange ice cubes from the juice itself.
As they sat gasping at the table, gulping juice like desert travellers finding water, Molly asked about the match. The conversation soon overflowed with laughter and animated descriptions of the clumsiest plays.
Harry, however, grew pensive as he sipped his sweet drink.
The summer holidays were halfway through, and he'd never had so much fun in his life. Everything felt so natural and joyful in this house, as if the Weasleys' warm, chaotic energy was simply part of daily life.
“Ron's so lucky...” Harry reflected, only drawn back when Ron recounted an especially daft moment from the match.
The following weeks flew by, and Harry barely noticed time passing.
When he wasn't playing Quidditch, adventuring in Hero Path sessions, or helping Ron and Neville search for Trevor—who seemed to possess a special talent for vanishing across the Burrow's five floors—Harry still found time to assist Mr Weasley with his car.
None of the Weasley children appeared particularly interested in helping, perhaps having memorised their father's enthusiastic lectures about Muggle engineering marvels. But Harry enjoyed listening, even when he understood barely half the technical explanations.
He contented himself with observing and occasionally holding tools or tightening bolts, sometimes explaining the purpose of particularly baffling objects that no wizarding textbook would ever mention.
“And what exactly does the yellow rubber duck do?” Arthur once asked with genuine curiosity.
As Harry helped, he noticed something oddly endearing about the car.
At times it seemed almost... alive.
The headlights would blink unexpectedly, as if the vehicle wanted to join conversations, or it emitted peculiar engine growls that sounded more like grumpy opinions than mechanical faults. Harry half-wondered if the car was trying to communicate, though Mr Weasley just laughed.
“Ah, she's got personality, hasn't she, Harry?” Mr Weasley remarked with a smile while tinkering under the bonnet.
“Seems so...”
Harry wasn't certain whether this was delightful or concerning.
Every four or five days, Harry carefully set aside an hour to write to Hermione. Seated at the Burrow's kitchen table with borrowed quill and parchment from Molly, he discovered he cared more about hearing her wellbeing than recounting his own holiday adventures.
His first letter—written the morning after his dramatic arrival—had been primarily an apology. Harry explained in detail about Dobby and how he'd been “rescued” by the Weasleys in a flying car.
“You can't imagine how worried I was!” Hermione had written back, her words practically leaping off the parchment with restrained energy.
The intercepted letters Harry only read later proved this abundantly.
When she noticed that she was being ignored, she bombarded Neville and Ron with so many messages, asking day after day if Harry had replied, which added to Neville's motivation to go and see how he was doing.
Harry always answers Hermione's letters first at Christmas.
“D'you reckon it's because her handwriting's neater?” Neville pondered aloud, making Ron roll his eyes.
But Harry's complete silence had undoubtedly been alarming.
In his letters, Harry chose words carefully, avoiding mentions of Dursley mistreatment or darker escape details. The mere thought of Hermione discovering he'd starved locked in his room or fled with bleeding lacerations made his stomach churn. He'd infinitely prefer her controlled concern to her justified fury at his uncle.
To his relief, Hermione accepted his apologies without pressing for details.
“It wasn't your fault, Harry,” she'd written with a generosity that left him simultaneously grateful and guilty.
He'd even considered confiding more during one stuck moment mid-letter, but it seemed wiser to let the matter die as quickly as possible. That way life could return to normal—no one pitying his Privet Drive state, and himself facing that dark chapter with less bitterness if rarely reminded.
And so, Harry could focus on hearing about her life, observing how her accounts provided a delightful contrast to the Burrow's chaos.
Hermione's letters brimmed with enthusiasm in every line, describing London museums, opera nights, and discoveries in antique bookshops with such vividness that Harry could almost hear her rapid-fire voice—the one she used when particularly excited.
Harry smiled imagining Hermione writing—likely perched at her parents' kitchen table or a bedroom desk if she had one, feet swinging excitedly beneath the chair. Her thoughts probably raced faster than her hands could follow, resulting in that handwriting which grew progressively slanted and hurried as letters progressed, yet never losing its precise legibility.
It was remarkable how she even ruled straight margins on parchment with a ruler, carefully demarcating writing areas for comfortable reading.
Mum has become COMPLETELY obsessed with French Polynesia! After months of research, we've decided to holiday there next! That's why we cancelled our Bordeaux trip—poor Dad was so looking forward to the wines, but Mum found this Pacific Islands guide and simply hasn't thought of anything else since!
Harry could practically see Hermione shaking her head with amused exasperation as she wrote, her brown curls tumbling forward as she leaned over the desk.
They're planning at least three weeks—three weeks, Harry! That's if they don't extend it, they always extend trips! Apparently you need ages to explore the different islands. Tahiti, Bora Bora and even Moorea. The names sound so exotic, don't they? Mum's already papered our home library with maps and photos of white sand beaches, and Dad spent all last night explaining coral reefs, fishing spots and—
Here Hermione's handwriting became even more frantic, letters tilting dangerously toward the parchment's edge as if her hands couldn't keep pace with the information flood.
—though I've no idea which islands we'll actually visit! Mum changes her mind whenever she discovers new attractions. Just yesterday she was set on Huahine, but this morning she read about Fakarava's caves and well, you know how it is! Though knowing Mum, she'll grow so indecisive that Dad will convince her to stay put on one island and simply relax without hopping about. Honestly, that sounds fair—they work so hard, they deserve proper rest, don't you think? Just feet in the sand eating prawns and watching the sea—they enjoy those completely stationary holidays too, believe it or not. Ophthalmology tires them more than they let on.
Harry smiled imagining Mrs. Granger dashing about with travel guides while Mr. Granger patiently accommodated her itinerary changes. Perhaps this was exactly the meticulous enthusiasm Hermione had inherited—that same determination making her dive headfirst into every new project, whether an essay for Professor Binns or locating some remote South Pacific island.
Harry, whose geographical knowledge vaguely extended to continents, imagined a distant, sun-drenched place with white sand beaches and azure waters. A place where no one would look twice at a lightning-shaped scar or ask about his dead parents.
For a brief moment, Harry felt a tightening in his chest—not because of the exotic destination Hermione’s parents were planning to visit, but for something far simpler: the ordinary, almost mundane fact that she had living parents to dream of family holidays with.
It was rare for Harry to envy others, but in moments like these—when the topic turned to family holidays or the small, everyday plans—he felt an absence no magical feat, no incredible Quidditch victory, no good grade, no remarkable achievement could ever fill.
Nothing.
Nothing could replace it. What would it be like to have someone—anyone—to send Christmas letters to who was actually family? Or who’d ask about his grades, or who’d simply be there when he came home?
The silence grew heavier as Harry imagined, not for the first time, what it might be like to have a family to mention casually in conversation—the way all his friends did, without even realising the privilege they had.
He sighed as he gazed out the Burrow's window.
Sometimes dark thoughts about his parents surfaced... about what might have been.
But this was a fleeting melancholy in his chest that soon passed.
Perhaps the “what ifs” would follow him forever, and with each passing day, he needed to learn to live with them as more experiences shaped him.
Despite the holiday's constant fun, homework loomed like a stubborn cloud they'd been avoiding for days.
Finally, one evening shortly before Harry and Neville's birthdays, they decided to face their assignments.
The three gathered in Ron's cramped bedroom after dinner. The orange-walled space, already small, now seemed tinier with scattered parchment rolls, ink bottles, and textbooks. Every Chudley Cannons poster appeared to vibrate in the flickering lamplight.
“Don't see what the fuss is about,” grumbled Ron, flopping onto his bed as Neville organised parchment on their makeshift desk—Ron's bed serving as seating. “We've loads of time. Your birthdays haven't even happened yet, so we've over a month to.”
“I'd rather get things done early,” Neville interjected. “And truthfully, I don't fancy hearing Hermione lecture us about irresponsibility.”
Harry had to admit Hermione approached everything with relentless dedication—the kind of commitment that bordered on exasperating when she caught others neglecting what she deemed important.
“Then lecture her about Herbology!” Ron retorted, shrugging. “You're good at it—bet she doesn't finish that before you—”
“She does,” Harry cut in swiftly.
Ron huffed. “But the essays—”
“Those too. Definitely.” Harry interrupted again.
“You don't even know what I was going to say!”
“Don't need to. You know she does.” Harry shrugged.
A beat of silence passed before all three burst into laughter.
“Harry's got a point,” Neville noted. “And the day I lecture Hermione, you can declare the apocalypse.”
Harry, skimming parchment for where he'd left off, gave a small smile.
“If she's already hounding us by letter to do homework, imagine what she'll say if we show up at Hogwarts empty-handed.”
That convinced Ron, who groaned reluctantly. “Fine, fine. But only to avoid her haunting us like a ghost!”
Thus, after some tidying, the room became an improvised study space—with more grumbling and laughter than any professor would approve of.
Between essays, they chatted animatedly about their hopes for the coming term. Neville was particularly eager to work with mandrakes, which he knew would dominate Herbology's early lessons after Professor Sprout had mentioned their growth cycle last year.
Ron, as usual, had his head turned towards Quidditch, speculating about Oliver’s plans to finally win the Quidditch Cup and trying to guess how the other house teams would perform.
“What about you, Harry? What d’you wanna see most this year?” asked Ron, absentmindedly scribbling on his Charms essay.
“I bet it’s something to do with Transfiguration,” said Neville with conviction, not lifting his eyes from his parchment.
“Wouldn’t expect less from McGonagall’s pride,” Ron sneered with a muffled laugh.
The truth was, Harry was curious to discover what his second year had in store for him. Though Transfiguration was his favourite, something had been drawing his attention to another subject—one he barely admitted aloud.
“I’m curious about what we’ll learn in Potions this year,” he said casually, not looking up from his essay—which, coincidentally, happened to be about rare potion ingredients.
The sound of scratching quills stopped instantly.
Ron and Neville looked up, startled, exchanging glances as if checking whether they’d heard the same thing or were going mad.
“Come again?” said Ron, wrinkling his nose as if Harry had said something utterly absurd.
“Potions isn’t that bad,” Harry replied, shrugging, scribbling another line about the explosive properties of Erumpent fluid. “I mean, it could be interesting, right, if you study it the right way—like focusing on the good bits and just slogging through the boring parts for lessons and end-of-year tests, you know?”
Neville looked ready to choke. “Er… you remember who teaches it, right?”
“Snape’s a git,” Harry admitted, finally looking up to meet their stares. “But that doesn’t change the fact the subject itself is fascinating. I mean, if it weren’t him teaching, d’you reckon it’d be different?”
“Anyone’d be better than him, honestly,” Neville muttered, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the mere thought of Snape.
Ron shrugged, still sceptical.
“Maybe… but dunno. We’ve only had that greasy bat, and even aside from him being foul, half the subject’s still about squeezing blind-worm's… and that’s somehow worse than him.” He wrinkled his nose as if smelling it just then. “Not to mention that stinking dungeon makes me queasy. Everything reeks of fermented potion.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “Really? Blimey, d’you reckon your brilliant conclusion has something to do with it being called Potions?”
Neville let out a snort, and Harry got a half-hearted thump on the arm from Ron, who couldn’t quite suppress a grin.
“Very funny,” Ron grumbled, returning to his essay with a stubborn smile. “But seriously—Potions? You never seemed to like it.”
Harry shrugged, keeping his eyes on his parchment. “When I was in the hospital wing, after… everything with the Philosopher’s Stone, remember I told you Dumbledore came to talk to me?”
Neville flinched, his quill nearly slipping.
“About You-Know-Who still being alive?” he asked in a shaky voice.
Ron swallowed hard but said nothing, staring intently at his Charms essay.
“That wasn’t all we talked about,” Harry continued. “I asked him about my mum.”
The silence in the room grew heavy.
Neville bit his lip, while Ron hesitated before finally looking up at Harry, his expression caught between curiosity and reluctance.
“What’d he say?” Ron asked quietly.
“He said her favourite subject was Potions. And I just… well, I wanted to know why.”
The melancholy weight in his voice was unmistakable.
It was strange—and painful—realising how little he knew about his parents. To the point of clinging to something as small as his mother’s preference for a subject. And, ironically, that subject was taught by the professor he hated most.
After a moment’s silence, Ron gave Harry’s shoulder a reassuring thump.
“If it makes sense to you, it makes sense to me, mate” he said with a classic, lopsided Weasley grin—the sort that always had a friend’s back.
Harry nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips, and the three returned to their work.
The room filled again with the soft sound of quills scratching parchment, mingled with the creak of Ron’s old bed whenever they shifted.
Later, when Ron left to shower, leaving Harry and Neville alone, the mood turned more introspective. Harry was packing his things into his trunk when he heard Neville’s hesitant voice.
“Hey, Harry.”
“Yeah?” He looked up at Neville, hands still holding a scroll of parchment.
Neville was slightly hunched, shoulders drooping, one hand gripping his opposite arm.
He seemed to want to say something but didn’t know how to start.
Harry noticed and waited patiently, giving him time to find the words.
After a moment’s hesitation, Neville cleared his throat, glancing at the dark window.
“I get what you meant about Potions,” he said carefully, then met Harry’s eyes with more resolve. “My mum… she loved Herbology. And I… I think I understand what you’re saying. You just want…”
He didn’t finish, but Harry understood. A quiet weight hung between them, full of mutual understanding.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Harry said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed and dropping the parchment.
Neville gave a slight nod, lips pressed tight as if fearing words might betray him.
“I reckon… sometimes, it’s all we’ve got,” Harry continued. “A piece of them, even if it’s small.”
Neville offered a timid smile.
“Yeah, s’pose so.”
The two lapsed into silence for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the sort of silence that didn’t need filling—an understanding that didn’t need words.
Neville celebrated his twelfth birthday that Thursday—a simple but pleasant day.
Lunch was plentiful, and his grandmother had been invited, bringing with her a cake with twelve carefully decorated candles. The day passed like any other at the Burrow, full of excitement, but with the difference that the attention was focused on Neville, the birthday boy.
Fred and George, of course, didn’t miss the chance to prepare one of their famous pranks.
After lunch, while Neville read peacefully under the shade of a tree, his book open on his lap and the breeze gently rustling the pages, the twins were hiding nearby, whispering and stifling giggles.
Without him noticing, they lit a firecracker right behind the tree.
BAM!
The bang was so loud that Harry, Ron, and Ginny, who were in the kitchen, came running to see what had happened.
Neville jumped so high that the book he was reading flew into the air. Before he could even process what was going on, the heavy volume landed squarely on his head with a dull thud.
The result? Him on the ground, clutching his head where a nasty bump would soon form.
For a moment, Fred and George froze, exchanging looks that said, “Did he faint?”
But then Neville rubbed his head, looking dazed and mildly offended.
“You’re nutters!” he shouted, still sitting on the ground, while the twins doubled over laughing, leaning on each other for support.
“Just a little jump scare, Nev!” Fred managed between guffaws. “Gets the blood pumping and the heart racing!”
George, unsuccessfully trying to contain his laughter, added, “Your face—priceless! And the book flying? That was a bonus!”
Despite the fright, Neville eventually let out a hesitant chuckle, still rubbing his head.
It was impossible to stay mad at the twins for long. After all, it was their way of saying “Happy Birthday.”
The next morning—a quiet Friday—Harry woke with the distinct feeling that something was about to happen.
It was his birthday this time, and he knew full well the twins wouldn’t pull the same trick as they had on Neville. That’d be too obvious.
He expected anything: a prank, a trick, some surprise—but, to his astonishment, the house was eerily quiet.
When he walked into the kitchen that morning, he found all the Weasleys and Neville gathered around the table, smiling warmly at him and chorusing, “Happy Birthday!”—with no hint of whatever mischief might be coming.
Harry eyed the twins, expecting to see a mischievous grin or a knowing glance between them.
But nothing.
They were… unnervingly normal. No snickering, no conspiratorial looks.
Harry frowned, suspicious. After a while, he shrugged.
Later, as he prepared to head out for a game of Quidditch in the garden, Harry went to the shed to fetch his Nimbus. He reached for it, but the moment he touched the handle, a small snap sounded, and something seemed to give way. Before he could react, the cupboard where the broom was leaning burst open, and from inside, a white pie flew straight into his face.
“The bloody gits actually did it,” he muttered, laughing at himself.
He wiped his glasses, cleared the cream from his face, and instinctively glanced out the window.
Outside, the twins were crouched behind the fence, howling with laughter. Harry swiped a finger through the cream and, without thinking, licked it.
“At least it’s whipped cream,” he murmured to himself. “And it’s actually good?”
Leaving the shed with his Nimbus in hand, he’d already eaten most of the cream and washed his face, satisfied to show he wouldn’t be fazed.
When he stepped outside, the twins saw him and nearly collapsed laughing.
Ginny, Neville, and Ron watched in confusion, baffled by the commotion.
“He ate the—” George started, wheezing between breaths.
“—whole bloody lot!” Fred finished, still cackling.
Harry, however, didn’t seem bothered. He smirked and shrugged.
“Yeah, I did. So?”
The twins exchanged knowing glances.
“You’re gonna have that hair—”
“—like that all week!”
“What?” Harry stared at them, bewildered.
“Er… your hair’s blue,” Neville explained slowly, as if speaking to someone who’d missed the obvious.
“My—what?!” Harry demanded, then sprinted back into the shed.
When he found the first available mirror, he looked. His hair was as wild and untamed as ever, but now undeniably turquoise blue.
For the next five minutes, he chased the twins around the garden with his Nimbus, trying to catch them as they whooped and dodged with expert broom manoeuvres.
And though he looked, at the very least, ridiculous—Harry wasn’t angry. After all, this was shaping up to be the best birthday he’d ever had.
Neville return to his grandmother’s house the next day and spend the rest of the summer with her.
Before leaving, they played one last game of Quidditch in the Burrow’s garden. The days Neville had spent practising had shown some progress, and he was, surprisingly, better than when he’d started.
Less dreadful, so to speak.
Shortly after, his grandmother appeared, stern as usual but pleased to see he looked happy.
With an awkward hug for his friends, Neville was taken home, Apparating alongside Mrs Longbottom.
Though they missed Neville, Ron and Harry’s days remained lively.
It was impossible to spend a day at the Burrow without laughing or getting into some sort of mischief, especially with Fred and George always around. Ron, in particular, had an impressive talent for dreaming up creative prank ideas.
On sweltering sunny days, they spent hours bathing in the nearby lake—now unfortunately without Neville, but just as much fun, splashing each other, tossing water upwards, and racing to see who could swim fastest.
Harry hadn’t needed the bandages for a while now—Molly’s hard work and motherly attention had been half the reason for his speedy recovery. Still, when they’d first started going to the lake to swim, Harry had always insisted on wearing a shirt so no one would see his wounds until they’d fully healed.
Harry, still sporting the blue hair from the twins’ prank, had begun getting used to the unusual look; it was odd, but not altogether terrible. Mrs Weasley had given the twins a firm telling-off, but Harry reassured her, saying he didn’t mind.
“See, Mum? He even likes it!” George remarked, trying to argue his case.
His mother’s stern, reproachful glare stopped him from saying another word on the matter.
Two days after Neville’s departure, Ron had an idea.
“Fancy going out for a bit of exploring?” he suggested as they left the breakfast table. “We could take Wizard’s Chess and play somewhere different. I’m sick of losing to you in my bedroom.”
“You’ll get demolished anywhere—my two wins this summer were the most painful you’ve ever had, admit it,” Harry said with mock solemnity.
Ron grinned roguishly. “Never. But that’s already more than you deserve—gotta even the score. That’s why I was thinking we’d go to the woods.”
“The woods?” Harry asked, curious.
“It’s nice there. According to Charlie, fresh air helps oxygenate the brain—he said he walks through one near the reserve sometimes, usually after breathing too much dragon-fire smoke. But I’ll admit it might be my strategic advantage against you too,” Ron explained in a tone that almost sounded serious, tucking the portable board under his arm.
“Since when do you love nature?” Harry asked, amused.
“Oh, you know me, James,” Ron replied, gesturing theatrically. “Always been a man of letters. That woods inspires the deep poetry I’ve been writing.”
“Poetry, eh?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Might I have the honour of hearing one?”
“Nah,” Ron shook his head with false superiority. “I don’t share my art with the unappreciative.”
They walked in silence for a while until Harry broke it.
“I’ve got a poem about you.”
“Go on,” Ron challenged without hesitation.
“Bilius, Bilius…”
“Already hate this one.” Ron shook his head.
Harry carried on unperturbed.
“In Potions, you’re hopeless, a real walking bomb—
Snape ducks for cover when you come along.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” Ron said sarcastically but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Even if I do like the idea of nearly hitting Snape with some ‘accident’—” he made air quotes “—that sounds more like Nev or even Seamus than me.”
“Couldn’t think of a rhyme for ‘supporting the worst Quidditch team in the league.’ My bad,” Harry shrugged.
“I’ll think of one for ‘blue hair’ next time,” Ron taunted.
“Rhyme all you like—my stylish hair matches the clear sky and crystal rivers,” Harry shot back with a satisfied grin.
“Or the bathroom tile” Ron teased.
As they laughed, they passed a thick-trunked tree that seemed to mark the entrance to a quieter part of the woods.
“I wanna punch myself now,” Ron sighed suddenly.
“Why don’t you? Need help?” Harry arched an eyebrow.
Ron snorted. “No, cheers… Just thinking we could’ve brought Nev here too.”
“What, to walk in the woods?”
“Yeah. Always forget it’s an option. Fred and George aren’t keen on coming.”
Harry just nodded, thinking for a moment. He nearly asked why Ron didn’t invite Percy but quickly dismissed the idea. Percy didn’t seem the type for casual strolls—he’d probably scorn the notion.
“Truly a fascinating wildlife,” Harry joked, looking around.
There wasn’t a living soul in sight besides them.
“’Course there is,” Ron replied, pretending to be an expert. “Over there, for instance, are the rare magically invisible rodents.”
He pointed at empty air with grave seriousness.
They laughed loudly as birdsong and rustling leaves filled the woodland silence, along with the crunch of dry foliage underfoot.
Eventually, they found the stream.
It wound between rounded stones, water flowing gently. A few leaves drifted down and were carried by the current, making the scene even more serene.
It was, indeed, a perfect spot for a chess match.
Harry, however, noticed they weren’t alone. Further ahead, a girl was humming softly while gathering mushrooms.
She wore a lime-green dress so bright it hurt the eyes, and a crown of pink flowers adorned her head.
Ron immediately grabbed Harry’s arm.
“Merlin, it’s Luna Lovegood,” he whispered urgently, as if she were some sort of danger.
“And… what’s the problem?” Harry asked, equally quiet, not taking his eyes off her.
“She’s a bit… you know… herself,” Ron answered hesitantly.
“Uh…”
“The sort who actually believes in invisible rodents.”
“Oh.” Harry raised both eyebrows.
Luna, however, seemed to notice them. She turned calmly and stared.
Her dirty-blonde hair, nearly waist-length, was unevenly cut yet peculiarly stylish. Pale skin accentuated her large, permanently surprised blue eyes.
“Hello, Ronald,” she said in a dreamy, calm voice as she approached, tucking mushrooms into a handmade bag.
“Er… hi, Luna,” Ron replied, clearly uncomfortable. “Harry, this is Luna Lovegood. My neighbour.”
“Hello, Harry Potter,” said Luna, clasping her hands behind her back and examining him head to toe without pretence.
“Hi… you know me?” Harry asked, surprised.
“Of course,” Luna replied serenely. “Everyone does. But I don’t think anyone knows you with blue hair.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair awkwardly as Luna kept staring with that distant yet curious gaze. She tilted her head slightly, as if appraising artwork.
“I like it,” she said suddenly. “Suits you. Blue’s the colour of serenity and trust, did you know?”
Harry flushed slightly at the compliment.
“Didn’t know, but… thanks,” he replied, torn between embarrassment and confusion.
He shot a sidelong glance at Ron, who seemed to be holding his breath.
“Your red hair’s lovely too, Ronald,” she observed in the same tone. “Red’s the colour of passion.”
“Oh, er… cool,” Ron mumbled, his face turning the shade of said passion.
Luna bent to pluck another mushroom by the stream, her flower crown swaying.
“Come to play chess here? It’s a very good spot. The big rocks help reflect the pieces’ movements.”
Ron seemed to choke on his own saliva.
“Yeah. That’s… that’s right,” he said quickly, adjusting the board under his arm as if to prove his purpose.
“You shouldn’t sit by the tree on the left,” Luna continued. “Nargles gather there. They’re not aggressive, but they can be… unpredictable.”
“The what?” Harry frowned.
“Nargles,” Luna explained, vaguely pointing to a shaded area. “Tiny creatures, invisible to untrained eyes. They love hiding in tree roots. Can tangle your thoughts and steal your things if they think you’re trespassing.”
Harry opened his mouth, but Ron cut in hastily.
“Right, we’ll, uh… avoid that tree then. Cheers for the warning, Luna. Really.”
Luna gave a serene smile and began to leave but paused.
“Oh, Ronald, tell your mother her Diricrawls are hiding in the pumpkin patch. Saw two yesterday. They might eat or spoil the smaller sprouts.”
“I’ll… let her know,” Ron muttered, utterly bewildered.
Luna gave a slight wave, turned, and resumed mushroom-picking, humming an unfamiliar tune.
“Diricrawls?” Harry asked, eyebrow raised.
“Don’t ask,” Ron grumbled, striding in the opposite direction. “Just… let’s set up the board.”
Harry took a last glance at Luna, who seemed utterly absorbed in her own world. He couldn’t help smiling.
“She’s… different,” Harry remarked as they sat by the stream.
“You should hear her on Wrackspurts,” Ron said. “They ‘fly in your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,’ apparently.”
Harry shrugged, amused. “Well, at least she didn’t try to throw a custard pie in my face.”
Ron gave a short laugh. “There’s still time.”
They began the game, laughter echoing through the woods as the stream murmured beside them.
Golden late-afternoon light filtered through the high branches, and the air smelled of damp earth.
Harry felt strangely at ease—yet a curious shiver ran down his spine, raising the hairs on his neck.
Maybe it was just his imagination… or maybe something in his aura was reacting.
Without quite knowing why, his thoughts drifted to Hermione as Ron pondered his moves.
How was she?
What was she doing?
It’d only been three days since her last letter, but suddenly, that felt too long.
Maybe he ought to write again.
Soon, they’d need to buy school supplies—they could all go together, couldn’t they?
And soon, he would return to Hogwarts.
To his real home.
Chapter 18: Why Not Take a Flying Car?
Chapter Text
Harry was fast asleep, the covers pulled nearly over his head, as usual.
The sound of Ron’s snores echoed through the room, a steady rhythm. Scabbers was asleep on his back in a little bed made for him, emitting a high-pitched wheeze. Hedwig was perched on a nearby stand, her feathers ruffled in a slight tremble.
His beloved messenger owl had been difficult lately.
Though Harry had never—and never would—confine her to her cage since arriving at the Burrow, it seemed the time spent locked up at the Dursleys’ had left its mark.
Sometimes, he spoke to her, trying to soothe her.
“It’s over, Hedwig,” he murmured softly, hoping his voice might calm her.
But whenever her cage entered her line of sight, she tensed, and Harry couldn’t help but worry. He was beginning to consider leaving Hedwig in the Weasleys’ care—they treated her as if she were at a spa, with endless treats and freedom—or asking Professor McGonagall about keeping her in the Owlery at Hogwarts, should he be forced to return to the Dursleys next summer.
He murmured something softly in his sleep—it sounded pleasant, whatever it was.
Harry turned over in bed, finding the cold side of the pillow, and buried his face in the soft fabric. Despite it being summer, the night was unusually chilly, and he, without realising, had wrapped the thicker blanket tightly around himself—clutching it as though it might slip away. The scent of freshly laundered sheets brought a simple comfort, and he sighed, sinking deeper into peaceful sleep.
Then, something moved in the room.
The door creaked open slowly, without a sound.
Two slender shadows slipped in stealthily, moving with absolute care. Each carried an air-filled package in their hands, and their footsteps were so light that even Ron’s snores didn’t falter.
PAH!
The noise exploded like a gunshot.
“AH!” Ron let out a high-pitched yelp, rolled off the bed, and hit the floor with a thud.
Harry leapt up in shock, and if he’d been a cat, he’d have dug his claws into the ceiling with his fur on end, heart racing.
Scabbers squeaked and tumbled off the bedside table where he’d been sleeping, landing with a heavy thump on the floor, while Hedwig flapped her wings violently.
The shadows revealed themselves with near-synchronised laughter.
Fred and George.
Of course. Who else could it be?
“Merlin, what the hell was that?!” Harry gasped, hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath.
“Good morning, noble sleeping maidens!” the twins chorused in unison, their tone absurdly theatrical.
“Breakfast is served for your excellencies,” announced Fred in a pompous accent, bowing exaggeratedly.
“Should you grace us by joining us downstairs, we shall be eternally grateful,” added George, mimicking a devoted butler.
Ron got up slowly, his hair mussed and face flushed with irritation. He hated being woken like this, and the twins knew it.
“You’re absolute ruddy menaces,” he grumbled angrily, rubbing his eyes. “Why, in Merlin’s name, did you have to do that? Trying to give Scabbers a heart attack? He’s old enough as it is!”
“Ah, Ronnikins, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” said Fred airily, waving a hand as if what they’d done was nothing.
“You were taking too long to get up—”
“—And Mum asked us to wake you gently—”
“—So we obeyed like the very model of helpful, dutiful sons—”
“As always,” they finished together, with identical, mischievous grins.
“Yeah, yeah, just sod off,” said Ron, exasperated, practically shoving his brothers out of the door.
BAM!
Ron slammed the door with a bang that shook the walls of the Burrow. The sound echoed through the house like thunder, and the redhead froze suddenly, his shoulders tensing as if expecting a hex.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his freckles seeming to burn with guilt against his pale face—he knew exactly what was coming next.
“RONALD WEASLEY!”
Molly Weasley’s voice cut through the air like a whip, rising from the depths of the ground floor with the force of an enraged dragon. The teacups on the table rattled, and even the magical family clock, which displayed all the Weasleys in various states, trembled—Ron’s hand now flickered between “MORTAL PERIL” and “HOME”.
“IF YOU SLAM THAT DOOR ONE MORE TIME, I SWEAR TO MERLIN I’M COMING UP THERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”
There were many things Molly Weasley wouldn’t tolerate.
The Burrow could be chaotic, noisy, full of random cracks and twin-induced mayhem—but under no circumstances was slamming a door ever acceptable.
It was a crime nearly as grave as traipsing mud-soaked shoes across the carpet—leaving marks on the floor that, though easily cleaned with magic, she always ended up scrubbing—, or staying up past curfew.
But the worst of all, the unforgivable sin, was talking back during one of her tellings-off.
Ron gulped, opening the door again carefully, as though it might bite.
Fred and George were there, leaning against the wall with grins stretching ear to ear, eyes alight with amusement—clearly hoping he’d land himself in even more trouble.
“Sorry!” Ron yelled, his voice higher and shriller than he intended, desperately hoping it might quell the maternal fury that would surely come storming upstairs any second.
He glared at the twins, his eyes blazing, and began shoving them silently toward the lower floor while they laughed, narrowly avoiding a kick to their backsides from their younger brother.
Having dealt with the immediate crisis, he shut the door with extreme care, let out the breath he’d been holding, and dragged a hand down his face.
Harry rubbed his eyes, still groggy, and put on his glasses. When he looked at Ron, he couldn’t help a wide grin.
“What?” Ron asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.
“That was a truly majestic scream you let out earlier. Very… manly,” said Harry, barely suppressing a laugh.
“Piss off, Harry!”
Not long after, the two headed downstairs for breakfast.
The morning promised to be eventful, as they’d arranged to meet Neville and Hermione in Diagon Alley to buy their school supplies for the year.
The date had been set for ages, and Harry still wasn’t sure if he was more excited or embarrassed. It had been less than a week since the twins’ birthday prank, turning his hair a vibrant blue that seemed impossible to undo, despite Molly’s attempts at Transfiguration.
The charm and potion work Fred and George had laced into the whipped cream was medal-worthy in its execution.
Molly had even suggested postponing the Diagon Alley trip, worried about Harry’s discomfort, but he’d refused.
To him, rearranging everything over some colourful hair was overkill—especially since his hair had never been one of his strong points anyway. Besides, he was learning not to care so much what people thought; it wasn’t his hair that drew stares, but his scar.
Another reason to stick to the plan was the special event that morning, which seemed to have caused quite a stir among the women of the house. Mrs Weasley was especially eager to meet him, while Ginny, though trying to play it cooler, had a gleam of anticipation in her eyes. Even Hermione—to Harry’s surprise—had devoted an entire paragraph to the subject in her last letter, rambling with an enthusiasm usually reserved for rare books or academic topics she liked to discuss with him.
The reason for all this excitement had a name:
Gilderoy Lockhart.
The acclaimed author of Gadding with Ghouls and other bestsellers about his adventures against Dark creatures would be launching his newest book at Flourish and Blotts that very day. His tales of bravery against werewolves, banshees, and other dangerous beasts had not only earned him fame and fortune but had also made him the most sought-after heartthrob in the wizarding world.
“It’s a proper spectacle for the opposite sex,” Fred had remarked the day before, with a mischievous grin.
“From little girls to married witches,” George added, laughing. “They all want a glimpse of the bloke who stars in magical theatre productions and never misses the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts awards at The Wyrd Wynd in Glasgow.”
“And why all this fuss over this bloke? Just for that?” Harry asked.
“Look, I don’t fancy blokes, so these aren’t my words—” George started to say.
“Here comes your excuse," Fred teased “always knew there was something off about you, brother.”
“Piss off!” George punched him lightly on the shoulder. “But back to the point—it’s basically ’cause Lockhart’s a looker. Loads of girls just see him and fancy him for that. Girl stuff, I reckon. Not much more to it, but that’s why they’ll defend the bloke tooth and nail sometimes.”
Harry deduced that Gilderoy Lockhart must be to wizards what George Michael was to Muggles—with the crucial difference that one wrestled monsters in deadly situations and sold books about it, while the other sang and sold albums about heartbreak.
Though he’d never seen Lockhart in person, Harry imagined he was the sort to make witches shriek in voices so high-pitched they could shatter glass, burst eardrums, or even faint from sheer excitement—behaviour Harry found profoundly absurd and ridiculous.
Celebrity gossip had never captivated him in the Muggle world, and apparently, the magical world wasn’t so different in that regard.
“Women being women... what else d’you expect?” Ron muttered as the two whispered about it, descending the stairs extra slowly. “And the worst part is they always claim it’s us—the blokes—who get obsessed with witches. Makes any sense to you?”
Harry frowned.
“I’m not obsessed with witches,” he replied, shaking his head vehemently.
“Neither am I!” Ron agreed. “But look at Fred and George—those two turn completely unbearable when the subject comes up. Mention anything even slightly related and they start waggling their eyebrows like mad. Percy pretends he doesn’t, but he’s just as bad. And Bill and Charlie went through that phase too, if I remember right.”
“D’you reckon we’ll end up like that?” Harry asked, genuinely intrigued. “Seems... well, daft, to be honest.”
“Bet we won’t,” Ron said, lowering his voice further. “Mum doesn’t know, but Fred charmed their bedroom door. If someone unauthorised walks in—meaning anyone but them, since they know how to disable it—the posters of Merly Bright and Susan Milan in bikinis turn into the Weird Sisters wearing winter cloaks.”
Harry couldn’t help a grin. “Brilliant.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But if Mum finds out, reckon they’ll be chucked straight into the gnome garden—upside down this time.”
“And how exactly d’you know about this?” Harry arched an eyebrow.
Ron gave a lopsided smirk. “They think they’re clever, but not half as clever as they think.”
After a hearty breakfast, the Burrow dissolved into its usual loud, cheerful chaos.
Eight people were dashing about, getting dressed and ready for their day in Diagon Alley. Harry was relieved not to worry about his clothes fitting anymore; with a few flicks of her wand, Mrs Weasley could adjust any garment to fit him perfectly. He pulled on his least-faded pair of jeans and a short-sleeved white Muggle t-shirt with a washed-out print of what had once been palm trees and a beach—now so worn it barely resembled a photograph.
“It's vintage,” he told his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Time seemed to drag until everyone was finally ready, but at last, the group assembled in the living room before the fireplace.
It was funny how they were all wearing button-up shirts in a style that blended Muggle and wizard fashion, while Harry stood out clearly in something that looked undeniably, unapologetically Muggle—just a plain t-shirt and jeans.
Then Ron explained how they'd get to Diagon Alley.
“Floo Network, fastest way there,” he said.
“Floo Network?” Harry asked, watching the family's movements with curiosity.
“Of course, dear. It's one of the easiest ways to travel in the wizarding world. Never used it before?” asked Mrs Weasley kindly, holding a small pouch that appeared to be full of glittering powder.
Harry shook his head. “No... I've Side-Along Apparated once, but never this.”
“Well, it's quite simple,” Molly explained, taking a pinch of the powder. “You just take a bit of this powder, step into the fireplace, throw it at your feet, and say your destination clearly. And I do mean clearly,” she emphasised, giving him a serious look.
Harry frowned, slightly apprehensive. “What happens if I say the wrong name?”
“Best not to find out,” Fred replied with a sideways grin.
“Saves a lot of bother later,” George added, wearing an identical mischievous expression.
“Why?” Harry asked, already dreading the answer.
“Because you might end up somewhere completely different,” Ron explained, shaking his head as though this were obvious.
“No need to worry, Harry,” said Mr Weasley with a reassuring smile. “I'll go first and show you how it's done.”
Arthur took a handful of the glittering powder and stepped into the fireplace.
“Diagon Alley,” he declared clearly before tossing the powder down. Immediately, emerald flames engulfed him, and he vanished.
“See? Quite straightforward,” said Mrs Weasley encouragingly. “Now you have a go. And don't fret—the flames don't burn,” she added, handing him the pouch. “Oh! And keep your elbows tucked in—yes, just like that, tight to your sides.”
Harry took a deep breath, grabbed a generous pinch of the magical powder, and positioned himself in the fireplace. Feeling all eyes on him, he grew slightly nervous and blurted out:
“Dygnally!” as he threw the powder at his feet.
The green flames swallowed him in a blink, and he disappeared.
“What did he say?” Ron asked, bewildered.
“Something like 'Diganal Allay'?” suggested Ginny, frowning.
A young woman—no older than twenty-three—was softly singing as she chopped vegetables to add to a bubbling cauldron of stew.
Her singing was abruptly cut off by a startled yelp when Harry appeared out of thin air, quite literally spat out of the sooty, smoke-filled kitchen fireplace.
He skidded across the floor and, before he could recover, slammed his back against an unsteady shelf, sending something crashing onto his head with a thud.
An open bag of flour emptied its contents over him in an instant, coating him in white.
His glasses clattered to the floor, one lens cracked.
“Cough! Cough!” He spluttered, sending more flour dust swirling around him.
“Merlin's beard! Who are you?” the girl exclaimed, eyes wide with shock.
Harry tried to answer, but instead coughed again, releasing another cloud of flour as he groped blindly to stand up.
The young woman, realising he needed help, rushed over and hauled him to his feet. When her eyes fell on the scar on Harry's forehead, she gulped audibly.
“Blimey, you're... Harry Potter!”
“That's my name,” he croaked, brushing futilely at the coating of flour, soot and grime now covering his clothes.
He gave a humourless smile at his reflection in a nearby copper pot, then picked up his glasses, lips thinning when he saw the cracked lens.
“Brilliant, now I look properly ridiculous. Well done, Potter,” he thought, chastising himself. “Now even my glasses are broken.”
She was staring at him with something close to awe, as though he were a museum exhibit.
“Sorry, I... didn't expect you to arrive like this,” she said with a nervous laugh, handing him a towel.
“Covered in soot, flour, and with blue hair?” Harry replied, trying for levity.
She gave a small chuckle. “Yeah, something like that. I'm Amelia, by the way. Are you okay? You didn't get hurt, did you?”
Harry managed a weak smile, still dusting flour off his shoulders. “No, just my dignity took a bit of a beating.”
Amelia laughed softly before turning back to her cauldron. “Fair enough. I was starting to think I'd have to chuck this whole batch thanks to the mess you made,” she teased, gesturing at the floury chaos.
Harry looked around, noticing the kitchen was actually quite cosy. The walls were lined with shelves of ingredient jars, recipe books and magical utensils. The smell of cooking food was delicious, and the place had a peaceful air despite the minor disruption caused by his dramatic entrance.
“I... didn't mean to cause all this fuss,” Harry began, still embarrassed. “I'm sort of new at this. Floo travel isn't exactly the gentlest way to arrive.”
“It's alright, don't worry. Happens to everyone at least once,” she reassured him before drawing her wand.
“Reparo,” she said with a subtle circular flick.
Harry watched, fascinated, as a whitish glow emanated from her wand tip. As if by magic, the spilled flour streamed back into its bag, which floated neatly back onto the shelf. The shelf's cracked base mended itself, and even the soot vanished from his clothes, returning to the fireplace as though it had never left.
Harry grinned. Even now, this world could still surprise him. He truly loved magic.
“Er... where exactly am I?” Harry asked, trying not to sound nervous. “Is this Diagon Alley?”
Amelia smiled kindly and nodded. “Yes, you're in Diagon Alley. Actually, we're in the kitchen of The Wizarding Whisk, which faces Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, you know? The potion ingredients shop?”
Harry quickly got his bearings and let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Relaxing slightly, he recognised his situation wasn't so bad after all.
He hadn't the faintest idea where he'd actually landed, but if he was in the Alley, that was a start.
“Ah, right,” he said, nodding as he began thinking how to find his friends. “I should get going, Amelia. Sorry about the mess. Do I owe you anything for the trouble?”
“Oh, no need to apologise,” she replied. “And you don't owe me anything either. The exit's just over there.”
She pointed to a door at the back of the kitchen.
“Alright. Thanks, really,” Harry said gratefully before leaving the kitchen and the establishment, receiving curious looks from customers and staff alike as they watched him go.
Harry began walking through Diagon Alley, trying to orient himself.
The place was bustling, witches and wizards hurrying between the cramped shops. It had been over a year since his last visit, and truth be told, he couldn't quite remember where each shop was located, nor whether he should turn right or left. The sensible thing would be to look for a sea of red-haired Weasleys.
After walking for some time without spotting anyone familiar—and ignoring the curious stares directed at his completely out-of-place attire, blue hair, and cracked glasses—he decided it wouldn't hurt to ask someone where Flourish and Blotts was.
He spotted a shop assistant cleaning the windows of a store called Broomstix—a broom shop—and moved to approach him.
But before he could reach the man, a familiar female voice called from behind.
“Harry!”
He turned quickly, and before he could react, a missile of bushy brown hair collided with his chest, hugging him so tightly he nearly toppled over.
There was no mistaking that hair.
But instead of the familiar scent of ink, parchment and freshly cut grass, she now carried the sweet, silky fragrance of green apple shampoo.
“Hi, Hermione!” he said, grinning awkwardly.
He felt something between his chest and stomach—probably his aura—bouncing excitedly, as though overjoyed to see her again. And he truly was. He'd missed his friend, in a way letters could never quite fill.
Hermione's parents approached, and she stepped back slightly, giving Harry a proper look at her.
Hermione was a bit taller than last year—though still roughly his height. Her hair was as bushy as ever. Her face had grown slightly more defined, and her brown eyes sparkled with happiness at seeing her friend. Her wide, beaming smile revealed the same slightly protruding front teeth she'd always had.
It was the same Hermione he knew.
“Are you alright? Why is your hair blue? And your glasses are all cracked! Did you get into trouble? Where were you? Oh! I know—you came by Floo, didn't you? Did it go wrong?” The words tumbled from Hermione in such a torrent that Harry barely had time to blink.
“Easy there, sweetheart,” said John, laughing as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Let the boy breathe.”
“Oh, sorry,” Hermione murmured, swallowing hard and clearing her throat, though her fidgeting fingers betrayed her anxiety.
“I'm fine,” Harry replied, managing a smile. “And yeah, I ended up in the wrong fireplace, but it's all sorted now.”
Emma smiled softly, her eyes warm with affection. “It's so lovely to see you again, Harry.”
He shook her outstretched hand politely before greeting John.
Mr Granger, just like last time, shook his hand with a firmness that nearly made Harry's knuckles crack. Without hesitation, Harry returned the grip with equal intensity.
John seemed satisfied, the corners of his mouth twitching in approval.
A man thing? Probably. Made any logical sense? Not at all.
Harry suspected John simply despised limp handshakes—and, well, he couldn't blame him for that.
Before he could say another word, Hermione whipped out her wand with a swift motion and pointed it directly at his face.
“Oculus Reparo!”
Harry's eyes widened as a magical tingle spread across his temples. The cracks in his glasses sealed as though they'd never existed, the lenses now clear and perfect.
“Blimey—thanks, Hermione!”
“You're welcome,” she replied, tilting her chin up with a proud smile.
“You can do spells already?” Harry asked, remembering the underage restrictions.
“Technically, no,” Hermione admitted, lowering her voice. “We're underage, after all. But no one's going to trace such a simple spell in a wizard-packed public place like Diagon Alley, especially being this far from my house. And you needed to see, didn't you?”
“I feel like wizarding opticians must hate that spell,” John remarked, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“But seriously, why is your hair blue?” Hermione asked, curiosity still burning. “You didn't mention it in your last letter?”
“No, this happened after that,” Harry explained. “Blame the twins for this one... They decided to prank me on my birthday. I ate some doctored whipped cream, and, well, I'm stuck like this till Friday,” he said, shrugging.
“Those two,” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes. “I hope they don't land us in trouble this year... and that includes you,” she added with an accusatory look.
Harry feigned indignation. “Me? But I never do anything!”
The Grangers laughed while Hermione shook her head, clearly unconvinced.
“Harry! Hermione!” A familiar voice called, and soon Neville appeared, accompanied by his grandmother and the Weasleys.
Harry had always noticed Neville's peculiar way of dressing—having been raised solely in the wizarding world, he preferred more formal attire than a Muggle would wear daily. Today, he wore a button-up shirt, dress trousers, a fastened waistcoat, and a tightly knotted tie.
It was clear the Longbottoms' financial situation was better than the Weasleys', judging by the quality of their clothing.
Mrs Longbottom wore her signature hat with a stuffed vulture and a crimson handbag.
The group, now thirteen-strong, seemed to occupy half the street.
After many greetings, Harry recounted where he'd ended up and what had happened, drawing good-natured laughter with his story involving flour and the minor chaos in the restaurant kitchen.
Along the way, they passed an ice cream parlour where the adults treated each child to a cone. Neville, Ron, Ginny and Harry all chose chocolate, while Hermione—the sole exception—picked vanilla, her favourite flavour.
Harry ate his in happy silence. It was his first-ever ice cream cone, and it tasted better than he'd ever imagined.
“That reminds me of the time,” said Arthur with a nostalgic smile, “when I forgot my destination name while using the Floo Network. Ended up in a wizarding solicitor's office near Gringotts. Poor bloke fell right off his chair in shock!”
Laughter spread through the group, but was soon interrupted by Mrs Weasley, who seemed impatient.
“Come along, come along, or we'll be stuck in a huge queue for the signing! And the boys still need to buy their schoolbooks!” Molly exclaimed, taking charge and leading the group toward Flourish and Blotts.
“Signing?” Harry asked Ron and the twins, confused. “I thought he was just selling his book?”
“Of course not!” Hermione cut in, eyes shining with excitement. “Gilderoy Lockhart's releasing his autobiography Magical Me! Today's the chance to get his autograph! Isn't it wonderful?”
“It's brilliant!” Ginny added, clutching her new cauldron tightly. “He's an incredibly powerful wizard. Once he went missing for three weeks after being captured by trolls in Stockton-on-Tees. And you know what he did? Defeated them all single-handedly!”
Hermione gasped, impressed. “I read about that! It was right after he published his second bestseller, Voyages with Vampires, wasn't it?”
“Yes!” Ginny confirmed eagerly.
Harry, however, began tuning out as the two continued exchanging details about Lockhart's supposed feats. They might as well have been discussing a superhero like Superman or Batman rather than an actual wizard.
“Merlin save me,” Ron muttered to Harry and Neville, who stifled knowing chuckles.
Harry glanced at the twins, who seemed more interested in an impromptu finger-wrestling match as they walked, while Percy, as usual, remained aloof, surveying shop windows with apparent disinterest.
The excited chatter between Hermione and Ginny continued until they reached Flourish and Blotts, which was packed with witches and wizards—though predominantly witches.
The air inside was stifling, and Harry felt like a sardine crammed in a tin. At the far end of the overcrowded shop, Lockhart stood before a towering stack of his new books. He posed for photos with his chest puffed out, fists planted on his hips, and a smile so bright it might have come straight from a spell.
He was of average height, with wavy, golden blonde hair that shone brightly, sparkling blue eyes, and a smile featuring teeth so white they seemed to glow like pearls. As Harry had guessed, he was handsome enough to actually be the girls' favorite celebrity—like a wizarding version of George Michael. His clothes were clearly made from luxurious fabric, and he radiated self-confidence with his fists planted firmly on his hips.
He appeared to be in his early thirties, his well-maintained looks carefully cultivated to project a more youthful vibe.
“Blimey, people actually like this bloke?” John remarked, squeezing aside to let another wizard pass.
“Hermione says he's something of a popular hero,” Emma commented, keeping her voice low. “Like a war veteran to us?”
John frowned as if she'd said something absurd.
“Do I look like a preening peacock?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Emma whispered something in his ear with that special smile she reserved only for him—whatever she said made him laugh outright.
Then John looked at Hermione curiously.
“So this is the chap you've read all the books about, princess?” he teased.
Hermione turned violently pink upon hearing the nickname her father usually only used at home. Lately, he seemed determined to use it in public too, much to her utter mortification.
Her reaction drew quiet snickers from Harry and Neville, who were close enough to hear.
“Dad!” she exclaimed, glaring at her father's silly grin before huffing in frustration.
“Sorry, sweetheart, force of habit,” he said, though his expression didn't look the least bit remorseful.
Hermione pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced.
“Yes, it's him. And doesn't he look incredible up close?” Her voice took on a dreamy quality.
“Must be...” her father murmured, eyeing the man warily from a distance.
A collective feminine sigh echoed through the shop as Lockhart flashed another dazzling smile for the cameras.
Lockhart sighed happily, beaming at the crowd.
“And as I was saying, this smile has won me Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award five times—I daresay I'll break my own record this year with a sixth consecutive win.” He gave a practised chuckle.
Emma rolled her eyes and glanced at her husband, who merely shrugged at the wizard's widespread appeal.
Augusta, on the other hand, frowned and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “a generation of foolish girls.”
“If he puffs his chest out any more—” Fred began.
“—he might actually pop,” George finished with a solemn nod.
Ron groaned in despair as he eyed the queue for purchasing books. “For Merlin's sake, I just want to buy my books, not worship some nutter.”
Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron.
“Why don't you try being more like Mr Lockhart and smile for once?” she teased sharply.
“Because if I smiled like that, I'd look like a right clown too,” Ron shot back.
“Honestly, we just want our books, Hermione,” said Harry, ignoring her disapproving look. “You can queue for the signing if you want.”
“I will,” she replied decisively. “Since they're his books, it's only fair.”
Without another word, Hermione joined the signing queue, accompanied by Ginny and Mrs Weasley.
Meanwhile, at the back of the shop, Lockhart was recounting how he'd single-handedly subdued a vampire—binding it in silver chains and narrowly rescuing a Greek duchess.
“You should've seen her face!” he declared. “I nearly had to carry her out when she froze staring at me!”
The other Weasleys dispersed through the shop while the Grangers browsed the shelves and Mrs Longbottom observed Lockhart with undisguised disdain.
Harry, Ron and Neville regrouped near the exit where there was more space, reviewing their book lists.
“Going by the school list, Hermione's right. We'll need his whole collection,” said Neville, frowning at the parchment.
“Brilliant,” Ron grumbled. “How many's that?”
Neville furrowed his brow as he counted on his fingers. “Seven, apparently.”
“Bloody hell, seven of these things?” Ron threw his hands up in disbelief.
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Didn't you read your Hogwarts letter? It was all there.”
“Why would I? I knew I'd be buying them with you lot anyway,” Ron replied casually. “You always read everything, and the list's the same.”
Neville snorted a laugh through his nose. “Well, you've killed your own argument there.”
As they talked, Harry didn't notice someone observing him intently—their curious gaze lingering first on his blue hair, then on his scar.
“Merlin's beard! It's Harry Potter!” a voice exclaimed loudly enough to draw everyone's attention, including Lockhart's, who stopped talking for the first time since they'd arrived.
Harry's stomach dropped.
“Shite...” he muttered.
“Harry Potter?” Lockhart's voice boomed from the shop's rear. “Here? What an honour! Come here, my boy! Come here!”
Before Harry could react, the crowd began pushing him toward Lockhart.
“What a fantastic encounter, ladies and gentlemen! Harry Potter coming in person to collect my autograph on my latest release? I couldn't be more honoured!” Lockhart exclaimed, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders.
Harry frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but was blinded by a barrage of camera flashes as photographers captured the moment.
“A round of applause for this unforgettable occasion!” Lockhart demanded, beginning to clap. The crowd enthusiastically followed suit while Harry wished he could disappear on the spot.
“But tell me, Potter, what happened to your hair? Not a tussle with goblins, was it?” Lockhart joked, eliciting titters from the audience.
“Long story,” Harry muttered uncomfortably.
The sound of magical quills scratching furiously echoed as reporters scribbled down every word.
“I understand, I understand,” said Lockhart, running a hand through his wavy locks and flashing another dazzling smile at the crowd. “I've had my share of hair-raising adventures... if you catch my drift.”
More muffled giggles.
“Now that I have the illustrious Harry Potter here, I believe it's time for an exclusive announcement,” Lockhart proclaimed, pointing at a reporter. “Write this down, Rebecca!”
He winked at her, and she blushed.
“I've accepted the position as Hogwarts' new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor!” he declared proudly.
The crowd gasped collectively. Harry saw Hermione and Ginny gazing hopefully while Ron, Neville, the twins and even Percy wore expressions of disbelief.
“Of course, there was considerable negotiation,” he continued. “My schedule is rather packed, as you know—adventures don't write themselves!” More giggles erupted. “But if the next generation needs guidance, and if Hogwarts wishes for one of its most brilliant former Ravenclaw students to return home—now as a professor—then so be it! I've accepted the post!”
A moment of stunned silence was followed by applause and cheers. More camera flashes went off, making Harry increasingly irritated.
Ron snorted at the news while Neville heaved a heavy sigh.
Harry himself felt torn between wanting to vomit—from Lockhart's arm clamped around his shoulders, rocking him side to side like a boat in rough seas—and cringing at Hermione and Ginny's starstruck reactions as they sighed like lovestruck fools, mirroring the other schoolgirls in the signing queue.
“Since young Potter came here specifically to honour me—”
“I didn't—” Harry tried to interject, being ignored.
“—I shall gift him my complete signed book collection, absolutely free!”
Another round of applause and camera flashes made Harry wish even more fervently to be outside. He was ushered away from Lockhart's “special guest area,” carrying a stack of books.
Noticing the exorbitant prices, Harry decided to give them to Ginny as a gift, relieved this might help the Weasleys financially.
Ginny flushed furiously as she accepted the present, too shy to meet his eyes.
Harry frowned in exasperation.
“What kind of power does this bloke have to make girls act like this?” he wondered to himself.
“Always got to be the centre of attention, haven't you, Potter?” Draco Malfoy's icy, disdainful voice cut through the air, making Harry turn immediately. “Your ego's so inflated you've taken to dyeing your hair now too? And coming dressed like some vagrant?”
“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry retorted, his brow furrowed.
He was accustomed to Draco's venomous sarcasm, but that didn't make it any less irritating.
“What're you doing here?” Ron asked, stepping beside Harry and narrowing his eyes. Neville mirrored the movement but remained silently glaring.
“What d'you think I'm doing here? Are you really so thick you need me to spell it out?” Draco sneered, flashing that malicious grin that made Ron's fists clench instinctively.
Harry shot Ron a quick glance before turning back to Draco.
“Let me guess,” he began, crossing his arms. “You came to get an autograph from your secret crush?” He jerked his thumb toward Lockhart, who was still charming the crowd. “Go on then, Malfoy. The queue's over there with the girls. And try not being a complete git for once—maybe then someone might actually like you for the first time in your life.”
Draco's eyes narrowed and his cheeks pinkened slightly, but he couldn't muster a better retort immediately.
Ron barked a short laugh. “Yeah. While you're at it, ask him to teach you how to smile without looking constipated.”
Draco ignored the jibe, his face twisting in disgust.
“It's utterly degenerate what sort of riffraff they allow in these shops nowadays,” he said, casting a meaningful look at the Weasleys. “And even more pathetic is you, Potter, associating with this... blood traitor scum.” He spat the words as if they were contaminated.
Harry blinked in confusion at the insult.
Blood traitor scum?
He'd never heard a more ridiculous insult. But judging by Ron's reaction—his jaw working in contempt—it clearly meant something.
“Don't talk to him like that!” Ginny exclaimed, jumping in front of Harry with her face flushed and eyes blazing.
“Look at this, Potter's got himself a little girlfriend, how touching,” Draco mocked, crossing his arms with that infuriatingly smug smile. “Pity the Ministry has to fund another pauper's meals at Hogwarts this year.”
Ginny turned scarlet and stepped back, embarrassed. But before Draco could continue, Ron moved forward, putting a protective arm in front of his sister.
“Talk to my sister like that again, Malfoy, and I'll snap you in half,” Ron growled through clenched teeth.
“I'd love to see you try,” Draco hissed back, voice dripping with contempt. “You're as useless as your father is at holding down a proper job.”
Ron's face darkened further, and Harry knew that under different circumstances—somewhere more appropriate—this would end with hexes flying.
Hermione appeared then, carrying her stack of signed books. She was about to say something excitedly to them but stopped upon noticing the scene.
Her expression hardened upon seeing Draco.
“He had to be here today of all days?” Hermione huffed, adjusting the books in her arms. “Can't we shop in peace?”
“Now even this... thing shows up!” Draco said, pointing at Hermione with utter scorn. “What a hovel this place has become!”
Hermione's face twisted in disgust, ready to retaliate. Before she could speak, however, a firm voice cut through:
“What did you just call my daughter?”
Mr Granger stepped forward, his face stern and gaze fixed on Draco.
“Are you her father?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow with affected nonchalance.
“I am, and I'd like you to repeat to my face what you just said, young man.”
“I called her a thing, and I could call her something far worse,” Draco shot back quickly, his face twisting into a venomous smile. “ And I don't remember ever giving a muggle permission to address me. I don't even know why you're here—this isn't your place. Go back to your bizarre little world.”
Mr Granger's eyes narrowed as he positioned himself between Draco and Hermione—who instinctively moved closer to her father, seeking his protection. Malfoy faltered slightly as John advanced, taking an involuntary step back.
“Now, now, Draco, let us be civil,” came a cold, controlled voice from behind him.
A tall, imposing man placed a hand on Draco's shoulder.
His long blond hair was as meticulously groomed as Draco's shorter cut. His ice-blue eyes were cold and assessing, with a glacial rigidity to his expression. He wore a long black linen overcoat from some extremely expensive-looking Italian wizarding brand, a tailored waistcoat, dress shirt, and gloves—all in funeral-black shades—with an aristocratic wizarding cane completing the look.
“We haven't been introduced,” the man said, addressing Mr Granger. “Lucius Malfoy. Draco's father.”
Harry clenched his fists upon realizing who this was. None other than a despicable monster who wielded his family's political influence and aristocratic standing like a weapon.
“If you are indeed his father,” Mr Granger replied steadily, “you've either failed to educate him, or he's forgotten how to treat others.”
All the children watched as the tension between the fathers escalated—everyone except Draco swallowing hard, anticipating where this might lead.
Lucius narrowed his eyes, looking Mr Granger up and down with condescension.
“Rest assured, Muggle. I've taught him perfectly well to distinguish who deserves respect and who does not. It's unfortunate we must tolerate... certain types of inconveniences.”
Mr Granger opened his mouth to retort, but Lucius simply looked away, dismissing him as though he didn't exist. Instead, his gaze settled on Harry, lingering on his forehead.
“Harry Potter,” he said slowly, with calculated interest. “So this is the legendary mark left by the Dark Lord.”
He tilted his head slightly, examining Harry's scar as if it were a rare artifact.
“Fascinating. The wizard who gave you this was truly remarkable.”
Harry's stomach twisted, but he didn't look away.
“The monster who did this is vile and a damned murderer,” Harry hissed fiercely, his voice thick with anger.
Lucius raised an eyebrow and gave him a frigid look. “You're very bold to speak that way.”
“Why? Are you scared of him?” Harry asked without breaking eye contact. “Because I'm not.”
Lucius hesitated, regarding him with an impassive mask.
The tense silence was broken by Mr Weasley's hurried arrival.
“What's going on here?” he asked, casting a suspicious look at Lucius.
As Lucius turned slowly to face him, no one noticed the precise moment he slipped a small black-covered diary into Ginny's cauldron.
“Nothing that concerns you,” Lucius Malfoy said icily, smoothing his immaculate sleeve. “Merely a small misunderstanding. After all, it's common for those of different... standings to fail seeing eye-to-eye.”
Arthur didn't take the bait, but his jaw visibly tightened. “If this 'misunderstanding' involves insults, then it does concern me. Especially when directed at children.”
“Children?” Lucius gave a dry, contemptuous laugh. “I'd say some here have already learned to meddle where they're not wanted. And to frequent places they've no business being in the first place.”
His cold, cutting gaze landed directly on Hermione, who instinctively pressed closer to her father. She'd always had him to protect her in life, and had never lost the habit of staying near him when threatened.
But her hesitation lasted only a moment before she lifted her chin again, her expression turning almost defiantly determined.
“But of course,” Lucius continued, his voice now a whisper that seemed to slice the air, “I'd expect nothing less, considering the company you keep, Arthur.”
“Watch your tongue, Lucius,” Arthur replied quietly but firmly. “We're in the same place, buying the same supplies for our children. I don't believe you're in any position to imply otherwise.”
Draco snickered, but a sharp look from his father silenced him.
“Naturally,” Lucius went on, ignoring Arthur's retort. “Still, it's fascinating to observe how some people strain to appear equal when they so clearly aren't.”
He delivered this with a pointed look at Mr Granger, who clenched his jaw, keeping a protective hand on Hermione's shoulder.
“If we're speaking of equality, perhaps we should discuss the value of proper upbringing,” Arthur shot back, stepping forward. “Like teaching one's children basic respect regardless of standing.”
“And perhaps,” Lucius countered frostily, “we might discuss keeping undesirable elements from invading our world. A pity the Ministry seems so lax.”
The Weasleys, Grangers and Harry could practically feel the air thickening around them, as though all of Diagon Alley had paused to witness this silent clash between two diametrically opposed men.
Ginny knew her father—only out of respect for the Grangers and Mrs Longbottom—was restraining himself from punching the odious man. She broke the silence by adjusting her cauldron.
“Come on, Dad,” she said softly, tugging Arthur's sleeve.
Arthur hesitated, then nodded.
“You're right, dear.” He looked directly at Lucius, eyes blazing. “If you wish to continue your prejudice, do it elsewhere.”
Lucius offered a cold smile. “Always a pleasure, Arthur. I wish you good fortune this year. You'll need it.”
Without responding, Arthur began shepherding the family away.
Harry, however, remained locked in a staring contest with Lucius, neither willing to look away first.
“Come, Harry,” said Arthur, taking the boy's arm.
As they walked off, Harry threw one last look at Lucius, who stood perfectly still with his hand on Draco's shoulder like a controlling gesture.
Of all the things Harry had encountered in the wizarding world, one of his greatest certainties was the utter revulsion he felt for that family.
Harry woke that morning with a broad grin spreading across his face as he remembered what day it was.
First of September—the day he'd return to Hogwarts, the place where he truly felt at home, the first place that had ever properly welcomed him.
Though he'd loved his time at the Burrow, considering it home during those weeks, nothing could surpass the anticipation of returning to the ancient castle.
The Weasleys had been extraordinarily kind to him. Even Percy, in his somewhat peculiar way, had been helpful in his own manner, lending him books to read and even discussing potential Ministry careers he might consider.
And Harry had to admit, he hadn't the faintest idea what he'd do after Hogwarts, but he knew he had plenty of time to figure that out.
Ron, as always, had been his greatest companion, joining him in every game and mischief during those days.
Ron's easygoing nature and talent for daft jokes frequently sent Harry into fits of laughter—and the reverse was equally true. Whenever Harry delivered a well-timed sarcastic remark, Ron would laugh until his face turned red and his eyes watered. Between them existed an effortless camaraderie that intertwined perfectly with their shared friendship with Neville. Harry had no doubt: the three of them would be inseparable, no matter what.
He recalled one particular holiday moment when Neville was still with them, sweating in the summer heat during a particularly disastrous game of Exploding Snap, grumbling about being “out of shape.”
“Are you sure Quidditch actually helps with this?” Neville asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I mean, we've played a few matches, but I'm still sort of... you know, flabby?”
“Mate, let me tell you something,” Ron began, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “I've got five fat friends, and you're all five of them. Happy?”
“Says the lamp head,” Neville retorted, crossing his arms.
Ron burst into loud laughter. “Lamp head? that's cold”
“Pumpkin head, then,” Harry suggested, shrugging with a mischievous grin. “Just add two blue dots in the middle and it's your face when your mum tells you off.”
“Oh shut it, twiggy,” Ron growled, giving Harry a friendly shove. “If you don't put a Galleon in your pocket, the wind'll carry you off.”
“I'll just hold onto Nev,” Harry shot back, snorting with laughter. “He's softer.”
“I'll show you soft,” Neville muttered with a smile, slapping a card down.
Truly, their friendship was something special. And Neville, though usually reserved, had his moments of playful banter too.
But even if that had been all, it would've already been the best summer of his life—this constant companionship.
Yet they also had Mrs Weasley to thank. Molly had treated him almost like an eighth son.
She constantly asked if he was alright, tended to his scrapes, and fussed over him like a mother would. When it grew late and chilly outside, she'd insist he put on a jumper; when he seemed peckish, she'd offer him something to eat—always gentle with him, unlike her stricter demeanour with Ron or her other children when they misbehaved.
On the other hand, Arthur engaged him in long conversations while they tinkered with the family's old car. He shared stories of his youth and described growing up in a completely magical world—which, interestingly, sounded quite similar to Ron's own childhood tales.
Fred and George were also a major source of entertainment, always plotting pranks and, much to Harry's occasional misfortune, now including him as a target from time to time. Not that he minded; he never held a grudge.
One particularly memorable occasion even saw Harry secretly joining one of their pranks against Percy.
The twins had sprinkled Fainting Fancies on their older brother's bed, and the results were hysterical. Percy's uncontrollable giggles the moment he lay down echoed through the house—he laughed so hard he could barely speak.
It was the first time Harry had seen someone laugh angrily, and he had to admit it was brilliant.
He'd bitten his lips raw trying not to laugh as Molly delivered a legendary telling-off to the twins, gesturing at Harry and saying, “Why can't you be more like Harry?”
Fred and George never revealed his involvement in distracting Percy by borrowing another book, since his “good boy” reputation proved useful for certain pranks.
Harry chuckled as he carefully folded his clothes into his trunk. The memory of Percy's prank still made him laugh to himself.
Across the room, Ron watched Harry with an expression caught between suspicion and amusement. He knew exactly what his friend was laughing about—after all, he'd been the lookout ensuring their mum didn't catch them red-handed during the mischief.
“You still laughing about that?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Can't help it,” Harry replied, a mischievous grin spreading. “Percy kept threatening to wallop Fred and George, but... trying to scold someone while cackling like you've heard the funniest joke ever isn't very convincing, is it?”
Ron snorted, shaking his head. “Not one bit. Looked more like a nutter shouting at his own reflection.”
“Looked like the Joker from Batman,” Harry remarked.
“The what?” Ron asked, confused.
Harry rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Never mind.”
After a hearty breakfast, Molly handed each of them a thick chicken sandwich for the train journey. However, the morning proved more chaotic than expected. Harry noticed time slipping away faster than it should, especially as Fred, George and Ginny tore through the house like demented Cornish pixies, searching for misplaced items. Among the lost belongings were books, scrolls, ink bottles, and—in Ginny's case—a stuffed bear she tried to pass off as unimportant, turning violently pink whenever someone mentioned it near Harry.
While the others finished packing, Harry decided it would be easier for Hedwig to fly directly to Hogwarts, since she grew visibly distressed just looking at her cage.
He'd curse Vernon if he could, for frightening her so badly. His uncle could hit Harry all he wanted, but he'd better never lay a finger on his owl again.
“See you there, yeah girl?” he said softly.
Hedwig gave a soft hoot before taking flight, disappearing into the blue sky.
Finally, everyone squeezed comfortably into the family car.
Arthur had cast an Engorgement Charm on the car's interior to fit everyone, insisting flying to London would be more practical than using the Floo Network—especially with their mountain of luggage and sensitive supplies that couldn't safely be shrunk, since the children didn't know how to reverse such spells.
Upon arriving at bustling King's Cross Station, the chaos continued, the entire family weaving through Muggles who glanced at them curiously before promptly forgetting their existence or suddenly remembering urgent appointments.
The station's great clock showed the train was nearly due to depart.
Near Platform 9¾, they found Neville checking his watch anxiously beside his grandmother, who looked as unflappable as ever.
“Merlin's beard, Molly, any later and you'd have missed the train!” Augusta exclaimed after brief greetings, her tone scolding.
“I told them to pack last night, but did anyone listen? Of course not!” Molly replied, shooting pointed looks at her children.
Fred, George and Ginny immediately ducked their heads with performative remorse.
Ron glanced at Harry gratefully—having been convinced to pack when originally told, he'd avoided this round of reprimands.
“You lot need to hurry!” Augusta said impatiently. “That train's leaving, and I've a governors' meeting before the Sorting ceremony.”
Neville had explained during the holidays that his grandmother had served on the Hogwarts Board of Governors for years. She maintained fierce opposition to Lucius Malfoy—unsurprising, given how difficult it would be to reconcile with someone whose allies had brutally tortured her son and daughter-in-law into insanity.
Though that detail had faded from many memories, Augusta Longbottom hadn't forgotten. Neville shared how after the first wizarding war, Lucius Malfoy had escaped punishment as a Voldemort supporter by claiming Imperius Curse influence, using his political connections to avoid Azkaban.
Neville hugged his grandmother tightly; she patted his head in a gesture that seemed more stern than affectionate. Harry distinctly caught her muttering as she left:
“...and make your father proud this year. I know you can—just apply yourself properly.”
Neville mumbled something unenthusiastic as he watched her disappear into the crowd.
Molly and Arthur had already shepherded Ginny, Percy and the twins through the barrier, leaving only the three friends.
“Come on, you two!” Ron called excitedly, steering his trolley toward the concealed platform entrance.
Harry aligned his trolley with Neville's.
“Don't know why, but I always close my eyes going through,” Neville confessed nervously.
“Relax, I do that too,” Harry admitted with a grin.
“Right, on three!” said Ron, barely pausing before shouting, “Three!” and sprinting forward.
Harry laughed at Ron's haste and pushed his trolley after him, Neville following.
However, instead of passing seamlessly through—
CLANG!
CRASH!
CLONK!
They crashed headlong into the solid station wall.
The collision sent all three tumbling to the ground, trunks scattering everywhere. Trevor's and Scabbers' cages went flying, and Harry saw stars as his head spun, utterly bewildered while passersby cast curious glances before moving on—just as disinterested as when the whole family had arrived. King's Cross, as Hermione had once mentioned, was thoroughly warded against Muggle notice.
“What the—?!” Harry groaned, rubbing his head and already anticipating a lump.
Neville, still dazed on the floor, pressed his palm against the wall, frowning.
“It's solid... Are you sure this is the right passage?”
“'Course it is!” Ron huffed, getting up while rubbing his sore shoulders. “My whole family just went through!”
“D'you think the enchantment failed?” Harry suggested, still trying to process what happened.
“Might have... Maybe it needs time to reset after so many people went through at once?” Neville theorized as he retrieved Trevor's cage, quickly latching it to prevent another great escape.
Harry checked the station clock and his stomach dropped.
“Bloody hell! The train's left!” he exclaimed in alarm.
“What?!” Ron and Neville chorused, whipping their heads toward the clock.
“We're stranded!” Neville looked on the verge of panic. “What do we do now?”
“Hold on!” Harry said quickly, trying to calm himself as much as the others. “We can still get to Hogwarts. The train's just transport—there must be another way.”
Ron grew thoughtful before breaking into a grin that could be described as either brilliant or deranged.
“My dad's car!” he declared with widening eyes, grabbing Harry's arm as if this were the plan of the century. “We can fly it!”
“But won't your parents need it back?” Harry asked.
“If they came in it, they'll want to return in it,” Neville agreed hesitantly.
“The barrier's sealed—how would they get back through?” Ron countered. “Besides, my parents can Apparate. Stop arguing! Come on!”
Without waiting for objections, he bolted toward the car park, leaving Harry and Neville exchanging uncertain looks before chasing after him.
“Chuck everything in the boot! I'll drive!” Ron declared as Harry and Neville loaded their trunks.
“You actually know how to drive this thing?” Harry asked pointedly.
“'Course I do... sort of. Fred taught me the basics. How hard can it be?” Ron shrugged.
“Isn't it illegal for minors to drive these things?” Neville asked, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.
“Yeah, but not in emergencies, and this is an emergency!” Ron fired back.
“If you don't rip the bumper off like George did, it'll be a miracle,” Harry muttered, suppressing a laugh as he slammed the passenger door.
“No promises!” Ron replied with a strained grin, turning the ignition.
The car growled like a dragon with a cold, its nonexistent soundproofing making every engine vibration rattle through the cracked leather seats, chattering Harry's teeth involuntarily.
Ron, his ears as red as his hair, jerked into reverse violently, nearly crushing a parked car's bonnet. A blue van honked furiously as they passed, and the heavy, resistant steering wheel forced Ron to wrestle with it like he was manning a ship's helm.
“Merlin's pants, this is a bloody maze!” Ron grumbled, sweating profusely.
“There! Straight ahead to the main road!” Harry pointed forward, fingers glued to the dashboard as if that might help.
“BRAKE!” Neville screamed from the backseat, clinging to the headrest like his life depended on it—which, at that moment, it very well might have.
BAAAM!
A silver car crossing the street slammed its brakes, swerving violently as Ron pulled unceremoniously into traffic.
“Check your mirrors! And use your bloody indicator!” Harry yelled, his heart pounding faster than a Snitch.
“Merlin's pants, I'm trying!” Ron growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “D'you see everything I've got to do at once?!”
“You need to get airborne,” Harry insisted, scanning their surroundings. “But how do we do that in the middle of the city?”
“Just... fly,” Ron shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
At a red light, with a queue of cars ahead, Ron saw his chance. With a dramatic yank of the lever, the car lurched upward, nearly scraping the roof off a blue sedan.
“Why the hell do Muggles invent these stupid red stopping points?!” Ron exclaimed, glaring at the traffic light as if it had personally offended him. “Just keep going—makes no sense!”
“I should've known better when you said Fred taught you to drive!” Harry death-gripped the seatbelt as Neville in the backseat looked paler than Nearly Headless Nick.
Ron wasted no time smashing the invisibility booster, and the car vanished instantly, leaving only a gust of wind behind. As they climbed higher, leaving London's skyscrapers behind for peaceful countryside, the ride finally smoothed out.
“D'you think anyone saw us?” Neville asked, peering cautiously out the window as if expecting the entire Ministry to come flying after them in outrage.
“Nev, you seriously asking that?” Harry replied, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh... right, stupid question,” Neville mumbled, sinking into his seat. “But this won't get us in trouble, will it? Flying cars aren't exactly... Muggle-normal.”
“Relax,” Ron said distractedly while adjusting the mirror. “They've got those little green blokes with big heads—you told me about them, remember Harry? They'll believe anything.”
“Aliens?” Harry supplied.
“That! Aliens!” Ron nodded approvingly. “Anything weird in the sky, they blame it on them, right? They'll just think it was another...”
“Flying saucer,” Harry finished.
“Exactly.”
Harry unfolded a wizarding map he'd found in the glovebox and began navigating.
“Keep heading this direction. Hogwarts should be about... here,” he said, pointing.
“Got it.”
The journey continued more calmly as the boys chatted about various topics, though Quidditch dominated the conversation.
They flew for hours—long enough for the uncomfortable seats to become unbearable. Eventually, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ron noticed something wrong with the car.
“Bloody hell, the charm's broken!” the redhead swore when the invisibility booster failed, leaving them fully visible again.
He mashed the button repeatedly to no avail.
“We're miles from any towns now—doubt it matters,” Harry commented, consulting the map.
“There!” Neville suddenly exclaimed, pointing out the window. “That's the bridge the Express crosses! I recognize it!”
“Good, but... where's the train?” Harry asked, frowning as he looked down.
“Must've passed already,” Ron suggested, adjusting the wheel. “We'll just follow the tracks—it'll turn up eventually.”
THUD!
The sound of something solid hitting the car echoed loudly, making everyone inside the vehicle jump.
“Did you hear that?” asked Harry, turning to look out the window.
Neville nodded, peering outside. “Felt like we hit a rock.”
“Only if the rock hit us,” Ron argued. “There’s no way I hit something mid-air—I’m not that bad a driver.”
“Debatable,” Harry snorted a laugh, and Neville chuckled along.
“Oi! Have a little faith in your mate here,” Ron joked.
Harry cranked the window handle several times and rolled down the passenger window. He stuck his neck out, trying to make sense of what had happened. When he pulled back inside, his expression was a mix of confusion and surprise.
“Er… it’s an egg. A giant egg hit the car and smashed. The door’s covered in gunk.”
“A giant egg?” repeated Ron, incredulous, staring at Harry as if he’d lost the plot. “You sure? Chickens don’t fly or chuck eggs about!”
“Um… guys?” began Neville, his voice quiet and shaky as he looked outside, trying to process what he was seeing and hoping he was wrong.
But he was completely ignored.
“I said giant, Ron. Like this,” said Harry, gesturing with his hands to indicate something the size of an ostrich egg. “No chicken could’ve laid that.”
“You haven’t seen what Gertrude can lay,” said Ron, shrugging. “Mum feeds her magical corn, y’know? At least triples the size.”
“Course I know, I’ve lived with you the past two months, haven’t I?”
“And you still doubt her egg-laying skills?” Ron raised an eyebrow. “D’you know whose omelettes you’ve been eating?”
“Guys…,” Neville tried again, his voice slightly louder now, swallowing hard, but the engine noise drowned him out.
“Not just me—you ate them too,” Harry went on. “In fact, you had three helpings, not to mention stacking them with ham in sandwiches.”
Ron shrugged. “Got a reputation to uphold. Besides, nowt beats ham and omelette sandwiches.”
“Yeah… suppose so.” Harry cleared his throat. “Er… wasn’t Gertrude the roast chicken your mum made for dinner last week?”
“What?! ’Course not!” Ron exclaimed, outraged. “Mum would never put Gertrude in the pot! That was Daisy. Poor thing was on her last legs. Found her dead in the coop… died in her sleep, at least. She was the one who kept pecking Ginny’s—”
“GUYS!” Neville repeated, his voice now desperate.
“What?!” Harry and Ron asked in unison, frowning as they turned around.
“GRIFFINS!” Neville shrieked, pointing out the rear window.
Ron and Harry exchanged a look of disbelief before twisting to see where Neville was pointing through the back windscreen.
Outside, two enormous winged creatures with razor-sharp talons and curved beaks hovered in the sky, streaking toward the car like arrows, their eyes blazing with hatred.
Of all the creatures Harry had read about in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them—his bedside book the previous year—the text made one thing abundantly clear: never, ever, under any circumstances, break a Griffin’s eggs.
Doing so was practically signing your own death warrant.
“AAAAH!”
All three screamed in pure terror as the creatures reached them.
The sharp talons began scraping the car’s roof, shaking it violently mid-air. The metallic screech of claws tearing through the bodywork mixed with the Griffins’ roars and the boys’ panicked shouts.
“WE’RE GOING TO DIE!” Neville shrieked, curling into his seat, trembling from head to toe.
The Griffins were furious.
One of them tore through the car’s roof like it was paper, jabbing its beak through the cracks.
“PULL THE CAR DOWN!” Harry bellowed, flinching back as one Griffin pecked at his window, cracking it dangerously.
“AH!” Neville let out a panicked scream, throwing himself sideways as a talon burst through the rear window, narrowly missing his face.
Ron was white as a ghost but, without hesitation, yanked the gearstick downward.
Yet in his haste and clumsiness, he jammed the already-damaged gearbox—the one Arthur still hadn’t fully fixed since George’s crash weeks ago.
The car nosedived, accelerating wildly, and all three were thrown from their seats.
Harry’s stomach lurched as if he were on the last ride of his life.
“PULL UP NOW OR WE’LL CRASH!” Harry roared, gripping the door handle as the ground rushed toward them at a terrifying speed.
“I’VE BUGGERED THE GEAR!” Ron yelled desperately, wrenching the stick uselessly. It wouldn’t budge. “IT’S FUCKING STUCK!”
Harry’s panic surged. If they didn’t act, they’d be dead in seconds. He shoved a sweaty, shaking hand into his pocket and drew his wand.
He recalled a spell he’d read in one of Percy’s books, used in that Diagon Alley kitchen.
It might be their only hope—though his chances of nailing it first try were slim, barely knowing how it worked.
“HARRY, DO SOMETHING!” Ron shouted, glancing at him while still yanking at the gearstick.
“Reparo!” Harry stammered nervously, tracing a frantic, sloppy circle with his wand.
Nothing happened.
“WE’RE REALLY GOING TO DIE!” Neville screeched, his voice jumping an octave as his face turned even paler.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to block out the deafening engine, the Griffins’ wings, his friends’ terror—even if it was bloody justified.
He clung to Professor Flitwick’s advice: “Intent with action, Mr Potter! Spells aren’t just waving and reciting—you must believe!”
Harry tightened his grip on his wand, forcing focus. He nearly whipped his mind into recalling the subtle flick Amelia—that cook—had used.
“Reparo!” he repeated, clearer and firmer, executing the motion more precisely this time.
For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened.
Then a faint glow erupted from his wand, and the gearbox groaned audibly, as if invisible hands were wrenching it back into place—into neutral.
Ron instantly slammed it into reverse.
The engine snarled like it might explode, but the car obeyed Mr Weasley’s magical modifications. With a jolt, it slowed its fall and levelled out, skimming the train tracks so close the undercarriage scraped the rails.
They were now nearly wheels-down on the high bridge linking two tunneled hills.
“Merlin, Morgana, and Circe!” Ron gasped, white-knuckling the steering wheel.
“They’re still after us!” Neville cried, looking back in horror.
Before they could breathe, a deep, threatening sound echoed: the whistle of a locomotive.
“The Express!” Harry said, leaning forward to spot the train—but there was nothing ahead.
Ron whipped his head left and right.
“Can’t see it—”
“BEHIND US!” Neville screamed, pointing out the rear window.
All three boys turned and felt their stomachs drop. The massive red Hogwarts Express was charging toward them, belching thick steam that dissolved into the cold morning air.
TUUUUUU!
The train's shrill whistle echoed like a final warning. Harry gripped Ron's arm tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure.
“FLOOR IT!” Neville shouted.
Ron slammed the accelerator to the floor, but the flying car—though magical—was no match for the train's speed.
“WON'T THOSE BLOODY BEASTS GIVE UP?!” Ron roared as one Griffin dove toward the car, pecking the wing mirror with such force it nearly tore clean off.
“GET OUT OF THE TRAIN'S PATH!” Harry shouted, pointing desperately at the approaching locomotive, its whistle now deafening.
Ron wrenched the steering wheel hard left, sending the car into a wild 360-degree spin that narrowly avoided the Hogwarts Express. The train roared past them, buffeting the car so violently the Griffins were thrown off balance, their wings flapping in disarray.
Inside the Hogwarts Express, in a cosy compartment, Hermione sat with Ginny, attempting to focus on one of Lockhart's books in silence—though her eyes moved across the pages without truly absorbing the words.
“D'you think they'll make it on time today?” Hermione asked, lightly chewing her lip.
Ginny glanced up from her own book and shrugged. “Dunno what happened. But Dad or Mum might bring them. Suppose they don't strictly need the train.”
Both returned to their distracted reading until a faint, distant noise caught Hermione's attention. Outside, had anyone looked out the window at that exact moment, they'd have seen the Weasleys' flying car under attack by two furious Griffins, with Harry, Ron, and Neville screaming inside as the vehicle spiralled wildly. But to Hermione and Ginny, it was merely a muffled commotion lost in the train's rumble.
Hermione frowned, certain she’d heard something. Outside the window, the boys were still battling the creatures.
“Did you hear that?” she asked, looking at the redhead.
Ginny raised her eyebrows. “What?”
The car vanished from view just as Hermione turned to the window. All she saw now was the beautiful panoramic vista of the valley beyond the bridge.
“Oh... nothing. Thought I heard shouting or something.”
Ginny giggled. “Most you'll hear is snoring. When I went to the loo, nearly everyone was asleep with their curtains drawn.”
“Fancy a kip?” Hermione offered.
“Suppose, if you don't mind.”
Hermione nodded and sighed. “Don't mind at all.”
She stood to draw the curtains, blocking the window's view—
—Just as the flying car rose back to window level.
“WE NEED TO GO FASTER!” Neville screamed, clinging to his seat.
“THIS PIECE OF SHITE CAN'T GO MORE THAN THIS!” Ron growled, leaning forward as if it might magically squeeze extra speed from the car.
Harry suddenly remembered the secret buttons Mr Weasley had shown them weeks prior.
“Under the steering wheel! There's a speed boost button! Press it!”
“There's two buttons here!” Ron panicked. “Which one?!”
“The right one!” Harry said uncertainly.
“My right or yours?!” Ron cried.
“IT'S THE SAME BLOODY RIGHT!”
“Er—so this one, then!”
Ron mashed a random button. Immediately, the car's roof detached and launched upward, smacking the Griffins back momentarily. They were now completely exposed to the enraged beasts.
“THAT'S FUCKING LEFT!” Harry bellowed.
“I DON'T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE!” Ron yelled back.
“PRESS THE OTHER ONE!”
This time, Ron hit the correct button.
With a thunderous roar and blue flames erupting from the exhaust, the car shot forward like a bullet, slamming all three boys into their seats. They held on for dear life as the car tore through the sky, leaving both the train and the Griffins—now mere distant specks—far behind with no hope of catching them.
A tangible relief swept through the car as they gained distance.
The icy wind lashed their faces, tousling their hair and bringing a sliver of clarity after the chaos.
“I swear, Ron,” Harry panted, trying to catch his breath, “I’ll make you learn the difference between left and right today.”
“I was nervous, alright?” Ron shot back indignantly, flicking on the headlights. “’Course I know the difference.”
He was a terrible liar.
“I think I had a heart attack…” Neville mumbled from the back seat, hand clutched to his chest.
“Oh, you’re exaggerating, Nev,” Ron said as if their ordeal had been nothing. “Wasn’t worse than the Popcorn or that holoplunc last year—I mean—we’re in a car and…”
He trailed off under Harry and Neville’s deadly serious stares. Ron clamped his mouth shut, eyes fixed ahead in a poor imitation of focused driving.
They drove on for a long while. Night began to close around them, leaving only a purple bruise of sky on the horizon.
Harry just shook his head, turning to Neville, who seemed to want to say something.
“D’you think we lost them?” Neville asked, voice still thick with anxiety.
“Hope so,” Harry replied, crossing his arms. “But if they spot us again, they’ll want our heads.”
“Brilliant. Just brilliant,” Ron muttered, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Bloody flying chickens! Why’s it always got to be a griffin?”
“Two, actually…” Neville corrected. “And quite large.”
Despite the tension still hanging thick as fog, the boys gradually adjusted to the wind whipping their hair and stinging their eyes. The car, now at a steadier speed, seemed calmer after their frantic escape—though that mad dash had thrown them completely off course.
With no clue where they were, they drifted through the darkening sky, taking far longer than planned to find their way back. Night fell swiftly, swallowing the horizon, and Harry was forced to whisper “Lumos!” to light the map flapping in his hands—which, admittedly, did little against the wind determined to tear it from his grip.
Just as despair began to settle like a weight in his chest, something on the horizon made their hearts leap with relief.
There it was—Hogwarts.
The castle stood majestic against the night sky, its towering turrets and glittering windows blazing like a beacon of safety, promising shelter and familiarity. For one precious moment, the sight of that comforting silhouette seemed to dissolve their fears, as if nothing bad could happen within those walls.
But then—
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—SPLUT!
A horrible, choking, deeply concerning sound erupted from the engine, as if the car were coughing its last breath. The vehicle lurched violently, tilting dangerously to one side, and the boys’ fleeting relief vanished, replaced by a sudden cold dread gripping their stomachs.
Harry frowned at his friends.
“Did you hear that?” he asked tightly.
“Mhm-hum,” Neville mumbled, nodding with wide eyes, his hands clutching Ron’s seatback so hard his knuckles whitened.
Ron, meanwhile, stared fixedly at the control panel, his face pale in the flickering instrument lights.
He poked the magical flight-fluid gauge with a fingernail, as if will alone could nudge the needle upward. But to his horror, it stayed stubbornly lodged in the red.
“No…” he whispered, fingers tightening on the wheel. “Not now, please—”
“Not what?” Harry asked, though part of him already knew.
“Not again… not again…” Neville whimpered, curling into himself in the back, knees drawn to his chest as if that might shield him.
“Merlin’s pants, the flight fluid’s nearly gone!” Ron yelped, jabbing a shaky finger at the gauge.
“W-what does that mean?” Neville squeaked.
“Means,” Harry said, licking his lips, “when it runs out, we… fall.”
A heavy silence filled the car, so thick it felt suffocating. Even the wind outside seemed to stop whistling, as if the world were holding its breath.
“Ron, for Merlin’s sake, land the car!” Neville begged, wide eyes locked on Ron as if his life depended on it—which, to be fair, it did.
The trouble was, it wasn’t just the fuel. The car was now at a dizzying height, so far up it might’ve been mistaken for a shooting star, its headlights twin comets.
Ron cleared his throat, avoiding their gazes.
“Right… about that—”
“Please tell me you know how to land,” Harry interrupted, staring at him with mounting disbelief.
“Fred hasn’t… quite taught me that bit yet,” Ron admitted, forcing a strained smile that didn’t hide his panic. “Thought we’d use the Quidditch pitch… or the path to it. Nice and flat. Can’t be hard.”
Harry gaped.
In the back, Neville shrank further, muttering what sounded like a silent prayer, his face parchment-white.
“What do we do now?” Harry asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.
Ron swallowed hard, adjusting his grip on the wheel.
“Reckon there’s a gallon in the—”
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK… KNOCK… KNOCK…… KNOCK.
The engine gave one final shudder—then silence.
For a heartbeat, everything froze. The wind died. The car hovered, as if time itself had stopped.
Then, with a slight dip, it began to fall.
“AAAAAAAH!”
All three screamed in unison, voices merging into pure terror as the car plummeted, the boys clinging to their seats like that might save them from the rapidly approaching ground.
The speed of their fall increased with every second, gravity seeming determined to wrench them from the car at any cost.
Harry clung to the seat with all his strength, feeling the fabric scrape against his fingers as Neville, behind him, gripped the headrest in the tightest embrace he'd ever given anything. Ron, however, seemed fused to the steering wheel, his arms wrapped around it as if holding on might save them.
Not a single coherent word escaped any of them.
Piercing screams filled the confined space, mingling with the wind howling around the spiralling car.
The trees of the Forbidden Forest, once an indistinct mass of darkness, became alarmingly sharp in the moonlight—every branch and leaf horribly detailed as the ground rushed up at a sickening speed.
Harry, unable to face what seemed certain death, squeezed his eyes shut.
A whirlwind of thoughts assaulted his mind. He saw his life flash before his eyes.
Hogwarts. Ron and Neville. Hermione.
But most of all, he thought of how desperately he still wanted to live. To laugh, to run, to explore the wizarding world. To be happy with his friends.
He didn’t want to die.
Yet this seemed the end.
All three had their eyes screwed shut as they screamed, faces frozen in pure terror.
They didn’t see the bright, blinding glow that pulsed silently through the trees below—right where they were destined to smash.
The expected impact never came.
Instead, a muffled whump filled the air—like a giant cushion swallowing the car—followed by a screech from the engine and a final dull thud.
Harry’s body lurched forward violently, his forehead nearly hitting the dashboard before he was thrown back against the seat.
Then—silence.
The world seemed to pause. Harry felt oddly calm for reasons he couldn’t explain, like a wave receding into the ocean after crashing ashore.
Everything was still, save for a slight swaying around them, as if the car were... caught?
Harry opened his eyes, blinking dazedly.
His heart hammered against his ribs, the sound of his ragged breathing the only noise. He looked around, blinking again to clear his blurred vision.
The car was tilted sideways, cocooned in what looked like... branches? No—not just branches. Giant leaves, intricately woven, forming a natural net that had cushioned their fall.
“Are we... dead?” Neville whispered, still clutching Harry’s seatback, his voice trembling.
“Is the afterlife this dark?” Ron croaked, peeling his hands off the wheel with a groan.
Harry stared out.
“No... this—this is the forest. We’re still in the Forbidden Forest,” he said, pointing at the towering, ominous trees surrounding them.
“W-we’re alive?... Merlin, we’re alive... WE’RE ALIVE!” Neville gasped, disbelieving, nearly leaping with relief as Ron and Harry joined his hysterical celebration.
After a brief bout of cheering, silence fell.
“But... what stopped us?” Harry asked.
All three leaned forward, peering through the cracked windscreen. The car appeared to have landed on a thick mat of vines and moss—like some makeshift plant web that had absorbed most of the impact.
“The trees saved us?” Ron murmured.
“Magical trees don’t just decide to cushion falls—they’re not that sentient, except the Whomping Willow, and that one kills you if you get close.” Neville said, still white-knuckling Harry’s seat. “This is weird.”
Ron carefully pushed the car door open—then yelped as something creaked ominously beneath them.
Harry and Neville followed him, still slightly unsteady on their feet.
And indeed, around the car, a tangled mass of branches, vines, and leaves stretched out like a natural mattress, as though the trees had cushioned the car's fall. Yet the strangest thing was the feeling it gave off—almost as if they were being watched.
“That wasn’t luck,” said Harry, frowning.
He bent down to touch the vines and felt a faint tingling in his fingertips.
Ron took a step back, looking around with wide eyes. “D’you reckon… this was done by something? Like, on purpose?”
Before anyone could answer, a low, guttural sound came from the shadows of the trees, followed by the rustling of leaves. Neville jumped backward, nearly tripping over a branch.
“What was that?” he whispered, his voice rising an octave.
Harry stood frozen, his wand already in hand. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t want us here.”
Ron swallowed hard, pulling out his own wand. “Merlin’s pants, I hope it’s not another griffin…”
Suddenly, the vines beneath their feet began to move, slithering like live snakes. Neville shrieked, leaping aside, while Harry and Ron staggered back, watching as the vines slowly retracted toward the trees, leaving the car—or what remained of it after that journey—on the ground.
“It’s like… it’s letting us go,” Harry murmured, still gripping his wand tightly.
“Or warning us not to stay,” Ron replied, his expression a mix of relief and dread.
“Can we stop arguing and just leave, please?” Neville whimpered.
“Yeah, if this bloody car hadn’t failed earlier,” Ron grumbled, “I’d’ve said there’s magical fluid in the boot. Dad keeps some spare—”
“And you took this long to mention it?” Harry asked indignantly.
“I didn’t remember off the top of my head!” Ron protested, wrenching open the boot to grab the fuel. “fuck, I nearly got killed by griffins and then run over by a train—I’m not at my best, in case you hadn’t noticed!”
“Alright, neither am I,” Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But just so you know, the fuel cap’s on the right side of the car.”
“Shut it.”
“Just saying…”
Without wasting another moment, Ron—just to be safe—poured all the remaining fluid into the fuel tank, which was quite a lot, since his dad always underfilled it. But he wasn’t thinking about careful measurements, not with his head pounding the way it was.
The three climbed back into the car, which groaned but, to their surprise, still seemed functional. Ron turned the key in the ignition, and the engine responded with a weak whine before finally rumbling to life.
“Right, we’re alive. Now let’s get out of here before that changes,” Ron said.
Harry nodded. “Fine… but to where?”
“Technically forward,” Neville pointed out. “The car didn’t change direction while falling, did it?”
“Suppose you’re right,” Ron sighed, easing on the accelerator.
“So d’you mean wherever we’re facing is our north now?” Harry asked.
“No, but I reckon that makes sense—we just need to go straight,” Neville argued.
“You two are absolute masters of geolocation,” Harry said drily. “If someone dropped you in the desert, you’d walk out in a day blindfolded. Ever thought of getting jobs in the field?”
“You got a better idea?” Ron asked.
“Look at the stars. We had a year of Astronomy, remember?”
“Oh… well, fair point,” Neville agreed, squinting up at the stars to orient himself.
“You sound like Hermione,” Ron grumbled. “Must’ve inhaled too much dust from those library books last year.”
And so they went, driving cautiously through the forbidding forest.
The darkness was near-total, with only the weak headlights illuminating the path. Branches and leaves occasionally scraped against the car’s sides, and the sounds of the forest—distant cries of creatures and the rustling of trees—made the atmosphere feel even more threatening.
Then Harry heard a high-pitched sound, like a distorted laugh, echo through the woods. He turned to look behind them but saw nothing but blackness.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Neville burst out, throwing his hands up in defeat.
Harry and Ron stared at their friend as if he’d sprouted a second head.
“What?!” Neville glared at them, equal parts furious and bewildered.
“You’ve never sworn before,” Ron remarked, and Harry nodded.
“But bloody hell!” Neville went on, indignant. “So far on this trip, every time Harry notices something, something bad happens! First the egg, then the engine failing, and now what? A troll? Bollocks! I just want to get to that fucking castle—is that too much to ask?”
Neville was now frantically scanning their surroundings.
“See, Harry? You’re a jinx,” Ron joked nervously, his eyes darting about too.
“I was gonna say something just now, but I’m too fond of your mum,” Harry shot back, forcing a laugh to ease the tension.
Suddenly, something small, blue, and glowing zipped past the car, followed by four more similar figures. The creatures were about twenty centimetres tall, with wings, flitting about chaotically.
“What the hell are those?!” Ron yelled, swerving sharply to avoid one.
“Are they… friendly?” Neville asked, clutching Harry’s seatback again.
The things began laughing, pointing at the trio as if they were some sort of joke.
“Looks like they’re… playing?” Ron said uncertainly, struggling to keep the car steady as more of the creatures circled them.
“I don’t trust it—not in this forest,” Harry replied, drawing his wand.
One of them—a particularly nasty-looking one with an ugly scar over its left eye—flew straight at Neville and yanked his ear hard, nearly lifting him out of the car.
“HELP!” he flailed as he was hoisted up.
“Hold on!” Harry shouted, reaching for him, but Ron was quicker.
“Grab tight!” Ron let go of the wheel and lunged, seizing Neville round the middle and hauling him back into the car with such force that they both toppled onto the seat.
Neville gasped, eyes bulging.
“They’re trying to take us!” Neville fumbled for his wand, more for comfort than actual use.
In response, the scarred creature flew at Neville again and, this time, snatched the wand right from his grip.
“Oi, give that back!” he cried in panic.
With a jerk of its tiny hands, the creature hurled the wand into the air, where a second blue fiend caught it and snapped it in half like a dry twig.
When the wand was tossed back to Neville, its tip hung limp and broken, a strand of unicorn tail hair visibly poking out from the splintered wood.
“My wand!” Neville exclaimed, clutching the broken piece with a look of utter despair.
The scarred creature let out a shrill laugh and launched itself at Ron, yanking his hair.
“OI! Piss off!” Ron yelled, trying to bat the creature away with one hand while still steering with the other.
Harry fired a spell, aiming his wand at the things.
“Depulso!”
The creatures dodged easily, cackling as they continued tormenting Ron.
“Harry, do something!” Ron shouted, swinging wildly at the infuriating pest.
“I'm trying!” Harry shot back, raising his wand again.
“Use fire! They won't like that!” Ron suggested, missing another swipe as his hair was pulled sharply.
So Harry took aim and shouted with determination:
“Incendio!”
The jet of flames that erupted from his wand nearly hit two of them, singeing a third, but the spell seemed to scare them enough that they all fled.
“Yeah, run for it, you gits!” Ron snarled, fury dripping from his voice.
He accelerated, trying to get away as fast as possible. But something was wrong.
The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating what looked like a wall of webs. The trees ahead were draped in thick spider silk, so dense it resembled curtains of silk rather than natural webbing. But what truly made all three freeze was what stood at the center of that clearing.
“What's that?” Neville asked, his voice cracking slightly, fear plain in his tone.
Before them, in the middle of the clearing, a massive shadow loomed.
The creature's long, hairy legs trembled slightly, and its eyes gleamed in the dark, reflecting the headlights.
It was an enormous spider.
The monster was the size of a full-grown elephant, but its sprawling width made it occupy an even larger, more intimidating space.
Around it, smaller offspring began emerging, their monstrous forms skittering through the forest.
Harry's face went pale as he recognized the creature.
“Acromantula... ACROMANTULA!” he said desperately, fear tightening his throat.
“ACROMAN—WHAT?!” Ron screamed, disbelief written across his face.
“GIANT SPIDERS! STEP ON IT!” Harry bellowed, his hand gripping the seat as if clinging to the only thing that still felt safe.
“Food... dinner is served, my children...” the giant spider whispered, making the trio's blood turn to ice.
Ron, his face now a mask of panic, didn't think twice.
He slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the car's tires screeched before lurching forward, speeding away from the creature with a roar. But the spiders were after them, fast as lightning, the largest making a dry clicking sound with every step. One of them, with long, blade-like legs, leaped onto the bonnet, its claws scraping the metal with a sound like nails on a chalkboard.
“WHY SPIDERS?!” Ron shrieked in terror.
“GET OFF, GET OFF ME!” Neville wailed desperately, scrambling away from another climbing up the side toward him.
With a solid kick, he sent it tumbling back into the darkness.
The whole thing happened in the blink of an eye, but Ron was caught off guard as something grabbed his head.
He felt an enormous weight, a sticky sensation, and before he could react, a smaller spider had latched onto his hair. Desperate, he let go of the steering wheel and began shaking his head violently, trying to dislodge the creature attacking him while screaming in panic.
Harry seized the wheel, yanking the car away from a tree they nearly collided with.
With Harry now steering from his seat, the car swerved sharply, veering out of the clearing. The spiders were still there, but the distance between them now seemed safe enough.
“Don't stop! Keep going, Harry!” Neville cried, still looking back, eyes bulging, as the car accelerated through the forest.
It felt like an eternity, but by some miracle—or perhaps his quick Quidditch reflexes—Harry managed to dodge every tree in their path without crashing.
Ron finally managed to fling that spider out of the car and grabbed the wheel again, his hands trembling uncontrollably as he took over steering.
Gradually, the spiders began giving up the chase, and the eerie sounds of the forest returned, mingling with the grumble of the Ford Anglia's engine.
None of them spoke for a long time. No jokes, no attempts to lighten the mood—the shock was too great. They'd already had more than enough trouble for one day.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing pulse, until he spotted something ahead.
The forest opened into a wider area, and he recognized the trees and path that would lead them to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He'd been here before, in his first year, when he'd seen the unicorns. It was a clear landmark.
It helped him remember where they were.
“Turn left at that tall rock and go straight—we'll head right for the castle,” Harry directed.
Finally, they broke free of the forest and exhaled in relief as the towering castle loomed closer than ever. In the distance, they could see the boats docked at Hogwarts' landing, meaning the first-years had already arrived.
“I think... I think we missed the start of the Sorting Ceremony,” Neville murmured.
“That must've been a century ago—took us forever to get here,” Ron said, his voice still shaky from the ordeal.
“Just want somewhere without griffins, trains, or forbidden forests, if that's not too much to ask,” Harry grumbled.
“Spiders—and somewhere without spiders, please,” Ron added, his voice thick with lingering fear.
The redhead swung the car around to park near the castle entrance, but as they arrived, the engine suddenly made a strange noise. The headlight flickered, and the motor sputtered as if on its last legs.
“Useless thing!” Ron gritted his teeth, slamming his palm against the wheel as the car lost power.
They had basically rolled into the flowerbeds near Hogwarts' front gates when, without warning, the car gave one final, violent shudder.
“I think he's—” Neville began, but didn’t get to finish his sentence, because the next instant, the car braked sharply.
With a brutal impact, the three were hurled from the car, their trunks shooting through the air as if they had minds of their own.
Neville, with unexpected agility, managed to grab Trevor’s cage at the last second; the toad trembled in pure terror, eyes bulging. Ron, however, wasn’t so lucky—Scabbers hit the ground with a dull thud, squeaking at the impact.
The car, visibly irritated, honked one last time, emitting a shrill, almost sarcastic sound. Then, it gave a sharp swerve, tyres skidding on the ground before speeding off towards the Forbidden Forest.
“Oi! Come back!” yelled Ron, staggering to his feet and waving his arms as if he could summon the vehicle back.
“It’s gone, Ron,” said Neville, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.
Ron let out a defeated groan.
“Mum and Dad are going to kill me...”
Neville carefully pulled out his wand, now almost completely snapped, held together only by a thin, flexible strand of wood.
He closed his eyes and sighed mournfully, holding back tears.
Harry knew that was his dad’s wand. The thought of something similar happening to his Invisibility Cloak unsettled him. Just imagining it, he felt a weight in his chest—he’d be devastated.
Without a word, Harry placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Words were unnecessary in that moment.
“I’ll need some Spellotape...” Neville murmured, his voice barely audible. “And a lot of courage to face my gran’s lecture when she finds out.”
Harry gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “It’ll be alright, Nev. This wasn’t your fault.”
Neville shook his head slowly, pocketing the broken wand with near-reverent care.
“Don’t think she’ll take it that easily, but... thanks,” he replied, his voice hoarse, thick with sorrow.
Harry took a deep breath, glancing towards the castle ahead.
The towers, with only a few lights still glowing, most students already asleep, stood out against the night sky. The castle itself was such a welcoming sight that, for a brief moment, he almost forgot the chaos they’d faced to get there.
“I’m never getting in a car again,” Neville declared suddenly, breaking the silence with a firm tone. “Never. Not even if you pay me.”
“At least we’re alive, eh?” said Harry, giving his friends an encouraging pat on the back to lift their spirits.
But he noticed Ron was as pale as a ghost, eyes still wide as he stared towards the Forest.
“Relax, mate,” said Neville, attempting optimism. “He’ll come back eventually... I think.”
Ron shook his head sharply.
“No... it’s not that...” He swallowed hard, shuddering. “That thing. That giant acro-whatsit. Fuck... I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life.”
Neville looked at Ron, then towards the castle entrance, understanding exactly how he felt.
“Well, it’s not just the spiders that’ll haunt our nightmares now,” he murmured, glancing at the castle.
Harry followed Neville’s petrified gaze and felt a sudden chill run down his spine. There, emerging from the shadows like a vision straight from their worst nightmares, a tall, gaunt figure flung open the imposing oak doors of the castle with a bang that echoed across the empty courtyard.
Severus Snape advanced towards them, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of some sinister bird. The pale moonlight sharpened the angles of his face, turning his usual unpleasant expression into something truly terrifying. His black eyes—cold and hard as polished stones—had already spotted them, and the promise of suffering in that gaze was clearer than any words.
If this day were a particularly cruel level in some game of chance, the griffins, the Express, the freefall, the blue demons, and the Acromantulas would’ve just been the opening challenges. Snape, with his silent fury and calculated movements, seemed to have emerged as the final boss—the one no sane player would ever want to face.
“I think he’s come to kill us,” Neville whispered, his voice so thin it was barely audible over the rustling of nearby trees.
Harry swallowed dryly. For a brief moment, he imagined trying to explain to the Ministry how they’d survived deadly magical creatures only to be murdered by the Potions professor.
But if they were going to be dead in a few minutes, they wouldn't have to bother explaining themselves.
“Brilliant...” he muttered, feeling that familiar knot of dread tightening in his stomach as the professor approached, each step echoing like a sentence.
Chapter 19: Gilderoy and 69 Other Lockhart Queries
Chapter Text
Of all the ways Harry Potter had imagined arriving at Hogwarts on that September morning, a near-death adventure aboard a flying car had definitely not been among them—not even in his worst nightmares.
Severus Snape marched the three boys to his office in the dungeons, his black, silent footsteps echoing like threats through the shadowy corridors.
Because of their absurd delay, they had missed not only the Sorting Ceremony but also the Welcome Feast. Now, well past midnight, a heavy silence enveloped the castle, as if even the walls were holding their breath.
The Potions Master’s office was as gloomy as its owner, but unlike the rest of the dungeons, it was dry and warm—though the warmth was hardly comforting.
Crammed shelves stretched to the ceiling, laden with glinting jars containing strange and sinister ingredients: gnarled roots, gleaming eyes, and viscous substances that seemed to watch them back. Oddly, no foul smell lingered—just a metallic, herbal scent, as if fear itself had been distilled there. In one corner, a stone table held an intricate setup of glassware, tubes, and extinguished cauldrons, reminding Harry, with a chill down his spine, of the lessons he dreaded most.
Snape settled into his black leather chair, long, pale fingers steepled on the desk, his dark eyes—cold as river stones—boring into the boys as if they were particularly irritating grubs.
Harry, Ron, and Neville were squeezed into the hard wooden chairs before him, so tense they could barely breathe. The only sound breaking the silence was the intermittent crackle of a lone candle, its flame flickering like a warning.
“Do you have any idea of the magnitude of the trouble you caused?” Snape continued, slicing through the silence like a blade. “Or have your incompetent minds yet to distill the potion of clarity? Because, from where I stand, you seem utterly devoid of it.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Snape raised a pale hand, silencing him with a gesture as sharp as his words.
“Do not speak, Potter.”
With a fluid motion, he drew a copy of the Daily Prophet from his black robes and slammed it onto the desk. The headline displayed a photo of Mr. Weasley’s Ford Anglia hovering over London, its ungainly wings visible to any Muggle who happened to look up.
FLYING CAR TERRORISES LONDON: MINISTRY STEPS IN WITH MASS COVER-UP
The three boys read the bold letters.
“Fifteen Muggles,” Snape enunciated, each word dripping with poison. “Fifteen Muggles witnessed your brilliant escapade. The Ministry has been mobilised, agents had to scramble to Obliviate those who saw, and all because you three—three irresponsible fools—couldn’t manage to arrive at school like normal wizards.”
“Obliviate?” Harry blurted before he could stop himself, his eyes locked on the headline.
Snape leaned forward, his black eyes boring into Harry’s face as though trying to wrench the truth straight from his mind.
“A Memory Charm,” he explained with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Erases unwanted events from anyone’s mind, wizards and especially Muggles—when performed correctly, of course. But given that you three decided to turn London into your personal stage, a considerable effort was required to prevent our world from being exposed like some circus spectacle.”
Ron, who until then had seemed to wish he could merge with the chair, risked a glance at Snape.
“We didn’t mean—”
“Silence!” Snape cut in, his head whipping around with viper-like speed. “I am not finished.”
Ron swallowed his words, lips pressed into a thin line of suppressed fury.
“I ought to congratulate you,” Snape continued, sarcasm dripping like acid. “You’ve managed to stand out before the first day of term. An impressive feat… especially for you, Potter. So like your father.”
Harry felt his blood boil in his veins. He knew exactly where this was headed.
“Arrogant. Insolent. Reckless,” Snape spat each word like a personal insult. “And above all, narcissistic… always craving attention, expecting special treatment, aren’t you? Exactly like James Potter.” His eyes narrowed. “Must run in the family.”
Harry clenched his fists, fingers trembling with anger as he felt his aura pulse hot in his chest. But as much as he wanted to shout, he knew—Snape was waiting for it, so he stayed silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction, already in enough trouble as it was.
“But that’s not fair!” Ron exploded, shoving forward in his chair, his ears turning as red as his hair. “It was my idea to take the car—”
“Ah, of course, the Weasley clan,” Snape cut in, his voice so sharp it seemed to slice the air. “How could I not have guessed? You lot never do know moderation, do you? Either you think too much—like those insufferable twins of yours—or you don’t think at all, as seems to be the case for the rest of your family. Only a Weasley would think nicking a flying car was a fantastic solution… and still fail so spectacularly.”
Neville, who had been trying to make himself as small as possible in his chair, flinched as Snape’s black eyes turned on him.
“And you, Longbottom?” Snape hissed. “What’s your excuse? Or was this just another case of ‘following the herd’ because your brain is incapable of functioning on its own?”
“I-I do think for myself, Professor!” Neville stammered, sinking further into his chair as if willing himself to vanish.
Snape arched an eyebrow slowly, his face a portrait of disdain.
“Do you, now?” he murmured, drawing out the words as if savouring each syllable. “Like when you flooded the Slytherin common room with Dungbombs? Was that your stroke of genius? Or do you think I’ve forgotten that disgusting little stunt?”
Neville’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his face flushing deeply.
“I-I just… w-we didn’t—”
Harry kicked Neville’s ankle discreetly, silencing him.
“As far as we know,” Harry said, keeping his voice steady despite the lump in his throat, “it was the Slytherins themselves who did that. You’ve got no proof it was us.”
Snape leaned forward, his long, pale fingers pressing into the desk as his black eyes bore into Harry like wands poised to cast a curse.
“You and I both know it wasn’t my house, Potter,” he replied, each word as cold as ice. “And I don’t need proof. What you did today says everything I already knew about your character—you’ve just made it public.”
Abruptly, he rose, his tall, gaunt frame casting a sinister shadow that swallowed the wall behind him.
“And now,” Snape continued, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “thanks to your idiocy, the entire school knows that the famous Harry Potter and his gang have already started causing trouble before even setting foot in Hogwarts. Not that this surprises me. I expected some foolishness from you, Potter... but even I was impressed by how quickly you managed to outdo yourselves.”
Ron, who had been gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his fingers had turned white, let out a muffled noise of frustration.
“It wasn’t all Harry’s fault!” he burst out, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. “We had to run from two griffins and still—”
“Griffins?” Snape interrupted, his lips curling into a sneer of pure scorn. “You truly expect me to believe that pathetic lie? That you were engaged in some epic battle against magical creatures while flying in an illegally enchanted car?”
“It’s not a lie!” Ron exploded, his face now the same colour as his hair, his fists trembling with indignation. “If you’d been there—”
“If I had been there, Weasley,” Snape cut in, leaning forward like a vulture over its prey, “you three wouldn’t even have made it off Platform Nine and Three-Quarters!”
He sat back, his glare sweeping over them.
Harry clenched his fists so hard he felt his nails digging into his palms. Enduring the griffins, nearly being hit by the Express, the car’s freefall and almost becoming dinner for giant spiders had been terrifying, but enduring Snape’s accusations—being called a liar and irresponsible—burned inside him like a badly brewed potion.
“Don’t call us liars!” Harry exploded before he could stop himself.
“Keep your mouth shut, Potter!” Snape snarled, his black eyes glinting dangerously as he raised a bony finger. “And mind your tone when speaking to me.”
Harry looked away, breathing deeply through his nose. It was clear Snape would spend the next few hours pouring his usual venom over them.
“What you did was an insult to this institution,” Snape declared, crossing his arms, his voice colder than the dungeons in January. “An act of unprecedented stupidity. And as such...” He paused dramatically, “you three will be sent home. Tonight.”
The words fell like a death sentence. Harry, Ron, and Neville exchanged panicked glances, their hearts pounding so loudly they could almost hear them.
“No, they will not.”
The calm, melodious voice came from the doorway.
The three turned so fast Neville nearly fell off his chair. There stood Dumbledore, his long purple robes shimmering softly in the candlelight, with Professor McGonagall in her usual green robes behind him. The Headmaster’s mere presence seemed to make the air more breathable.
“Albus!” Snape exclaimed, rising so quickly his chair scraped against the stone floor. “You are aware of what these three delinquents have done? The Daily Prophet has made it quite clear the danger they posed to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy!”
Dumbledore raised a wrinkled hand in a placating gesture, though his blue eyes remained serious.
“I understand today’s events were... concerning,” he began, walking calmly to the centre of the room. “But nothing irreparable has occurred. The Ministry has contained the situation with their usual efficiency.”
“Concerning?” Snape repeated, his upper lip curling into a bitter smile. “They nearly exposed our world to dozens of Muggles! Had they been Slytherins, the expulsion letters would already be written.”
“But they are not Slytherins, Severus,” McGonagall interjected, her Scottish brogue sharpened by irritation. “They are my students, Gryffindors, and under my responsibility.”
Snape shot a particularly poisonous look at Harry before replying:
“Then I suppose, Minerva, this is a sad day for your house. Gryffindor has had more worthy students... in nobler times.”
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed behind her rectangular spectacles.
“They will be punished appropriately, you may be sure,” she replied, her chin raised with dignity. “But our definitions of 'nobler times' seem to differ considerably, Severus. From what I recall, your own Slytherin students are hardly models of perfection. All students make mistakes, from every house.”
A heavy silence hung in the office as the two professors stared each other down, neither willing to yield first. The tension between them was almost palpable, as if the very air were charged with unspoken magic.
Dumbledore, with his usual air of calm, raised his hands in a placating gesture, his gentle smile half-hidden by his long silver beard. He approached the three boys with slow steps, and Harry felt immediate relief at his mere presence—it was as if sunlight had entered those gloomy dungeons.
“As all three are under Gryffindor’s care,” he said, his voice melodious and steady, “I trust Professor McGonagall will handle the appropriate consequences. Severus, there’s no need for concern—proper measures will be taken.”
Snape inclined his head in a near-imperceptible nod, his face settling back into that impenetrable expression not even the shrewdest could decipher.
“If I may offer a suggestion, Minerva,” he began, his voice so smooth and controlled it seemed absurd to recall that mere seconds ago he had been on the verge of expelling them.
“I’m listening,” replied McGonagall, raising an eyebrow in a gesture Harry knew well—it was the same one she used when Fred and George tried explaining themselves after a prank.
“When the time comes to assign their detentions,” Snape continued, his black eyes lingering on Harry as if savouring each word, “I would dearly love to enlist Mr. Potter’s... special talent in preparing the missing ingredients for this year’s lessons. After all, his aptitude for the subject is... remarkable,” he said with clear irony, “and the best of the three, if we consider last year’s grades.”
Harry’s stomach twisted as if he’d swallowed a bucket of slugs. He clenched his fists so hard his nails left crescent marks in his palms.
“Brilliant start to term for you too, you greasy bat,” he thought vehemently, keeping his lips tightly sealed.
Snape curled his lips into his most unpleasant smile, as if he’d heard every word. It wasn’t the first time Harry suspected he could read minds—but if he could, he’d better have gotten the message.
“So... we’re not... not being expelled?” Neville ventured to ask, his voice as shaky as his hands, which twisted nervously at the hem of his robes.
“No, Mr. Longbottom, you are not being expelled,” McGonagall answered, her tone firm but not without a spark of relief. Her gaze, however, made it clear the matter was far from over.
“I leave them in your hands, Minerva,” said Dumbledore, offering the boys one of his twinkling smiles. “Regardless of today’s events, I do hope this year proves exceptionally fruitful for you three—that you may embrace all Hogwarts has to teach. Goodnight—and do try not to stay up too late, hm?”
“Yes, Professor,” the three mumbled in unison, their voices as dejected as their expressions.
“Excellent,” Dumbledore nodded, turning to leave while murmuring something about “being too old for these things,” “urgently needing a lemon drop,” and “staying up far too late, it simply won’t do.”
Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing—even in that tense situation, Dumbledore’s peculiar manner was impossible to ignore.
Snape, meanwhile, cast one last inscrutable look at the trio, his face as expressionless as a stone mask, before turning to his desk, clearly deciding they were no longer worth his time.
“With me,” McGonagall ordered, her Scottish brogue sharpened by severity, as she turned on her heel.
Harry, Ron, and Neville followed her out of the dungeons, the cold, damp air of the corridor feeling almost refreshing after the suffocating atmosphere of Snape’s office.
Neville let out a muffled sigh as they walked, his shoulders finally relaxing slightly.
“I thought we'd end up on the streets before even the first day of term,” he murmured, looking at the other two with a mixture of relief and guilt.
They began climbing the stairs, and the exhaustion of the day quickly caught up with the boys. Ron leaned in towards his friends with the relieved expression of someone who'd just escaped Snape's lair.
“I forgot it's seven floors,” Ron groaned wearily.
Harry gave a small smile, despite the awful day, and leaned closer.
“Eight, actually,” he whispered back. “We're still in the dungeons.”
“Ooh...” Neville moaned, looking even more dejected.
“Well, climbing eight floors is still better than going back to the Burrow tonight,” Ron remarked, in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what he was talking about.
Just the thought of facing his furious mother made him gulp audibly.
After climbing the castle's endless staircases, they finally reached McGonagall's office.
The professor awaited them with her upright posture and stern expression, her lips pressed into a thin line. With a curt gesture, she pointed to the chairs in front of her desk.
“Sit,” ordered McGonagall, her voice as dry as the autumn leaves covering Hogwarts' grounds, though lacking its usual sharpness.
The three boys obeyed immediately, their stiff bodies sliding into the chairs as if facing a tribunal's verdict. Harry could feel cold sweat trickling down his back as he carefully avoided the professor's piercing gaze. McGonagall settled behind her oak desk, fingers steepled, observing them with that look that always made Harry feel like a particularly interesting specimen under a magnifying glass.
“I know it is not in your nature—despite what Professor Snape may suggest—to arrive at Hogwarts in such a... peculiar manner,” she began, her eyes narrowing as she scanned each pale face before her. “Therefore, I wish to hear your account of events. The full account.”
What followed was a chaotic, overlapping retelling, with the three boys speaking at once, interrupting and finishing each other's sentences as if competing to tell the most unbelievable—yet true—story.
Harry described how the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had inexplicably refused to work. Ron, with sweeping gestures that nearly knocked over an inkpot, explained the “brilliant” decision to use the flying Ford Anglia. Neville, his voice trembling like the leaves of a Whomping Willow, recounted the disastrous flight and the encounter with the griffins.
“And then we crashed—right in the middle of the Forbidden Forest!” Ron exclaimed, his wide eyes reflecting the terror of the memory. “And we thought we were lucky to have survived, until—”
“Until those... blue things appeared,” Neville cut in, his flailing hands sketching vague shapes in the air. “They were jumping everywhere, and—”
“And then the spider showed up,” Harry finished grimly. “It wasn't a normal spider. It was...”
“The size of a house!” Ron said quickly, his arms spreading so wide he nearly smacked Neville in the face. His eyes were so wide the pupils looked like tiny black dots in a sea of blue. “And that thing had loads—hundreds—of babies crawling everywhere! I almost—I almost—” He gulped.
Harry knew it wasn't just for dramatic effect. Ron's fear of spiders was legendary.
McGonagall, who had until then remained as still as a statue, finally reacted.
Her thin lips pressed together even tighter, forming a line so straight it might have been drawn with a ruler, and Harry swore he saw a slight tremor in her hand as she raised her spectacles to rub her eyes.
“Now, to summarise,” she said at last, her voice dangerously calm like the surface of a lake about to freeze, “not only did you break the rules by not waiting for a responsible adult to collect you and bring you to school properly, but you chose to travel alone in a magically enchanted Muggle vehicle—”
“We didn't enchant it,” Ron muttered.
“—nearly exposed our world to at least fifteen Muggles,” McGonagall continued, ignoring the interruption, “encountered griffins, unknown creatures from the Forbidden Forest, and a fully grown Acromantula with her offspring, and by some miracle—and I use that word quite deliberately—managed to arrive at school in one piece?”
“Well, when you put it like that—” Harry began, trying to soften the situation.
“I don't want to hear another word, Potter,” McGonagall cut in, raising her hand with such authority that Harry felt his mouth snap shut involuntarily.
There was something in her eyes, however, that didn't match the severity of her voice—a glint Harry might almost have called admiration, if it weren't completely absurd. It was as though, despite everything, she was impressed by their survival skills—or perhaps simply stunned by their boundless stupidity.
The professor leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming on the desk as she studied the three boys as if seeing them for the first time.
The silence that followed was so thick Harry could hear the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in the grounds.
The three boys exchanged anxious glances but remained silent, as still as the stone statues lining Hogwarts' corridors.
“You could have waited for help at the station,” McGonagall went on, her square spectacles reflecting the candlelight as she spoke. “You could have missed the train and arrived the next day—we would have arranged a solution. A flying carriage, the Floo Network, or even the Knight Bus, if you preferred.” Her eyes narrowed. “But no—you chose to act on your own, in one of the most irresponsible displays I've witnessed in all my years teaching here.”
She took a deep breath, her thin lips compressing into a line so straight Harry could have sworn it was drawn with a set square.
“The barrier has never failed before, that much is true,” she admitted, “but that is no excuse for the decision you made. I want you to understand perfectly what I'm about to say: never—I repeat—never again repeat anything like this. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Professor,” they chorused, their voices echoing automatically as if they'd rehearsed the response.
McGonagall studied them for a long moment, her piercing eyes seeming to weigh the genuine remorse in each face, before finally lacing her hands together on the desk.
“You will be duly punished for your actions, as is to be expected. Furthermore,” she added, making Neville gulp audibly, “your families will receive a letter detailing the entire incident.”
Harry kept his face carefully neutral, but inwardly felt a flicker of relief. He doubted Vernon Dursley would even open the letter—and if by some miracle he did, he'd probably use the parchment to light the fireplace or something equally dismissive.
“However,” McGonagall continued, “given the... extraordinary circumstances you've described, I shall allow you to rest before disciplinary measures are implemented. And believe me,” she warned, with a look that made even Ron shrink in his chair, “measures will be taken. Beginning with a fifty-point deduction from each of you.”
The impact of her words was like a wand-strike to the gut. Fifty points each! Before term had even properly begun! Harry could almost hear the despairing groans Fred and George would unleash when they found out.
As if to emphasize their misery, their stomachs growled in unison—a humiliating reminder they hadn't eaten anything substantial since breakfast, and that Mrs. Weasley's sandwiches had been shared with Neville.
McGonagall sighed, and for the first time since they'd entered her office, Harry caught a glimmer of compassion in her eyes.
“I presume you're ravenous,” she said, her tone slightly softer. “The least I can do is arrange for you to eat in the common room. Fribsky!”
Pop!
With a characteristic crack, a house-elf appeared before them. The tiny creature had pointed ears that drooped like bat wings, dressed in what appeared to be a clean tea towel repurposed as a tunic, with Hogwarts' crest proudly displayed on its chest.
“Could Fribsky bring these three something to eat in the Gryffindor common room, please?” McGonagall requested.
“Of course, Professor!” the elf replied eagerly, its ears flapping excitedly. “Fribsky will fetch the finest sandwiches and hot soup! And perhaps some apple pie too!”
As soon as McGonagall thanked him—
Pop!
—the elf vanished as quickly as he'd appeared.
Harry couldn't suppress a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Professor.”
“Don't thank me yet,” she replied, rising with her usual upright posture. “Now, I'll escort you to the common room. And I expect,” she added, fixing each with a look that promised dire consequences for further disobedience, “to hear of no more outrageous incidents involving you this year. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Professor,” the three chorused, standing so fast their chairs nearly toppled backward.
The walk was silent, peaceful even, until they reached the corridor ending with the Fat Lady's portrait.
When they arrived before it, she greeted them cordially and swung open—McGonagall didn't need to say the password, being Head of Gryffindor.
“Ah, one more thing, Mr. Weasley,” the professor called.
Ron stopped, turning to face her before they entered.
McGonagall offered her first pronounced smile since she'd laid eyes on them that evening.
“I thought you'd like to know your sister, Ginevra, has been Sorted into Gryffindor.”
Ron, despite everything, broke into a proud grin.
“Wouldn't expect anything less from her.”
“Excellent. I've no doubt she'll thrive in our house. Now, off you go.”
When they finally clambered through the Fat Lady's portrait hole—exhausted, starving, and still flecked with dirt from the Forbidden Forest—the Gryffindor common room was steeped in near-palpable silence.
The candles had long burned out, leaving only the flickering glow of the fireplace to illuminate the empty room. It was well—well—past midnight, and most students had retired to their dormitories.
Or nearly all.
In a corner by the hearth, a solitary figure lay curled in an armchair.
Hermione still wore her full uniform, having used her own cloak as a makeshift blanket. Her usually disciplined brown curls now tumbled haphazardly across her face, which looked extraordinarily serene in the golden firelight.
“Should we wake her?” Neville whispered, casting a hesitant look between Harry and Ron.
“Yes,” Harry replied in an equally low voice. “She probably stayed up waiting for us.”
It made perfect sense.
When they hadn't come through Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, news of their dramatic flying car arrival must have spread through Hogwarts like wildfire. They'd likely been the main topic at dinner, with increasingly exaggerated versions being shared between tables—if Harry knew anything about how rumours flew through those stone walls.
And Hermione, being Hermione, would have been worried sick.
Ron nudged Harry, his blue eyes bright with sudden excitement.
“Hey, look!” He pointed to one of the nearby tables.
On the polished oak table by the window—not coincidentally the one their quartet always used—were three neatly arranged plates, accompanied by a platter of assorted sandwiches, steaming bowls of soup, generous slices of apple pie, and a jug of fresh pumpkin juice. The house-elves, it seemed, spared no effort in looking after students—especially those who arrived starving after a near-death adventure.
“I'll wake her,” Harry murmured, stepping quietly toward the armchair.
He crouched down to Hermione's level and gently shook her shoulder.
“Hermione?” he called softly. Up close, he noticed how much younger and relaxed her features looked in sleep—an unusual sight, since Harry had never seen her asleep before.
“Hmm?” She groaned sleepily, blinking slowly until her brown eyes flew fully open.
For a brief moment, she seemed completely disoriented, until recognition lit up her face.
“Harry! You're here!” Hermione sat up abruptly, rubbing her eyes to banish the last traces of sleep. “Where were you? Why didn't you go to the station? Is it true you came in a flying car? Are you hurt? You're absolutely filthy! Have you eaten anything? Are you getting detention?”
“Hey, good to see you too, Hermione,” Ron quipped, brushing past them and flopping heavily into one of the chairs by the laden table.
Hermione frowned and crossed her arms determinedly. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you're in? This whole madness—”
“Yeah, we've heard that about fifty times today,” Ron interrupted, rubbing his tired eyes. “If you want, you could write it on a scroll and pin it to the noticeboard to save time for future lectures. Snape nearly skinned us alive, and McGonagall finished the job by hanging our hides out to dry.”
“Let me guess,” Hermione said, ignoring Ron's sarcasm, “this was your idea, wasn't it?”
Ron looked away, clearly uncomfortable—his expression was confession enough.
“If he hadn't, we wouldn't have made it to school,” Harry defended quickly, before Hermione could continue her interrogation.
“Yeah, and we also wouldn't have nearly died like three times... or more,” Neville mumbled, already pulling up a chair and attacking a sandwich with the appetite of someone who'd gone hours without food.
“WHAT?!” Hermione let out a muffled shriek, her eyes widening like two full moons.
“Long story,” the three chorused, far too exhausted to go into details just then.
Hermione fixed each of them with a piercing stare, clearly torn between scolding them severely or sitting down to hear every detail of their adventure. Finally, she sighed in resignation and, with a precise nod, gestured to the laden table.
“Eat first. But after,” she warned, jabbing an accusatory finger at each of them, “I want to hear this 'long story'. Every detail. Every. Single. One.”
Harry exchanged a meaningful look with Ron and Neville.
From the determination in Hermione's brown eyes, it was clear she didn't intend to let a single detail slip by.
“At least you're not taking points,” Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.
“Don't remind me...” Neville mumbled dejectedly.
The sun was already rising when the three boys were forced to get up. With aching muscles and puffy, sleep-deprived eyes, they made their way down to the Great Hall.
In the dormitory, Seamus and Dean had bombarded them with questions about the flying car story. Ron, already tired of retelling it for what felt like the thousandth time, summarised the events quickly, shuddering when mentioning the Acromantula.
The previous night, Neville had begged Hermione to save her more complicated questions for breakfast, and she'd reluctantly agreed.
Now, as they descended the stairs toward the Great Hall, they ignored the curious stares and muffled laughter from other students.
“So... it was because the platform barrier wouldn't work?” Hermione asked, frowning as they walked.
“That's what we wanted to know,” Harry replied, adjusting his bag strap. “Is there some limit on how many people can go through at once?”
“Not that I know of,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “The enchantment's ancient and reliable. And yesterday's paper didn't mention any issues. So it must have started working normally again afterwards.”
“Awesome,” Ron sighed. “Just our rotten luck then.”
As they pushed open the massive doors to the Great Hall, they were met with the infectious energy of the first day of term. The aroma of toast, scrambled eggs, sausages and coffee filled the air.
They greeted their Gryffindor housemates. Harry noticed Ginny blushing violently at the sight of him while unsuccessfully trying to disguise how her cutlery shook. Further down, the Weasley twins were laughing with Angelina, Katie and Alicia, who looked more beautiful than ever and full of summer energy. Oliver Wood, meanwhile, was already passionately discussing the new Quidditch season, while Percy, bored, rolled his eyes.
The four settled at the Gryffindor table—Harry and Ron on one side, Neville and Hermione opposite. The morning light streaming through the high windows illuminated the heaping plates of food, creating an almost ironic contrast to last night's harrowing adventures.
“They still don't know about the points, do they?” Ron muttered between bites of toast thickly slathered with butter, while pouring tea into his mug until it nearly overflowed.
“Doesn't look like it,” Harry replied equally quietly, spearing a sausage with his fork. “Better enjoy it while they're still smiling at us.”
“Why does this stuff only happen to us?” Neville pondered, pouring pumpkin juice into his glass with hands that still trembled slightly.
“Told you before,” Ron chuckled, scattering crumbs across the table, “it's Harry. He's a magnet for trouble.”
Hermione frowned, her unruly curls bouncing with the movement. “Harry attracts trouble? Since when?”
Harry suddenly raised his hand, cutting them off. “Wait... did you hear that?”
“Oh no, here we go again,” Neville laughed, exchanging an amused look with Ron.
Hermione looked from one to the other, completely baffled. “What's happening?”
“It's just,” Ron explained, struggling to contain laughter, “every time something terrible's about to happen, Harry always asks if we heard 'that weird noise'.”
“Idiotic boys...” Hermione huffed, crossing her arms tightly. “You nearly died last night and this morning you're joking about it like you're the twins?”
“Such is life,” Ron shrugged, speaking through a full mouth. “Better to laugh than cry. Last year I nearly became plant food and got thrown by a giant chess piece. If I don't laugh about it, I'll cry.”
“Speaking of which,” Harry said with a mischievous grin, “Ron, which is your left and which is your right hand?”
“Oh, sod off Harry, I was nervous!” Ron protested, giving his friend's shoulder a playful shove while laughing. “I know the difference, I just said I didn't so you'd stop nagging.”
“Not to be rude,” Neville murmured timidly, “but you're terrible at lying.”
“I'm not lying,” Ron retorted immediately.
Neville let out a quiet chuckle. “Then pass me the plate of food to your left, please.”
Ron hesitated visibly, his blue eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to calculate mentally.
“Want me to wind up your watch to help?” Harry offered, feigning seriousness.
“Shut it,” Ron growled, but eventually handed over the correct plate after a brief moment of confusion.
“Congratulations,” Harry said solemnly. “After nearly getting us killed over this, if you genuinely didn't know, I'd have you committed.”
While the boys laughed as if watching a comedy show, Hermione remained stern, her fingers drumming impatiently on the table. She bit her lower lip and leaned forward, her forehead creased with worry.
“Don't you all find this extremely odd?” she asked, her voice laden with seriousness.
“Nearly dying three times in one day?” Harry shrugged. “Getting used to it.”
“Nearly dying is bad enough,” Ron remarked with a grimace. “But nearly becoming spider food? Disgusting...”
He shuddered visibly, as if he could still feel the creature's hairy legs crawling on his skin.
“It was horrible, I know,” Harry admitted casually, spearing another sausage. “But to be honest, spiders can be decent company. I lived with a few when I was little. Non-venomous ones, obviously,” he added, as if discussing the weather.
The memory surfaced effortlessly—dark nights in the cupboard under the stairs, where spiders had been his only companions. He'd learned quickly that screaming in fear only earned him beatings from the Dursleys, and asking for help was as useful as talking to walls. Over time, fear had given way to a peculiar resignation.
As Harry ate his scrambled eggs and sausages with apparent normalcy, he didn't notice his three friends freezing, their forks hovering mid-air, staring at him with expressions ranging from horror to deep bewilderment. The three exchanged meaningful glances, a silent conversation passing between them.
“Well... but that's not what I meant,” Hermione added after an awkward silence.
“Then what?” Harry asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.
“Stop and think: the platform barrier only failed for you. Then, of all possible places, a griffin egg smashed right into your car. And, as if that wasn’t enough, you ended up surrounded by dangerous creatures right after. That’s too many coincidences, don’t you think?”
Neville frowned and scratched his head, clearly uncomfortable. “Are you saying someone... set this up?”
Hermione shrugged, her brow furrowing as she looked at them. “I don’t know. I just know it’s too much weirdness for one day.”
Harry grew thoughtful. “That elf... Dobby. He said I shouldn’t return to Hogwarts. Could that be connected?”
“At this point,” Neville muttered, “I wouldn’t doubt anything.”
Before they could continue, the Great Hall erupted into a flurry of feathers and flapping wings. Dozens of owls swooped in through the high arched windows, carrying letters and morning papers. Harry immediately noticed how Ron and Neville paled when two bright red envelopes landed with a characteristic thud in front of each of them.
“Oh no...” the two groaned in unison, like men condemned to the gallows.
“It’s from Mum,” Ron murmured, his face turning the same shade as his freckles.
“And mine’s from Gran,” Neville added, his hands trembling slightly as he touched the envelope.
“These are about what happened yesterday, aren’t they?” Hermione asked, though she knew perfectly well the answer.
“It’s worse,” Ron sighed deeply. “They’re Howlers.”
“Howlers?” Harry repeated, frowning.
“You’re about to find out,” Neville replied grimly. “Ron, want to open yours first?”
“What if I... don’t open it?” Ron suggested with fragile hope. “Can I just... throw it away?”
“Better to open it,” Neville advised, shaking his head. “If you don’t, the reaction will be much worse when you go home.”
With trembling hands, Ron broke the seal on the envelope. Immediately, the parchment unfolded in mid-air, forming a gigantic mouth that seemed made of living paper.
“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!”
bellowed Mrs. Weasley's voice, thundering through the Great Hall like a storm.
A sudden silence fell over the students, all eyes turning toward the Gryffindor table. Even the professors at the High Table paused their conversations to watch.
“YOUR FATHER AND I ARE ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED BY YOUR BEHAVIOUR! TAKING THE FLYING CAR WITHOUT PERMISSION? IN BROAD DAYLIGHT? IN A MUGGLE AREA? YOUR FATHER IS FACING AN INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY BECAUSE OF YOU!”
Ron seemed to shrink with each word, his face turning redder than his hair, while poorly suppressed snickers erupted from other tables—particularly Slytherin, where Draco Malfoy and his cronies looked especially entertained.
“YOU'RE LUCKY YOU WEREN'T EXPELLED! BUT WHEN YOU GET HOME, YOU'LL UNDERSTAND THE GRAVITY OF WHAT YOU'VE DONE, DO YOU HEAR ME?”
The voice then softened abruptly
“Oh, and congratulations, Ginny, my dear. We're so proud of you. We know you'll make an excellent Gryffindor.”
Ginny turned red to the tips of her ears as the Howler disintegrated into ashes, leaving an awkward silence in its wake.
“Encore performance?” Draco Malfoy called out just loud enough to be heard across the tables. “Looks like Longbottom's getting a thrashing when he gets home too!”
Ron, Harry, and Hermione shot murderous glares in Malfoy's direction as the entire Hall laughed, but they didn't have time to retort before Neville, with a resigned sigh, opened his own Howler.
“NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM!”
Augusta Longbottom's voice filled the Hall with an authority that would make a general tremble. If possible, it was even more intimidating than Mrs. Weasley's, laden with centuries of family tradition.
“HOW DARE YOU INVOLVE YOURSELF IN SUCH A RECKLESS SCHEME? A FLYING CAR? HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST YOUR MIND?”
Neville shrank into his seat, his shoulders hunching as if trying to disappear into his robes.
“YOU ARE A LONGBOTTOM! YOUR ANCESTORS WOULD BE ASHAMED! YOUR FATHER—”
The voice cut off abruptly, as if Augusta had restrained herself.
“A LONGBOTTOM MUST ACT WITH HONOUR AND DISCIPLINE! I'VE DRILLED THIS INTO YOU YOUR ENTIRE LIFE, AND YET APPARENTLY IT'S MADE NO DIFFERENCE! BEING A GRYFFINDOR IS NO EXCUSE FOR IRRESPONSIBLE BEHAVIOUR! I EXPECT A FULL WRITTEN EXPLANATION, DETAILED, BY THE END OF THE DAY!”
When the Howler finally fell silent and crumbled to ashes, Neville remained frozen for a long moment before murmuring, barely audibly:
“She's not letting this go anytime soon.”
Around the Great Hall, students gradually resumed their conversations, though many still cast curious and amused glances toward the Gryffindor boys.
Fred and George rose from the older students' table in perfect sync, exchanging that particular look that always preceded mischief. As they passed the group, Fred—or was it George?—leaned in with an expression of mock concern that wouldn't fool even a first-year.
“George, I think Mum might be... a tad cross with our dear Ronnikins,” said Fred, placing a dramatic hand over his heart.
“Cross? I'd say she's absolutely devastated!” George replied, eyes sparkling with mirth. “After all, it's not every day your youngest son makes the Daily Prophet headlines before term even starts.”
“Imagine the scandal,” Fred continued, shaking his head, “if it had been our car?”
“Well, technically it was,” George corrected, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “If you consider it belonged to Dad...”
“Absolute truth,” Fred agreed, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “He spent all summer fixing that dented bumper after that little collision...”
“Hey, I've moved past that incident!” George protested, feigning offense, though his lips quivered with suppressed laughter. “But seriously now... where exactly is the car?” he asked, genuine curiosity breaking through.
Fred nodded, equally intrigued. “Right, we didn't see it parked anywhere this morning...”
Ron, already pale enough to rival a ghost, choked on his scrambled eggs.
“Well... about that,” he began, avoiding his brothers' gazes. “After it dropped us off... the car sort of... ran away. Went into the Forbidden Forest.”
The twins exchanged looks of pure comic horror, clearly imagining their parents' reaction upon learning the fate of the precious Ford Anglia.
“Bad business, Ronnikins, very bad business,” George murmured, shaking his head with exaggerated gravity. “Lucky for me I had absolutely nothing to do with this situation.”
“Quite right. And for the official record,” Fred added, giving Ron's shoulder a friendly pat that made his younger brother wince, “I never taught you to drive. Never. Under any circumstances.”
“Oh cheers for the unconditional support, you two. Truly inspiring,” Ron shot back, his sarcasm as thick as the jam on his toast. “Now if you don't mind, we'd like to finish our breakfast in peace?”
“Course, course, we were just leaving,” Fred said, raising his hands in surrender.
“Just wanted to make sure our dear baby brother was recovering from the trauma,” George finished, his mischievous grin lighting up his face.
“Look after them, Hermione, yeah?” they said in perfect unison, as they often did.
Hermione didn't even look up from her plate, her shoulders slightly hunched and hands resting in her lap with unusual stiffness.
George frowned, exchanging a quick glance with Fred.
“Hermione?” he tried again, his voice slightly less cheerful.
“What?” she replied curtly, finally raising her eyes—but only enough to glare at her juice glass.
George cleared his throat, clearly thrown by their friend's uncharacteristic response. “Nothing... just... have a good day.”
“Fine,” she muttered, giving a shrug that convinced no one.
“Everything alright, Hermione?” Harry asked gently, leaning forward.
“Of course, I'm perfectly fine,” she replied automatically, pursing her lips as she took a precise sip of juice.
“No, you're definitely not,” Harry thought, but in a rare moment of caution, bit his tongue before saying it aloud.
The three boys exchanged concerned looks but decided—with rare wisdom—to remain silent.
A while later, Harry noticed Ron and Neville still looking glum about those letters.
“You two okay?” Harry asked, looking between his friends while Hermione kept her eyes fixed on her plate, her hand propping up her head.
“No,” Ron and Neville answered simultaneously, drawing a laugh from Harry that lightened the tense mood at the table.
For a brief moment, Harry felt relief at realizing he wouldn't receive a Howler.
Yet that feeling was quickly replaced by something quite different. He knew exactly why he'd never receive one—and the reality of it hit him like a cold wave.
Why did this always happen? Why did he always feel like this?
Sometimes he wished he could never feel this wretched melancholy again.
Swallowing hard, he tried to push away the tightness in his chest threatening to settle. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—something he'd never dare say aloud: he wished, just once, that he could receive a Howler from a mother... from someone who cared enough about him to send such a thing.
Neither Mrs. Weasley nor Augusta Longbottom had sent those letters out of malice, but because they'd been so worried—seeing them safe must have triggered some psychological reversal in their minds. They didn't want to see them in danger again, and Harry had no one who could feel that way about him.
The idea—however strange—left him unsettled, but Harry didn't let it show.
He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and went back to eating as if nothing had happened—though those five seconds had felt much longer and heavier.
Harry was pulled from his thoughts by a tap on his shoulder. He turned, along with Ron, Hermione and Neville, to see who it was.
A short boy with light brown hair and an almost radiant smile stood before them, clutching a camera. He looked so excited he could barely keep still.
“Hi, Colin,” Hermione greeted, recognising him from last night's feast.
“Hello!” Colin replied, his eyes shining with excitement as he turned directly to Harry. “I'm... I'm Colin, Colin Creevey! You're Harry Potter, aren't you?”
“Yes—” Harry began to answer, but Colin cut him off, speaking so fast he hardly seemed to need to breathe.
“Brilliant! I'm in Gryffindor too! Got Sorted last night! And I was wondering... would you let me take your picture? Just so I can prove I've met you?”
Before Harry could even open his mouth, Colin continued pouring out words.
“Because I know all about you! You defeated You-Know-Who and got that lightning-shaped scar... that's amazing, isn't it? I mean, this whole place is amazing! It's like Disneyland but real! I didn't even know I could do magic until I got my Hogwarts letter!”
Hermione, Ron and Neville exchanged glances, trying to suppress their laughter, while Harry looked completely dazed by the torrent of information.
“Merlin, help me” Harry thought desperately.
“Colin, right?” Harry asked slowly, trying to keep up with the boy's pace.
“That's right!” Colin confirmed enthusiastically. “So... can I take the photo?”
“Well... alright?” Harry responded, sounding more like a question than agreement.
Clac!
Before he could reconsider, Colin had already pressed the button. A blinding flash from the camera left Harry blinking, while a sound echoed through the Hall.
“Nice!” Colin exclaimed, clutching the camera like a treasure. “Pleasure to meet you, Harry!”
With that, he went running back to the first-year table without waiting for a reply.
“What was that?” Neville asked, clearly amused by the situation.
“Harry's got himself a number one fan, it seems,” Ron teased, hiding a smile behind his pumpkin juice.
“I don't have a fan!” Harry protested, still rather bewildered by it all.
“If you didn't before, you do now,” Ron laughed, shoving a piece of sausage into his mouth. “And I'll bet he'll be wanting more photos.”
After breakfast, the quartet took a brief respite in the castle's inner gardens, settling onto the stone benches beneath an ancient tree's shade. They needed to organize their weekly schedules—in the whirlwind of events, they'd forgotten to note down their classes, and now seized these quiet minutes to sort it out.
“Hermione, can I borrow your timetable to copy?” Neville asked politely, holding his own blank notebook.
“Of course,” she replied promptly, opening her bookbag with a fluid motion and withdrawing an immaculately organized notebook.
“Cheers,” Neville thanked with a smile.
“I'm just popping to the loo, you can start copying and I'll be right back,” she announced before striding off with quick steps.
Neville's smile transformed into bewilderment when he opened the notebook to the first page. He blinked several times, as if not believing his eyes.
“What is it?” Ron asked, leaning over Neville's shoulder to peek.
When his blue eyes caught the contents, he made a dramatic gagging face—which in turn made Neville choke back actual nausea with a hand over his mouth. His weak spot was anyone vomiting near him or pretending to retch.
“What's going on?” Harry questioned, confused.
“See for yourself,” Ron answered—handing the notebook to Harry while pinching it between two fingers like tweezers—with exaggerated disgust.
Harry frowned and examined the page. His face gradually assumed the same disbelief as his friends.
The schedule was laid out with meticulous precision. Hermione had used rulers to create perfect tables, with weekdays aligned horizontally and class periods vertically. Colored ink highlighted different subjects, and small margin notes suggested supplementary reading. Everything supremely organized—typical Hermione.
Except for one peculiar detail.
Beside every Defence Against the Dark Arts class, she'd drawn tiny glowing hearts that pulsed gently on the paper, some even shifting between pink and red hues. Worse still, she'd clearly applied a charm to make the hearts move, spinning and floating across the page like enchanted butterflies.
It was, without doubt, the most disturbing notebook Harry had ever seen.
“Merlin's pants...” he murmured slowly.
“She... she really likes Lockhart then,” Neville observed.
“Best copy what's there before we catch it,” Ron said, pulling a quill from his bag.
The boys hastily copied the timetables, trying to ignore the dancing hearts that seemed to mock their discomfort.
When Hermione returned, Ron couldn't restrain himself.
“What?” she asked, noticing their odd looks.
“Hearts? For DADA? Really?” Ron questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Hermione flushed like a summer sunset, snatching the notebook from Harry's hands in one sharp motion when she realized all three boys were staring at her strangely.
They said nothing, but the way Harry scratched his neck, Neville coughed and looked away, and Ron continued judging her from head to toe like some bizarre zoo specimen, made their opinions perfectly clear.
“I should've left you lot without schedules!” she snapped, shoving the notebook back into her bag with excessive force. “Professor Lockhart will be an excellent instructor, those were just simple doodles to help me remember his classes, nothing more!”
“Hmm, right, and I'm the Minister for Magic,” Ron agreed sarcastically.
He fell abruptly silent when Hermione shot him a look that could melt lead. Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched toward their next class, her brown hair swinging like a cloak of indignation.
The boys exchanged meaningful glances. None of them believed Hermione's flimsy explanation, but they knew better than to comment further. She was more temperamental than a griffin with a headache—and no one in their right mind provoked an irritated griffin.
Least of all the three of them, with what amounted to a practical PhD on the subject.
They all headed to their first Herbology lesson of the year. Neville was visibly excited, more so than even Hermione, who rarely failed to appear the most eager student for any class.
But strangely she remained quiet, having barely spoken two words as they walked the corridors.
Harry thought it might be because of what happened with her notebook and their judgment about her, but even things like that wouldn't shake her enthusiasm for academic matters, especially new topics from that year.
After initial greetings, Professor Sprout led the class to greenhouse number four, the most remote one at the far end from the entrance. At the back of the greenhouse filled with magical plants and gardening tools stood an isolated pot containing a lazily moving green plant.
“Today we'll be studying the Venomous Tentacula,” Professor Sprout explained firmly. “Don't approach it, understood? The name makes perfectly clear what could happen if you touch it improperly.”
A nervous murmur rippled through the class.
Many girls—Hermione being the notable exception—looked terrified when Sprout casually mentioned the plant was carnivorous, feeding on humans and magical creatures like Chizpurfles, small crab-like parasites.
Harry exchanged a knowing look with his friends, and they all seemed to remember last year's unpleasant encounter with the Holoplunc when they'd nearly died to the carnivorous plant without even being able to scream because of those damned colorful mushroom spores.
It was then that Harry stopped paying attention to the lesson, lost in his own thoughts.
“How many times have I nearly died in less than a year?” he reflected, scratching his arm while staring fixedly at his workstation as the professor explained something he wasn't hearing. “Starting with the troll in October... then the Popcorn and Voldemort in the forest... actually better not know.”
Harry shook his head, not wanting to dwell on it, when at the back of the room Draco Malfoy snickered and whispered something that made other Slytherins laugh.
Harry caught part of the joke—something about “serving up Mudbloods as appetizers for the venomous plant”—but chose to ignore it.
Whatever it was, it wasn't worth his attention.
Professor Sprout moved to the center of the greenhouse, her mud-caked boots making soft squishing sounds with each step.
With a welcoming smile, she asked:
“Who here has puppies as pets?”
Two hands rose timidly among the students: Megan Jones from Hufflepuff, with her messy braids, and Kevin Entwhistle from Ravenclaw, who looked surprised to be one of the few. Dogs, after all, were extremely rare at Hogwarts—owls, cats and toads were far more practical, requiring less care and space, though there were small magical creatures like Puffskeins, but they were exceptions just like dogs.
“Very good,” continued the professor, casting a meaningful look around the room. “I advise against bringing them for walks near the greenhouses. Can anyone tell me why?”
As expected, Hermione's hand shot up before the professor even finished the question.
“Miss Granger,” Sprout indicated, her eyes shining with approval.
“Because Venomous Tentacula also include dogs in their diet, Professor,” Hermione answered in her clear, lecturing tone—the voice of someone who'd read Carnivorous Plants of the Wizarding World cover to cover. “Especially puppies, since they're easier to digest due to their size.”
A heavy silence fell over the greenhouse, broken only by the nervous rustling of some leaves. Several students' eyes widened.
“Correct answer, Miss Granger! Five points to Gryffindor,” Sprout announced with a satisfied smile. “And I should add that, beyond size, puppies have weaker defensive instincts, making them... well, an even more tempting snack, so to speak.”
Hermione merely noted something in her book, not even smiling at the praise—strangely unusual for her, as she normally sat up straighter with pride when earning house points.
“Maybe it's because... well, they're puppies,” Harry thought, observing his friend with a frown.
“But... puppies?” Hannah Abbott exclaimed, horrified, pressing her hands to her mouth as if holding back a scream. “That's awful!”
“That's what I thought... I mean, obviously it's awful,” Harry reflected to himself. “I'm going mad... And talking to myself definitely doesn't help.”
He let out a low, involuntary chuckle at the image of his own voice echoing in his head like a madman's.
The nearby girls—including Parvati and Lavender—turned to stare at him with expressions of disgust, clearly convinced he was laughing at the idea of puppies being devoured.
Harry stopped laughing when he noticed the stares directed at him, nearly running a hand through his hair before remembering his gloves were caked with dirt.
Professor Sprout tilted her head with an understanding expression, but her tone was firm.
“I know it seems cruel, Miss Abbott, but this is the reality of Herbology. Not all magical plants are harmless. Some can be deadly, and that's precisely why we're here: to learn how to handle them before something happens.”
The class murmured again, though now with more subdued unease.
“You must understand, especially those who recently discovered they're magical,” Sprout continued, gesturing to the writhing Venomous Tentacula in its pot, “that the wizarding world isn't a fairy tale, as many silly stories like to pretend. If you underestimate something, it could cost you dearly. Very dearly. That's why pay close attention to what I say next...”
“The wizarding world is no fairy tale...”
Those words echoed in Harry's thoughts.
He knew it was true. For a brief moment, his mind flashed to the grim book he'd read in the library about Unforgivable Curses, then to the previous year—to the bodies of unicorns, killed for greed and power, and to Voldemort's reborn face on Quirrell's head.
Before, he might have believed the magical world was like Colin Creevey described: an extraordinary, enchanting amusement park like the Muggle Disneyland.
But that was just an illusion.
After what he'd faced the previous day and the year before, Harry didn't need anyone to tell him magic could be as dangerous as it was fascinating.
However dark that was.
After the double Herbology lesson, the group headed to lunch. Ron, with the typical expression of someone who believed himself starving enough to faint, complained at least three times about how long the lesson had taken, while Hermione remained completely oblivious to his whinging, or any other topic the group discussed.
After eating, they made their way to their next Transfiguration class, navigating the corridors while dodging two panicked sixth-year Gryffindors running late for Potions—Snape would definitely deduct more points for that.
Hermione didn't look at anything or anyone in particular as they walked, which worried Harry. She'd been acting strangely all day—angry in the morning and now seeming sad and uncomfortable.
Harry frowned, now more concerned about his friend.
“Hermione? You're not yourself—what's wrong?” Harry asked gently, moving closer to her.
“Yeah, I noticed too,” Neville added, joining them.
She sighed, defeated and timid, hugging the thick book she carried tighter, as if it were a teddy bear.
“Look, I'm... I'm fine, just... thoughtful,” she replied vaguely, avoiding their eyes.
“Well... if you need us, we're here, alright?” Neville offered calmly.
“Mhm,” she murmured without enthusiasm.
Within minutes, they were all in the Transfiguration classroom, where Professor McGonagall awaited them with her usual upright, stern posture.
The lesson began with a thorough explanation of the theory behind transfiguring living creatures into objects—an advanced topic requiring not just precise wand movements, but deep understanding of magical intent.
Harry, who had always excelled at Transfiguration, paid close attention, but even he struggled with the more complex details. He quickly jotted down some unresolved questions on a parchment to review later in the library.
“Today, we'll put into practice what we've just discussed,” McGonagall announced, holding a beetle that squirmed between her fingers. “Your goal is to transfigure this insect into a button. Remember: intent is the foundation of Transfiguration, but—as always—it must be accompanied by concentration, clear articulation of the spell, and precision. You may begin.”
Hermione, as expected, already had her wand raised before the professor finished speaking. Her movements were fluid and precise, and within seconds, her beetle transformed into a perfectly round button with an impeccable, glossy finish.
Ron, beside her, was red with effort, his ears burning with frustration. He'd already tried at least a dozen times, and though his beetle had technically become a button, the result was... questionable. The object still wriggled, tiny legs flailing frantically as if trying to escape the desk.
Harry couldn't help a discreet smile seeing Hermione finish first—not that he minded, of course, but it always warmed his heart to see her proud of herself, especially when she could barely contain the sparkle in her eyes after success.
He didn't take much longer himself.
With a firm flick, his beetle transformed into a well-crafted button—and if he were honest, perhaps even slightly better than Hermione's, though he quickly suppressed the thought as if it were unforgivable vanity.
Neville, however, was struggling terribly.
His wand—already quite damaged and wrapped in tape—seemed determined not to cooperate. He held it with an expression of resigned desperation, as if silently begging for a miracle.
In one last desperate attempt, Neville swung his wand too forcefully, and a bolt of magic shot from it like a rogue firework, hitting Justin Finch-Fletchley's desk with a crack.
“Careful, Longbottom!” McGonagall scolded, adjusting her glasses sharply. “Aiming is essential, unless your goal is to transfigure your classmate's desk into an elephant!”
Justin, who'd leapt from his chair with a yelp, glared at Neville with a mix of irritation and fear.
With a sigh, McGonagall turned to Harry. “Mr. Potter, perhaps you could assist Mr. Longbottom. It seems he requires more hands-on guidance.”
“Of course, Professor.” Harry nodded, a knot forming in his stomach.
He tried helping, murmuring encouragement and demonstrating the correct movement, but the magic simply seemed to slip through Neville's fingers like water. His beetle, far from transforming into anything useful, now ran in circles across the desk as if mocking the failed attempts.
Neville looked at Harry with mingled gratitude and shame.
“I... think I need more practice,” he mumbled, shoulders hunched.
Harry didn't know what to say. Some things, he knew, had no easy solution—especially when they involved broken wands and already-shaken confidence.
As they left the Transfiguration classroom, Harry noticed Neville still carried the weight of his failure on his shoulders.
His normally open, kind face was closed off in pure frustration, eyes fixed on the floor as if willing it to open up and swallow him. Neville wasn't the type to be easily discouraged by poor marks—he was more than accustomed to stumbling through spells and potions—but this time felt different.
“It's the wand” Harry thought, his stomach twisting. “His father's broken wand.”
That object should have been a precious heirloom, a link to the past, and there it was—taped together, failing precisely when Neville needed it most. The weight of disappointment must have been nearly unbearable.
As they walked down the corridor toward their next class, Harry considered striking up a conversation with Hermione—perhaps discussing transfiguration theory or just distracting her with some silly remark. But she seemed lost in her own thoughts, lips pressed into a thin line, and he decided not to bother her.
Just then, as they turned the corner, laughter echoed behind them.
Harry turned and saw Neville, his face still flushed with embarrassment but now sporting a genuine smile. Ron stood beside him, gesturing animatedly, clearly in the middle of a story—or, more likely, an awful joke. It didn't matter how bad it was; what mattered was that Neville was laughing, and that alone felt like a victory.
“If anyone knows how to cheer someone up, it's Ron, don't you think?” Harry murmured, feeling a comforting warmth in his chest.
Hermione offered a small smile—not the radiant one she reserved for academic triumphs, but something softer.
“It's true,” she agreed. “He has this unique talent.”
The rest of the day passed at a slow, tedious pace, culminating in History of Magic. Professor Binns floated at the front of the classroom, his monotone voice droning like a slowly deflating balloon as he lectured about medieval secret societies.
Harry, who had given up fighting sleep with his head propped on his arms, jolted upright when Hermione's sharp elbow jabbed into his ribs.
“Wha—? Huh?” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“Class is over,” Hermione whispered, gathering her books with a disapproving look. “Unless you'd like to spend the night here, of course.”
Harry yawned, stretching his arms, and followed her out of the classroom, relieved to finally escape that endless tedium.
The next morning carried an air of tense anticipation as students made their way to the first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year.
Hermione walked several paces ahead of the group, her brown hair swaying with each anxious movement, fingers drumming against the cover of Travels with Trolls. Her mood still wasn't quite normal, carrying a peculiar edge.
“I've got a feeling this is going to be torture,” Ron muttered to Neville as they descended a stone staircase. “Either he'll drone on about some monster he supposedly defeated, or worse.”
Neville, who normally would be the first to agree with any gloomy prediction, this time considered the possibility with unusual optimism.
“If he at least teaches us how to defeat those creatures like he claims to have done...” He shrugged, not entirely sure he wanted to learn such things, “that'd be something, wouldn't it?”
“Ah, but now you're being far too ambitious, aren't you, Longbottom?” Harry said with mock seriousness, adjusting his glasses.
“Quite right,” Neville agreed, suppressing a laugh. “Do allow me to apologize for my audacity.”
“Not accepted,” Harry replied, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I mean, didn't Hermione say he learned the vampire language in... what was it? A week?” He snorted.
Ron snapped his fingers as if struck by an important memory.
“And still had to negotiate peace between vampires and werewolves in Hungary—without a translator!” The dramatic emphasis on the last phrase made all three boys laugh so loudly it echoed down the corridor.
Hermione, who'd been pretending not to hear, turned with a withering look.
“Don't be so unfair to him!” she protested, though a slight tremor in her voice suggested even she had doubts. “He's got incredible life experience! We could learn loads from him if you'd just give him a chance...”
The boys sighed in unison. This wasn't the first—and likely not the last—time Hermione defended Lockhart against their remarks.
“He's insufferable!” Ron exploded. “Couldn't stand five minutes with him at Flourish and Blotts... and I live with Percy!”
The comparison was so unexpected Harry and Neville lost control, their guffaws echoing off the stone walls.
“Comparing Lockhart to Percy is just cruel,” Harry managed between laughs.
“But to whom? Lockhart or Percy?” Neville asked with characteristic innocence, which only made Harry and Ron laugh harder.
Hermione shook her head, her hair forming a brown cloud of indignation.
“You only ever see the worst in people... and he's not that bad!” she insisted, putting as much conviction into her voice as possible.
“Thinking like that, maybe we should give him a chance, right?” Neville ventured timidly. “Maybe we caught him on an off day at the shop?”
“After he humiliated me in front of the entire bookshop for no reason?” Harry reminded them, his good mood evaporating. “If that was his off day, I don't want to see his good one.”
“He didn't humiliate you!” Hermione countered, cheeks flushing. “He was just... excited to meet you! Who wouldn't be?”
Harry rolled his eyes so hard he momentarily feared they'd get stuck. Ron and Neville silently shared his sentiment.
The ensuing silence grew so thick that Neville, ever sensitive to atmosphere, cleared his throat to break the tension.
“Well... at least it can't be worse than Binns,” he tried, turning down the corridor to the Defence classroom.
“Don't jinx it,” Ron grumbled, adjusting his bag.
Hermione crossed her arms determinedly, chin raised in challenge. “I want to see your faces after a few lessons with him. Maybe then you'll recognize his worth.”
The three boys exchanged looks that clearly expressed their skepticism, but they knew better than to continue the debate.
When Hermione believed herself completely right about something, she could be as stubborn as a troll trying to push through a locked door—and just as willing to argue until someone yielded or collapsed from exhaustion.
As they entered the classroom, Harry noticed the environment was radically different from the previous year. The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, once stuffy and reeking of garlic, was now bathed in sunlight streaming through open curtains.
However, the positive aspects ended there.
The walls were lined with enchanted portraits of various smiling Lockharts in heroic poses, hands on hips and chests puffed out. The most ridiculous one showed him—dressed as a painter—painting a portrait of himself defeating a dragon in an utterly absurd manner, standing fearlessly before it without flinching from any flames.
Inside the classroom, several girls from all four houses chattered excitedly about him, while Draco Malfoy and other Slytherin boys leaned against the walls or sat on desks, looking bored by the female enthusiasm, arms crossed and muttering.
It was perhaps the first time Harry realized, with some unease, that he might share Malfoy's perspective without even knowing exactly what the other boy was thinking.
That couldn't be a good sign.
“What a circus,” Ron grumbled, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “But what did I expect?” he added, mostly to himself.
Harry agreed, sighing heavily.
“This is going to be a looong year,” he said, drawing out the word.
BANG!
Before they could comment further, the door burst open and Lockhart strode in, radiant in turquoise robes, his smile dazzling as if he'd just stepped out of a fashion show rehearsal.
“Good morning, class!” he exclaimed, arms spread wide as if expecting applause. “I hope you're ready for a lesson you'll never forget!”
Students settled in while Lockhart approached the largest portrait of himself—nearly two meters tall—which attempted to look imposing with a heroic stance and a gleaming smile.
“I believe you all know me,” he began confidently, hands on hips.
All the girls nodded vigorously without blinking.
“I'm constantly in the media and was introduced by Headmaster Dumbledore at the Sorting Ceremony,” he continued, “but should any of you, for some unfathomable reason, not know me yet, allow me to properly introduce myself.”
He paused dramatically, swirling his cloak, his smile widening further.
“I am Gilderoy Lockhart, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award—though, of course, I don't like to boast. I didn't defeat that Chimaera in Cyprus just by smiling at it, did I?” He finished with a laugh, which the girls echoed with giggles and sighs.
The boys, meanwhile, exchanged exasperated looks.
“Now, I assume you all have my books with you?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Excellent!” He drew his wand and summoned a stack of parchment from his desk drawer. “We'll begin with a little test today.”
Harry frowned, his discomfort growing.
A test? On the first day?
Ron and Neville looked equally baffled, while Hermione sat with her chin raised, wearing a distinct I-told-you-so expression.
“We'll start simple, no fuss, as I need to assess your current knowledge,” Lockhart continued, flicking his wand to send parchments floating precisely before each student. “I must say, seventy questions felt rather sparse—I could've done more—but this will suffice for now.”
“Seventy questions?!” Ron whispered in disbelief to Harry beside him.
“Did you read the book?” Harry muttered back.
“Course not!” Ron replied indignantly, as if it were obvious. “Who d'you take me for? A complete idiot?”
Harry sighed, feeling the weight of impending failure. “Bollocks, neither did I.”
With a desperate gesture, Ron craned his neck, trying to peek at Hermione's parchment in front of them.
“Can you see her answers?” he whispered, voice low enough to avoid detection.
“No, her hair's in the way,” Harry replied with another sigh. “It's impossible.”
“Bloody perfect time for her to sit in front rather than beside us,” Ron grumbled, huffing in frustration.
Truthfully, Hermione's hair had always been voluminous and thick, like a curtain of brown curls. Seeing anything beyond it was nearly impossible, especially when she leaned over her test, creating a natural barrier between the rest of the class and her parchment.
When Lockhart approached, surveying the class over their heads, the two fell silent, abandoning any attempt to peek and starting to answer the exam. Harry scribbled his name and the date at the top of the page.
“At least I can manage that much” he thought to himself.
He was beginning to worry about the questions and wondered if he'd have time to answer them all. But as he started reading them, his jaw dropped.
What is my favourite holiday?
What do I most enjoy doing?
What life-changing birthday gift did I receive at age ten?
What is my favourite colour?
"...What kind of fucking test is this?!" Harry thought to himself.
Using Magical Me as reference, Harry filled in the answers almost mechanically, feeling like a complete idiot for having feared this test as if it held any actual value.
At the end of the allotted time, Lockhart collected the quizzes, stacking them on his desk with an exaggerated flourish. He began marking the tests right then and there, his eyes gleaming as he read through the answers.
Before starting to grade, Lockhart held up a quill for the class to see, displaying it as though it were some rare treasure.
It was a peacock quill, shimmering and multicoloured, completely unlike the plain white, grey, or black quills the students were accustomed to using. The sunlight streaming through the castle windows made its iridescent hues glint in an almost pretentious manner.
“Must've plucked it from his own arse. Bet that hurt like hell,” Ron muttered to Harry, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought back laughter.
Harry choked, his eyes watering as he struggled not to burst out laughing.
“You know, this quill has an extraordinary history,” Lockhart announced with a dramatic sigh, as if about to reveal a life-or-death secret. “I received it after saving the magical city of New Delhi from a dreadful vampire. Of course, very few heard about the incident—modesty forbade me from allowing it to be publicised. But the Minister for Magic, so grateful, presented me with this quill. Symbolic, of course, but how could I resist? I needed something worthy of signing my correspondence, didn’t I?”
His beaming smile swept across the room, as dazzling as it was irritating.
The girls sighed, eyes wide with admiration, while the boys rolled their eyes and muttered less-than-complimentary things under their breath.
When he reached the bottom of the pile, he looked up directly at Hermione, a broad, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.
“Miss Granger!” he began, his voice dripping with admiration. “The very least I can say is that I am impressed!”
Harry, even without looking directly at her, knew Hermione was turning as red as a tomato.
“You were the only one,” he continued, pausing for dramatic effect, “who got all seventy questions correct. Many got even the most basic details wrong—such as my favourite colour being lilac, not pink, as some wrote. It’s shocking how people can mix up something so elementary.”
A few students exchanged incredulous looks—the girls dismayed at having missed something, the boys at the sheer absurdity. But Hermione, though clearly embarrassed, couldn’t quite hide the proud gleam in her eyes.
“Therefore,” Lockhart concluded, puffing out his chest, “I shall award twenty points to Gryffindor for Miss Granger’s outstanding work. Let her be an inspiration to you all!”
Ron shot Harry a disbelieving look.
“Twenty points for a bloody colour?!” he whispered.
Harry gave a quiet, humourless laugh.
“Be glad Hermione fancies him and she’s in Gryffindor, at least,” he shrugged. “Twenty points for a colour’s not the worst.”
Lockhart dismissed the class.
As they left the classroom and headed toward the Great Hall for dinner, Ron lingered behind with Hermione, arguing heatedly about what they'd just endured.
“Seriously?” Ron demanded, his ears turning red with indignation. “This was the lesson that was supposed to make me see his 'worth'? Well, here's my face now!”
He scrunched his face into an exaggerated imitation of Lockhart's gleaming, self-indulgent smile.
Hermione pressed her lips together, her eyes blazing.
“Stop being so insufferable!” she retorted, adjusting her bag with a sharp jerk. “He was trying to teach something important, even if in a... different way. It's not his fault if you refuse to understand!”
“Oh right! It's always my fault, isn't it?” Ron shot back, his voice echoing down the empty corridor. “I should've known Defence Against the Dark Arts would be about guessing someone's favourite colour! How useful! Next time a dragon shows up, I'll ask if it prefers emeralds or rubies before turning into a barbecue!”
Hermione crossed her arms so tightly Harry, walking a few paces ahead with Neville, could almost hear the fabric of her robes creaking.
“You're twisting everything on purpose!” she said through clenched teeth. “That's not the point! It's about understanding how he thinks, how he... how he communicates! He's trying to make learning more accessible, but all you do is complain. It's infuriating!”
Ron threw his hands up in dramatic disbelief.
“Accessible? Accessible to who, exactly? His fans who memorise every word of his books?” He paused, mimicking Lockhart's saccharine tone: “'Oh dear students, today we'll learn to survive a ghoul attack... but first, let's discuss my latest haircut!'“
“He never said that!” Hermione shrieked, now visibly flushed. “If you'd just look past your prejudice—”
“I tried, Hermione!” Ron interrupted, flinging his arms wide. “I tried, and all I learned was that if a vampire attacks me, I should ask its blood type preference rather than hexing its arse!”
Hermione let out an exasperated huff.
“Your problem is you're too stubborn to see any method beyond what you already know!” She jabbed an accusatory finger. “You criticise before even trying to understand!”
Meanwhile, Harry and Neville—already exhausted by the particularly frustrating lesson—quickened their pace, letting the argument fade slightly behind them. Neither had the energy or patience to mediate that particular row right now.
“You thought that lesson was a complete waste of time too, didn't you?” Harry asked, pushing his glasses up his nose as he gave Neville a weary look.
“Absolutely,” Neville agreed immediately, his round face lighting up with relief at finding someone who shared his opinion. “At least I'm not the only one.”
“Right,” Harry smiled, though it didn't reach his green eyes, still tired from the frustrating class. “Those two were just looking for an excuse to start arguing, I reckon.”
Neville gave a nervous chuckle.
“Was only a matter of time.” He then abruptly changed subjects, as if remembering something important: “Oh, Harry, did you know I've started supporting the Montrose Magpies?” His face brightened at mentioning the team. “They've got the most fascinating history in the league!”
Harry knew Neville had developed a shy but genuine interest in Quidditch after their casual matches during the holidays.
He turned to his friend with a curious smile.
“Aren't the Montrose Magpies that team always leading the league?”
Neville flushed slightly but shrugged with a timid grin.
“Well, they've been on a good streak lately,” he said quietly. “And their fanbase is... really lively, you know?”
“Ah, I see,” Harry said, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You like backing the winners, then?”
“Who doesn't?” Neville replied, trying to mask his embarrassment with a laugh. “I've enough disappointment in my life—why go looking for more?”
Harry laughed, but his expression turned more serious when he asked: “Does Ron know?”
Neville suddenly looked down at his own feet as if his shoes were extraordinarily interesting.
“Actually, no... I was going to say, but...” His voice faded into a mumble.
“But the Magpies are the Chudley Cannons' arch-rivals, aren't they?” Harry finished, giving Neville a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Ron hates them with a passion. He’s going to be... well, a bit gutted when he finds out. He’s the one who got you into Quidditch in the first place.”
Neville let out a nervous laugh, his face twisting into an expression of pure discomfort.
“I know, I know... he’ll probably hate me for it. But when I saw the Magpies play...” His eyes lit up with genuine excitement. “It was like finding my team, you know? The kits are brilliant, the team’s history...”
“Ron’ll come round, eventually,” Harry tried to reassure him, though his smile held a trace of doubt. “He’s competitive, but deep down, he just wants everyone to have a good time. Even if he’d never admit it.”
“Yeah... hope so,” Neville replied, still looking rather worried. “But if I start supporting the Magpies and he sticks with the Cannons, our casual matches are going to get... interesting.” He laughed, trying to lighten the mood.
“No doubt,” Harry agreed, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous grin. “But we’ve still got the Gryffindor team, haven’t we? Just don’t tell me you’re going to start rooting for Slytherin, because then I’d be properly hurt.” He gave Neville a playful nudge.
Neville laughed, the tension beginning to ease.
“Well, they say Hufflepuff’s got a cracking Seeker,” he teased, just as Cedric Diggory passed by in the corridor with a few friends. “Might start wearing yellow and black to matches, who knows?”
Cedric nodded at Harry, who returned a polite smile before they continued on their way.
Harry raised both eyebrows at Neville, his grin turning decidedly wicked.
“Do that, and the twins’ll ‘convince’ you to switch back to red and gold... in a way that probably wouldn’t be very pleasant. For you, anyway. They’d definitely have a laugh. And so would I, likely.”
Neville grimaced at the thought of what Fred and George might do, especially with Harry possibly egging them on.
“Best stick with red and gold, then,” he said, laughing nervously.
“Wise choice,” Harry joked, bumping Neville’s shoulder with his fist.
It was then that they both noticed the echoes of Ron and Hermione’s argument had become impossible to ignore. Even at a distance, their furious voices carried clearly, suggesting the row, far from dying down, was escalating by the minute.
Ron’s eyes bulged, his ears turning red as embers as he threw his hands up dramatically.
“Ridiculous? I’m the ridiculous one here?” His voice echoed down the empty corridor, making a few first-years ahead quicken their pace. “For Merlin’s sake, Hermione, you’re defending a professor who spent the whole lesson handing out a bleeding quiz about what colour best matches his eyes!”
Hermione spun so sharply her bushy brown hair whipped the air like a hurricane.
“You’re twisting everything, as usual!” she shrieked, eyes blazing dangerously. “He was trying to teach emotional connection to magic! Something you clearly wouldn’t grasp even if I drew you a ruddy diagram!”
“Emotional connection?” Ron barked a laugh that sounded more like a snarl. “Next lesson, he’ll have us defeating trolls with poetry, will he? Or maybe negotiating with dragons using sonnets?”
“At least he’s trying something different!” Hermione shot back, stepping forward with a trembling finger. “While you just snipe from the sidelines like some sort of Defence Against the Dark Arts expert! Which you’re not!”
Ron turned as red as a chilli pepper.
“Oh yes, because memorising all his books makes you the ultimate authority, does it?” Ron shot back with equal intensity. “Guess what, Hermione, knowing Lockhart’s exact height WON’T save you from a werewolf!”
“STOP putting words in my mouth!” Hermione was now shaking with rage, her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles turned white. “You’re IMPOSSIBLE when you’re like this! Arrogant, stubborn, and—and—”
“And WHAT?” Ron challenged, leaning forward with his chin jutting out. “Go on, say it! Or are you just going to stare at me like I’m some sort of bug in your lab?”
A charged silence fell between them. Hermione took a sharp breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“You know what, Ronald?” she said, eyes blazing with fury. “If you disagree, don’t talk to me! I hate having to put up with you when you’re like this!”
Ron looked as though he’d been hit by a Petrificus Totalus, but before he could respond, Hermione spun on her heel, her robes swirling dramatically behind her like the wings of an enraged raven.
“Hermione, wait—” Harry tried to intervene, but she was already storming down the corridor, her footsteps echoing like hammer blows.
Ron stood frozen, gaping alternately at Hermione’s retreating back and at his friends, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“But... she... I didn’t... What the hell just happened?!” he spluttered, gesturing wildly at the empty space where she’d been.
Harry and Neville exchanged a look that plainly said, “Now you’ve really done it.”
“I reckon... maybe you should’ve stopped at ‘defeating trolls with poetry’...” Neville muttered, rubbing his arm nervously.
Ron grunted something unintelligible and kicked at the air in frustration, but didn’t reply. They trudged on in silence, the distant echo of Hermione’s rapid footsteps still audible.
If she’d been angry before, she could probably curse someone with a look now.
Chapter 20: PMS: Pure Magical Suffering
Notes:
While my average chapter length is 10k words, this one specifically hit 22k—thought I should give a heads up for those who like to read everything at once.
Happy reading :)
Chapter Text
Hermione Granger considered herself a perfectly rational girl.
And, as far as she knew, she was rational—always had been. But these past few days, something odd had happened. A persistent weariness clung to her, her patience hung by a thread, and an inexplicable foul mood seemed to loom over her like a black cloud even before she’d boarded the Hogwarts Express. Everything had culminated in the first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, which had served as the final spark for her pent-up stress.
And, of course, the one who’d made her snap had been Ron. Always him.
Her friend seemed to have a particular talent for driving her up the wall, and the row they’d had a few hours prior had been one of their worst. Hermione had defended Lockhart tooth and nail—though, deep down, she’d admit he was... a bit much, in his peculiar way. But Ron, with his infuriating habit of criticising everything and everyone, simply didn’t know when to quit. After that test, which Hermione had reluctantly classified as “unorthodox,” he’d called Lockhart a “ridiculous peacock” and “a complete waste of time” over and over, as though there were no tomorrow.
It was exhausting.
No matter who Lockhart was, what he’d done or failed to do—he was still a professor, just like McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and even Snape. And professors, regardless of anything, deserved at least a modicum of respect.
Lockhart hadn’t threatened anyone, hadn’t mocked the students or criticised them cruelly, the way Snape loved to do, picking his daily victims with near-sadistic pleasure. Lockhart had merely set a test and given a lesson—and yet, to Ron, he’d already committed an unforgivable sin. It was so absurd Hermione almost suspected Ron was more interested in arguing with her than actually complaining about the test. As if he needed a fight, no matter the reason.
After that heated row, Hermione had separated from the boys and spent the rest of the day in the library, buried under a stack of books so tall it nearly hid her face. Yet, no matter how determinedly she turned the pages, the words seemed to slip from her mind like water through fingers.
Her attention stubbornly circled back to the argument, each memory making her stomach churn with frustration. She hated this—hated being unable to focus, as though her mind were a parchment scribbled over, incapable of holding a coherent line of thought for more than five seconds.
Isolation had seemed the wisest choice at the time—infinitely preferable to facing Ron again.
She only forced herself to see him when hunger became a need greater than her stress.
In the Great Hall, Hermione sat in silence, eyes fixed on her plate as though it held the answer to all her problems. She carefully avoided looking toward the three boys, though she felt the weight of a pair of green eyes watching her.
“What’s got into her?” Ron muttered around a mouthful of mashed potato. “Is she seriously still in a strop over that lesson?”
Harry, who’d noticed Hermione gripping her knife so tightly her knuckles had gone white, shot Ron a look that plainly said:
“Shut it before she stabs you.”
But it wasn’t the redhead chewing with his mouth open that bothered her—it was the noises. The cutlery clinking against plates, the shrill voices echoing under the enchanted ceiling, the loud laughs slicing through the air like knives. Every sound seemed to hammer at her ears, making her temples throb.
Hermione closed her eyes, inhaled deeply through her nose, counted to five, and forced down a few more forkfuls. The moment her plate was reasonably empty, she stood so abruptly her bench screeched.
“Hey, Hermione—” Harry began.
“Not now, Harry,” she replied, already marching towards the door, her plaits swinging with determination.
Hermione returned to the library with the single-minded focus of a cornered dragon, resolved to avoid any interaction that might reignite that dreadful row before she set someone on fire.
Yet, her attempt at productivity was going about as well as a Wiggenweld Potion brewed by Neville. A throbbing headache had begun hammering at her temples for no apparent reason.
“Probably just exhaustion” she thought, before dismissing the idea with a sharp shake of her head—which only worsened the pain.
As if to crown her perfect day, a sharp twinge shot through her abdomen and lower back. It was that same nagging ache she’d been feeling for days, but had stubbornly ignored, convinced it would vanish on its own.
Just muscle tension, she’d insisted to herself, though now the pain seemed to mock her rationality.
She was definitely not in the mood to visit Madam Pomfrey about it.
When the hands of the library’s grand clock neared eight, Neville appeared like a ghost between the shelves, his round face etched with concern that made his eyebrows even more bulbous.
“Hermione,” he said in a tone that tried for firmness but ended in a near-whisper, “I think you ought to rest a bit. The library’s closing soon, and you’ve been here since lunch...”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Neville, with a bravery that would’ve made the Sorting Hat never reconsider his house, pressed on: “I’ll walk you to the common room. You look... well, dead on your feet.”
Hermione felt the arguments die in her throat.
Her body weighed as though she were wearing stone armour, and the mere idea of deciphering another line of text made her feel as if her brain were melting like butter in the sun. With a sigh, she snapped the book shut with a thump that echoed between the shelves.
“Fine,” she muttered, standing with all the grace of a fallen log. “But only because the library’s closing.”
Neville’s relieved smile brightened like a Lumos in the dark.
“Right, I stopped here on my way back from the greenhouses,” he remarked.
The walk to Gryffindor Tower was accompanied by the wind howling against the windowpanes. The night sky was as black as Snape’s robes, dotted only by clouds as dark as spilled ink. The echo of their footsteps on the stone corridor was the only sound breaking the castle’s silence at this hour.
“Thanks, Neville,” said Hermione, forcing a smile that hurt as much as her head.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, approaching the Fat Lady’s portrait.
The portrait arched an eyebrow.
“Password?”
“Er...” Neville scratched his neck, glancing at Hermione.
She rolled her eyes. Of course he’d forgotten the password. Again.
“Scurvy Cur,” Hermione answered, and the portrait swung open at once.
The Gryffindor common room exploded across her senses like a misfired spell—the heat of the fireplace, the scent of burning wood mingling with pumpkin juice, the shrieking laughter of students playing Exploding Snap.
To anyone else, it would've been cosy; to Hermione, every sound felt like a hammer against her skull.
In the farthest corner, Harry and Ron were deep in a discussion that, judging by Ron's animated gestures, could only be about—
“Told you, Harry!” Ron exclaimed, nearly upending his pumpkin juice. “Puddlemere's got no chance this season! Since Martin left, it's like they've got a flobberworm on the team! Even the Chudley Cannons would stand a better shot!”
Hermione felt her eyes roll so hard she nearly saw her own brain.
Quidditch, she thought bitterly. Always Quidditch. As if the world's fate hinged on which team catches a snitch first.
“Er... hi, Hermione,” Harry greeted, watching her over his shoulder, running a hand awkwardly through his already messy hair.
“Hi,” she replied in a tone that could've frozen the very fire in the hearth.
The silence that followed was as thick as Hagrid's slug soup.
Neville and Harry exchanged looks that plainly said, “Someone say something, for Merlin's sake.”
“So, Nev, how was it with Professor Sprout?” Harry asked with all the subtlety of an erumpent in a china shop.
Neville's face lit up like a Lumos charm.
“It was brilliant!” he exclaimed. “Spent the afternoon potting new mandrakes. Reckon we'll be studying them properly this year!”
“If they scream like you said, can't wait to have my eardrums blown out,” Ron remarked with a sardonic grin.
Hermione pressed her lips together until they went white.
She found nothing funny about the joke, and if looks could kill, Ron would've been deader than the castle ghosts—especially when her stress, aches, noise sensitivity, and memories of their earlier row crashed over her like an avalanche.
Neville, sensing danger, tried steering away: “Anyone fancy Exploding Snap?”
“I'm in!” said Harry with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“Me too,” Ron agreed, already pulling a crumpled deck from his pocket.
Hermione stood as still as a statue, the room's heat, woodsmoke, and chatter forming unbearable pressure in her skull. When she noticed Harry and Neville watching her expectantly, she made her decision.
“I'm going to bed,” she announced in a voice so sharp it could've split the Great Lake in two.
Neville blinked. “Already? Don't you want to play?”
“No,” she said, exhaustion staining every syllable. “But thank you for walking me back, Neville. Goodnight.”
Her tone made it clear the conversation was over.
Harry frowned.
“But Hermione, it's only eight o'clock—” he tried.
That was the final straw.
Hermione spun on her heel so forcefully her plaits whipped the air.
“I didn't ask for the time, Harry!” Her voice echoed through the common room like a thunderclap, making several students turn.
She checked herself, startled by her own volume, realising she'd spoken louder than necessary.
“Just... please, leave me alone now,” she said more quietly, voice trembling.
The ensuing silence was so profound you could've heard a pin drop on the thickest rug.
“Right... G'night, then,” Harry murmured with the caution of someone approaching a temperamental hippogriff.
Hermione didn't even dignify that with a response.
With a swift motion that sent her plaits flying, she turned and marched up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, leaving the three boys as stunned as if they'd been hit by a Stunning Spell.
“What's got into her?” Ron finally whispered after a beat. “Jumpier than a scalded kneazle.”
Neville sighed deeply, as though carrying the weight of the world's arguments on his shoulders.
“It was that row between you two,” he said softly. “Reckon she's hurt.”
Ron huffed, his face turning as red as his hair. “Oh, right, so now it's my fault she's acting like I cursed her whole family just 'cause I called that clown Lockhart out?”
Harry and Neville exchanged one of those looks that plainly said, Here we go again, but Ron threw up his hands before they could speak.
“Oh, no! Don't start with those judging looks!” he exploded, exasperated. “I'm not apologising for what I said, and you both know I'm right. How many times do we have to swallow whatever she says like it's law, but when I open my mouth, it's like I've committed a bloody crime?”
Neville opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it and shut it again, like a goldfish deciding maybe today wasn't the day to jump out of the bowl. Harry, meanwhile, rubbed his face with his hand, looking as tired as a student after a double Potions lesson with Snape.
“Look, Ron,” Harry began, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Whatever happened, it's clearly got to her. Maybe... maybe it's worth thinking about what you said. I mean, is this really worth falling out over? We know Lockhart's a complete berk—Merlin knows I couldn't stand five minutes of that test or that bizarre classroom, and Nev here agrees with you too, don't you?”
Neville nodded. “Worse part is, it's true.”
“But she doesn't see it that way,” Harry continued, “and she's going to keep blowing her top every time you call him a 'pompous git,' 'overgrown peacock,' or whatever else.”
Ron pulled a face.
“Can't believe you're taking her side in this.”
“I'm not on anyone's side,” Harry replied with a calm that contrasted with Ron's deepening flush. “Just think this row's gone far enough.”
Neville shook his head but stayed silent, like a sage who knew no words could mend the situation.
Harry glanced once more at the stairs where Hermione had disappeared.
“Whatever's got her like this, best leave her alone tonight,” he murmured.
Ron rolled his eyes so hard it looked like he was trying to see his own brain, but—to everyone's surprise—said nothing more. Neville, seizing the ceasefire, pulled out the Exploding Snap deck and shuffled the cards with forced enthusiasm, placing it on the side table.
“So, who wants to deal first?” he asked, trying to dispel the tension still hanging in the air like a jinxed mist.
Hermione hurried up the stairs, feeling her heart pound against her chest.
The moment she entered the empty dormitory, she closed the door behind her with a muffled thud. The solitude wrapped around her like a blanket, bringing rare relief. She dropped her bag by the wardrobe, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the trunk at the foot of her bed.
She stood there for a moment, motionless, her hands fidgeting at her sides.
Should she?
Hermione hesitated, biting her lip.
Part of her said no.
It was silly. But with a sigh that seemed to come straight from her tight chest, she checked the door once more, just to be sure no one would surprise her. Peering out and noting only a fifth-year passing by to enter her own dormitory, she shut the door in a swift motion—as if caught red-handed—and knelt to open her trunk.
Between the neatly organised books and carefully folded scrolls, there he was.
Aslan.
Hermione held him with near-reverent care. The worn stuffed lion had faded patches and slightly sunken stuffing in places, but to her, he was perfect.
He was the same lion her mother had tucked into her arms every night while reading The Chronicles of Narnia. The same lion she’d promised to leave behind this year—after all, she was nearly a teenager. It’s childish, she’d told herself. But now, clutching him to her chest, that decision felt absurd.
He didn’t smell of perfume, but he smelled good—like her, probably from so many nights spent curled around him.
Hermione hadn’t known her mother had slipped Aslan into her trunk before leaving home, but knowing her mum, she suspected she’d done it, foreseeing that she’d eventually need something to hold onto.
It was a tender gesture, because her mother knew her too well.
Hermione always insisted she was ready to grow up. “I don’t need this anymore,” she’d repeat to herself, as if clinging to a stuffed lion were infantile.
But there was that need to hug something at night—a habit she’d never quite shaken, so much so that in Aslan’s absence, she’d been clutching one of her feather pillows instead. Obviously not the same.
Collapsing onto the bed with Aslan firmly pressed to her chest, Hermione felt tears sting her burning eyes.
She let everything out: the exhaustion, the frustration, the weight of emotions she’d been carrying for days.
Harry and Neville had been patient all day, even when she’d clearly been off. They’d only wanted to help, and she’d snapped at them—she realised that only now. The memory made her sob harder, disjointed thoughts flooding her mind. The stress of the row with Ron, the irritation with Lockhart, the little things she’d normally shrug off—everything felt amplified.
There was something else.
Something physical, something Hermione had been desperately trying to ignore, but which stubbornly persisted—like a jinxed annoyance refusing to be Vanished.
Beyond the twinges and twisting sensations in her abdomen and lower back, her breasts ached, tender and slightly swollen, even if they were practically nonexistent—which, in a way, only frustrated her more.
It was as if her own body were taunting her, adding yet another problem to that pile of insecurities she worked so hard not to admit she had. Her thighs felt heavy, like she’d climbed every step of the Astronomy Tower without rest, and a throbbing, inexplicable irritation was creeping over her.
It felt like the entire universe was conspiring to test her patience.
In the Great Hall, during every meal, the clatter of cutlery against plates rang like hammer blows to her ears. Her classmates' laughter, once cheerful, now echoed like shrieks inside her skull. Even the soft scratch of quills on parchment—a sound she normally found comforting—now made her want to clench her fists and scream.
“Bad time to only have boys as friends,” she muttered to herself.
How could she explain to Harry, Ron or Neville what she was feeling? How to honestly say she wasn't well, when the truth involved sore breasts and heavy thighs? How to describe that to a bunch of boys who sometimes seemed to forget she was a girl at all?
But truth be told, she couldn't even explain it to herself. Her mind had raced through infections and possible illnesses—Muggle and magical—but nothing quite fit.
Perhaps they'd understand and not judge her for how she'd treated Harry and Neville today—though Ron definitely deserved her anger, and she knew she was right about respecting school hierarchy. But they'd never understand certain things. They might even laugh at her. So besides being mortifying, talking would be pointless.
“No... neither Harry nor Neville would laugh,” she whispered to herself. “They're too kind for that.”
She kept crying for several minutes, but eventually the sobs subsided. Wiping her tears on her blouse sleeves, she forced a deep breath.
“Maybe I should rest,” she croaked.
Determined, she got up, took a hot bath to ease the aches and sudden sadness, then changed into her favourite pyjamas—a long, comfortable dark purple set with buttons. Though not ready to sleep, she needed to organise her thoughts. Sitting up in bed, back against the headboard and blankets pulled up, she placed Aslan beside her and retrieved a simple leather-bound notebook from its hiding spot behind her bedside table.
Her diary.
Writing always helped sort her mind.
The dim light, cast only by the lanterns on each bedpost, created a cosy glow.
Hermione hesitated, the snow-white quill—which needed no ink and only worked in this diary—trembling slightly in her hand as she searched for words. The blank page before her felt like an empty canvas.
When unsure where to start, she always returned to the obvious.
Harry.
She ran the feather's tip between her lips, trying—for the seventh time in this diary—to describe him. But he was often her starting point, easier to write about, letting everything else unravel from there.
“Brave” came first, but it felt so hollow she nearly smiled bitterly.
No, Harry was more.
He was thoughtful. Gentle. Affectionate, even playful sometimes. A Harry completely unlike the “Boy Who Lived” from books.
He put others before himself. And that made her pause.
Hermione closed her eyes briefly, and the image of the destroyed bathroom invaded her mind like a nightmare refusing to fade. Harry, unconscious on the floor.
The blood.
Professor Snape holding her back firmly, preventing her from running to him, his voice as cold as Hogwarts' marble walls.
At that moment, she hadn't known Harry had killed the troll—but the scene had replayed in her thoughts so often that even now, the mere memory made her hands tremble.
She remembered how she'd felt that day. Alone. Vulnerable.
Ron's harsh words still echoed in her ears.
“Of course it had to be him,” she muttered bitterly.
Sometimes, Hermione thought he was only kind to her when he needed help with homework—in those moments, he could be the most considerate person alive. But when there weren't any last-minute assignments or tricky topics to decipher, Ron seemed to have a special talent for infuriating her.
Whether it was his laziness in always seeking the easy way out, or how he dismissed her efforts as unnecessary.
Truthfully, they'd almost never been alone together. There was always Neville or Harry nearby, softening the awkward silences. But on the rare occasions when it was just the two of them... there was nothing to say.
Nothing.
What could they possibly talk about besides schoolwork—which Ron deemed “dead boring and pointless”?
The weather?
Hermione loved intellectual debates, complex theories, books that challenged the mind. Ron lived and breathed Quidditch and wizard's chess—the former she considered a complete waste of time; the latter, a barbaric version of the proper game. That left discussing Harry or Neville, and even then, it was always Harry's reckless adventures or bizarre non-school happenings that kept conversations alive.
She sighed, shaking her head. Thinking about the redhead only frustrated her more.
But now, no matter how hard she tried to push the thought away, Hermione couldn't stop reliving that Halloween.
Ron's words echoed in her mind like strikes from a sharp blade:
“Know-it-all.”
“No friends.”
Each syllable rang as clearly in her memory as the day she'd first heard them, carrying the same cutting tone that had made her stomach twist.
Time had passed, of course. Things had technically changed... but a small, stubborn ember of doubt still burned in her chest. Did Harry, Neville and Ron find her annoying? Did they merely tolerate her out of convenience, hiding their true feelings behind polite smiles?
Harry and Neville... would they do that?
No...
She shook her head more to convince herself than to avoid facing a potentially more painful truth.
That terrible day, she'd felt completely alone. More than that—she'd felt lost.
The sudden urge to flee, to disappear between the familiar walls of her London home, had been nearly overwhelming.
During those lonely weeks, how often had she dreamed of burying herself in her mother's warm embrace? Of hearing her father call her “princess” in that voice that made all problems seem small? When he'd simply say, “Let me handle it,” and everything felt easier?
How often had she imagined retreating to her bedroom, surrounded only by her books, far from her classmates' laughter and stares—from being treated as the odd girl, the nosy one, the loner from first year?
But this wasn't her reality.
She was across the country, in an ancient castle hidden among Scottish highlands where no Muggle would dream of treading. Surrounded by hundreds of witches and wizards, by corridors that breathed magic, by rooms teeming with life—and yet, she'd never felt more isolated during those days.
There was no mother's embrace to comfort her, no reassuring words from her father to remind her that the outside world didn't matter. No one to hold her and say everything would be alright.
All she'd had was the emptiest bathroom she could find, hot tears streaming down her face, and the sharp pain of believing no one cared.
And then...
He appeared.
Harry.
Untrained. Unplanned. Unhesitating.
Just an eleven-year-old boy—scrawny, with glasses held together by peeling tape—charging a mountain troll for her.
He hadn't run. Hadn't been afraid.
No one—no one—had ever done anything like that for Hermione Granger before.
And when her eyes met his amidst the wreckage of the destroyed bathroom, she understood something no book could have taught her:
This wasn't just bravery.
It was pure compassion.
Harry Potter had a heart that made him different from all the others—and that, Hermione now knew, was what made him truly special.
She felt like a complete idiot. How had she not seen it sooner?
The weight of guilt pressed against her chest as she reflected on those early days at Hogwarts.
She'd pushed him away—not from disinterest, but fear.
Fear of being academically outshone by that bright-eyed, sharp-minded boy. Fear of failing to prove her worth in this new world. Fear of not belonging to the wizarding world as others did.
And perhaps worst of all: fear that Malfoy might be right.
The memory of that first Flying lesson surfaced with cruel clarity. His poisonous words still seemed to echo in her head, sneering, final:
“I wasn't talking to you, you insufferable know-it-all!” His arrogant, spiteful voice rang through her mind. “Merlin, you're annoying. Second day of classes and people already can't stand you. Can you shut up for five seconds? Oh, and do raise your hand if you want to speak! Or lose house points, naturally.”
What if it were true? What if she really was an insufferable swot who didn't know when to stop talking?
Hermione remembered with painful clarity the moment she'd decided to isolate herself from Harry. How cold she'd been, lying about a Potions essay just to have an excuse to distance herself.
That memory still hammered at her mind.
“I need to work on a Potions essay, but I want privacy—I'll sit over there.” She pointed to an isolated table in the library. “Might stay past curfew.”
Harry looked up from his book and smiled. “Course, take your time. I'll keep reading here. Just shout if you need me.”
“Y-yes, alright,” she said, forcing a smile before leaving.
Deep down, she knew it was wrong. Selfish. But in that moment, like a spoiled child, she'd put her wounded pride first.
The instant she walked away, Hermione felt something twist inside her—a hollowness that seemed too vast, as if her very magic protested the decision. It was strange, unsettling, like she'd done something unforgivable. Something she should never have considered.
A bitter taste had spread through her mouth the moment she made that choice. She felt petty. Dirty. And for one fleeting instant, she almost turned back.
But no. She was too stubborn for that.
Even with that persistent unease, she kept her resolve. And after that day, she spoke to him no more.
Yet every time her eyes landed on Harry—even for just a fleeting second—that feeling returned with a vengeance, like a suffocating pressure between her chest and stomach. It wasn't just emotion or physical reaction; it was something more.
It was as if her very magic were wounded. A wound she'd inflicted upon herself.
There was no logical explanation for it, and Hermione hated not understanding things.
What she did know was that the feeling was dreadful—a sort of silent agony, as though something inside her were slowly tearing itself apart.
Hermione had always felt uncomfortable in those situations, but there were moments—when her brown eyes accidentally met those bright green ones, so full of innocent bewilderment, not understanding why she'd suddenly grown distant—that the emotion hit her with near-physical force.
It was so intense she felt her hands tremble slightly, fingers tightening around whatever she was holding—a book, a quill, the hem of her robes, the handle of her wand—as if she needed to anchor herself to something solid to avoid falling into an abyss of emotions she didn't fully comprehend.
And to her despair, the discomfort hadn't faded with time.
For nearly two months, every avoided glance, every unspoken word, every loaded silence only made that invisible pain more unbearable.
And it all seemed to last longer than mere weeks—it felt like an eternity.
Until he'd lain unconscious in the hospital wing, body immobilised and bandaged.
Until he'd nearly died for her.
A solitary tear trailed down Hermione's face, falling silently onto the paper before her. The weight in her chest felt crushing, squeezing her heart in a way that was both painful and unsettling. She felt ridiculous, foolish... as though she'd failed in some inexplicable way.
She knew—of course she knew—how everyone had looked at Harry from the very first day of classes.
Like he was a threat.
People avoided him, whispered behind his back as if he were dangerous. As if he carried something dark within him. As if he were... tainted.
And the most painful part was realising that, in a way, she'd contributed to that isolation too. Not for the same reasons—she'd never think something so horrible about Harry—but she'd still avoided him like everyone else.
She sniffed, feeling her nose begin to clog.
A second, third, fourth, and fifth tear slid down her cheek, smudging the bottom corner of the page.
She couldn't shake the thought that she'd been cruel, even if unintentionally. Harry had always been kind to her.
Always.
And she... she'd pushed him away. Pushed away the first schoolmate who hadn't turned his back on her.
Just as she had rudely yelled at him again, for no reason, just now in the common room, almost shouting a “good night” so short it almost meant the opposite of what the words suggested.
A sob escaped her throat.
Why?
Why had she acted like this? Why did she feel so awful? Why did she seem so... fragile. Raw?
Hermione inhaled sharply, moving the diary off her lap before hot tears could stain its pages.
Wrapping her arms around her knees beneath the thick scarlet Gryffindor blankets, she made herself small, allowing the pain to flood through her for just a moment.
Memories invaded her mind like persistent ghosts: the endless afternoons in the library where the only sound was the solitary turn of pages; her twelfth birthday, spent in utter loneliness, chatting with the Fat Lady's portrait because no living soul had remembered the date besides her parents—who'd still managed to send a letter.
And why?
Because, back then, she'd genuinely believed nothing mattered more than proving her intellectual superiority. Being the best. The brightest. The one who always had the answer.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as she fought to breathe between sobs.
Like lightning, the memory of that conversation flashed through her mind—occurring right after they'd solved Snape's complex potion riddle, moments before finding Harry on the verge of magical collapse in the Philosopher's Stone chamber.
“Harry, you're a great wizard, you know.”
“Me? Not nearly as good as you...”
Hermione had given a nervous chuckle.
“Me? Books and cleverness!” She'd pulled a face. “There are more important things... friendship and bravery, and—”
She curled tighter beneath the blankets, nearly pressing her forehead to her knees as she sniffled.
“And love...” she finished in a trembling whisper, struggling to contain the sob threatening to burst from her chest—and failing miserably, crying loudly once more, tears soaking her pyjamas.
Love.
That day, she'd finally understood.
It was all about connection.
A mother's affection. A father's protection. The loyalty between friends. A professor's pride. The fervour of a heart in love.
Any form of love.
This transcended all artificial achievements one might strive for. Intelligence and wisdom could be gained through effort and study; anyone could attain those.
But love?
Sometimes it wasn't something you earned—it was something you, by sheer luck, deserved to receive... or, in other cases, had the misfortune of never knowing at all.
And that was greater than anything.
Hermione could never explain why she'd felt compelled to say those words to Harry at that exact moment—only that time had been too short for explanations had he asked.
It had been a private revelation, a flash of clarity that made everything make sense—if only to herself. As if, for one fleeting instant, all the pieces of the universe had finally clicked into place.
Yet this maturity of thought had come to her far later than she'd have liked.
Hermione had ignored her mother's advice long before leaving home, before boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time, before arriving at King's Cross to find her future best friend crumpled on the floor, lost and isolated.
The memory surfaced with near-painful clarity.
She saw herself sitting on her bedroom bed, trunk already packed and waiting only for her father to finish dressing before their departure. Then her mother appeared in the doorway, wearing that gentle expression Hermione knew so well.
“We need to talk, sweetheart,” Emma Granger had said, her voice honey-sweet yet carrying that particular tone—the one that always heralded a discussion Hermione would rather avoid.
With a resigned sigh, Hermione closed her book and looked up to meet her mother's gaze.
Emma sat on the edge of the bed, making the mattress dip slightly.
“You need to stop acting like you know better than everyone else,” Emma said, her voice both tender and undeniably firm.
“But I just get so... so irritated by obvious questions, and—you know how hard it is for me—” The words stuck in Hermione's throat, heavy and uncomfortable.
“You'll make friends, my girl. I'm absolutely certain there'll be plenty of children just as lost in this new world as you,” Emma continued calmly. “But to do that, you must learn to be gentler. Ask questions. Show interest in what others have to say.”
Hermione sighed again and nodded, though deep down she didn't fully agree.
“I know how you love to teach and share your knowledge,” Emma went on, a small but proud smile touching her lips. “Every morning at breakfast, you show us how much you've already learned about this magical world, and your father and I couldn't be prouder. But,”—here her voice grew more serious—”being truly clever and wise doesn't mean displaying all your knowledge at every turn. It means knowing when to share it, how to spark others' interest, how to help at the right moment.”
Hermione kept her eyes fixed on her lap, unable to meet her mother's piercing gaze—those same brown eyes she'd inherited along with the hair, but which now seemed to hold a wisdom she couldn't yet comprehend.
Emma leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her daughter's forehead.
“Go wait in the car,” she said, straightening up. “I'll see if your father's managed to find a jumper that even remotely matches those dreadful trousers he insists on wearing. Fashion was never his strong suit.”
“Alright,” murmured Hermione, grabbing her heavy trunk and closing the bedroom door behind her mother.
Back then, she hadn't paid the slightest attention to that advice.
If only she'd listened... she might have spared herself—and others—so much unnecessary pain.
Hermione wiped her tears on her shirt sleeve.
“I should have been better,” she whispered to herself when she'd finally calmed down.
When Harry woke in the hospital wing and looked at her with those eyes that couldn't hide the pain, the sorrow in his voice... Hermione had felt even worse. Harry assumed she'd distanced herself because of that ridiculous rumour.
How could she have let that happen? She would do anything for him from that moment on—protect him as he'd protected her, care for him. She'd promised this three times over in her writings about him. But not out of some life debt, not because of a troll.
No.
She'd do it because of who he was. Because he wasn't what people said about him. He was so much more special, so much more important. He was her first friend, the person who'd stood by her when others forgot her.
Hermione had always been a lonely girl. At Muggle school, most classmates found her insufferable. Her tendency to answer everything and show off hadn't helped, and that hadn't changed at Hogwarts. But here, she at least had Harry. And though she'd let that slip away, she knew she'd never make that mistake again.
The memory of that night in the hospital wing invaded her thoughts with the force of a Memory Charm. Halloween. The same day everything had fallen apart. She remembered vividly standing there, alone with Harry, refusing to leave his side as he lay motionless in bed, pale as a ghost.
“Please, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione had begged, her trembling hands clutching the edge of the bed as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. “I'm not leaving. I can't.”
The matron had muttered something about “rules” and “proper rest,” her stern face framed by that tight bun, until a firm voice interrupted:
“Let her stay, Poppy.”
Hermione had turned, startled.
Professor McGonagall stood there, her half-moon spectacles reflecting the candlelight, hands folded in her usual posture—but there was something different in her eyes. A softness that rarely appeared, as if she saw something untrained eyes never could.
Madam Pomfrey had released a long sigh, as if she'd been dealing with stubborn students since Hogwarts' founding, but finally relented, muttering about “hard-headed youngsters” and “sleepless nights” as she walked away.
As the hospital wing sank into silence, the last candles were extinguished, leaving only the gentle glow of flickering lanterns that cast dancing shadows across Harry's face. Hermione had slid into the chair beside his bed, her eyes burning as she watched him.
“Oh, Harry...” she'd murmured, her voice so fragile it barely broke the silence.
He looked wrong. His chest rose and fell with difficulty, each breath sounding rough and painful. The bandages wrapped around part of his head and arms, hiding wounds Hermione knew were there—wounds she somehow felt guilty for not preventing.
With a trembling hand, she touched his, as delicately as if holding something precious and fragile. There was only the coolness of his skin beneath her fingers.
“I'm so sorry...” she whispered, tears finally escaping and streaming down her face. “I... I've been an idiot.”
No response. No movement.
She pressed her lips together, trying to contain the sob threatening to burst from her chest.
“I'll never leave you alone again,” she vowed, her voice fervent in the hospital wing's silence. “I'll change. I don't want... I won't...”
But then, like a jinx hovering over her thoughts, doubt struck her.
What if he didn't want her to?
What if, when he woke, he looked at her and realised he didn't want her near?
What if he agreed with everyone who said she was insufferable?
Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out, even though each one cut like glass.
“But if... if you don't want me to stay...” she murmured, her hesitant fingers withdrawing from his hand. “If you can't forgive me... or if I'm just... well, me being the one by your side... I'll understand.”
She looked down at her own hands, now twisting her uniform skirt, feeling foolish and vulnerable.
For a long moment, she stayed there, motionless, listening only to the sound of Harry's faint, steady breathing.
Then, gathering her courage, she leaned forward just enough to whisper:
“Get well, Harry.”
The instant the words left her lips, a strange shiver ran down her spine. Something in the air around Harry seemed to vibrate, almost as if his weakened magic was responding to hers, desperately wanting to comfort him.
And for one second—one brief, fleeting second—Hermione swore she saw his fingers twitch.
No.
That was impossible. Probably just her exhausted mind playing tricks.
Yet even so, when she pulled away, her heart pounded so loudly she could nearly hear it, and a small flame of hope stubbornly refused to die.
Hermione sighed, interrupting her thoughts for a moment, lost in the memory of that night.
She looked out the window, watching the rain intensify outside. The sound of water hitting the glass soothed her, especially at this late hour. There was something comforting about the storm, something that made her feel less alone, as if the outside world was in tune with her own tangled thoughts.
“Perhaps I should try focusing on something happier,” she thought to herself.
She'd tortured herself enough tonight over her mistakes. The memory of that moment still troubled her, but she knew she needed to move forward—so many good things had happened since then that it would be petty to dwell only on the bad.
Now, where had she left off? Ah, yes...
Harry.
She remembered the first time she'd seen him, at King's Cross station.
Harry had been crouched on the floor near his trunk, with an owl in a cage beside him. He'd looked lost, both literally and figuratively. There'd been something about his expression—a mix of sadness and uncertainty—that made her pause. It wasn't the sort of thing she'd ignore.
Without thinking twice, Hermione deduced he was a wizard, just like her. After all, how many children travelled with an owl? Still, she couldn't understand why he was just standing there, not entering the platform.
She decided she ought to help him.
Hermione stopped writing, gently ran the quill across her lips and bit her lower lip, remembering that moment, the strange sensation that had rushed through her when she met his eyes for the first time.
It was something she’d never felt before, like a shiver that began at her scalp and travelled all the way to her toes. Something inside her had stirred, as though a piece she hadn’t known was missing had suddenly slotted into place.
It was… hard to describe.
Strange, no doubt, but somehow good. She’d never told anyone about it—not even Harry. It would be odd, telling someone something like that; perhaps it was all in her head anyway.
He’d seemed so shy back then, almost fragile. His thin frame gave the impression that a strong wind might knock him over, and there was something about his smile, always just a bit hesitant, that made her own words come out slower than usual.
And those eyes…
Those green eyes, so intense it was nearly impossible to look away. Whenever Harry looked at her, it was as though time stretched out slightly, as if the world around them blurred for just a moment. It was hypnotic in a way Hermione still couldn’t quite explain.
And something she’d never truly got used to—just learned to live with.
Harry was gentle too, especially with Hedwig. Hermione remembered how, before stepping out of the carriage and leaving her behind to head for the boats in first year, he’d genuinely been worried about her, and clearly, if Harry had had the chance, he’d have taken his owl with him for the whole journey.
Hermione also remembered how he always wore that red scarf during the autumn and winter last year, and she knew that as soon as the chill set in, Harry wouldn’t take long to put it back on. And when he tried to hide his embarrassed face behind the scarf, as though shielding himself from attention—Hermione thought it made him look… cute.
“Cute?” she murmured, blushing, as she read over what she’d just written.
When he wears that scarf, I don’t know how else to put it—I think he looks cute.
Maybe… maybe it would be better to change the subject.
“Write about Neville, perhaps?” she thought, turning the page and wondering how to begin.
Describing Neville in a few words was harder than it sounded.
He was a collection of contrasts, depending on how you looked at him. In the classroom, he came across as shy, withdrawn, and often so quiet you barely noticed he was there. But to those who truly knew him, it was impossible not to recognise the courage he carried within.
It wasn’t a courage like Harry’s, always ready to leap into danger without a second thought, nor like Ron’s, spontaneous and impulsive. Neville’s courage was different. He feared things—was frightened of many things—perhaps more than anyone else Hermione knew, and yet he faced them.
Always.
To Hermione, he was the living definition of facing your fears. After all, he had to face Professor Snape every week, and no one knew better than Neville how terrifying that was—by the way he paled just descending the stairs to the dungeons and his hand began to tremble more, it was clear what he feared.
But Neville wasn’t just courage.
He was loyal—the sort who would never abandon a friend, even if he didn’t agree with them. Perhaps that was why he was so good at calming conflicts—a quality Hermione deeply admired in him. And of course, there was the fact that Neville was the best listener she’d ever known. He didn’t interrupt or judge; he simply listened, attentively and with genuine interest in what others had to say. It was almost as if listening were a gift he offered.
Even so, his greatest weakness had always been his lack of confidence in himself.
Hermione did everything she could to help him see just how capable he was, but Neville seemed incapable of believing in his own abilities, which was clearly a major factor in his overall struggles with spells—after all, if you didn’t have conviction about what you were trying to do, the spell was unlikely to work properly. It was a basic rule.
She hoped that, with time, he’d grow and realise just how special he was. Perhaps it was simply a matter of maturing.
As she wrote, Hermione felt tiredness begin to take hold. Her eyelids blinked more slowly, the weight of sleep settling into her body. She considered writing about Ron or about her horrible day, but the idea left her frustrated. It simply wasn’t worth her time at that moment.
Ron had his merits, of course. He was funny and knew how to lighten the mood, especially in tense moments. But his lack of responsibility and careless way of handling things were irritating—particularly to Hermione.
He knew exactly how to wind her up and, worse, sometimes seemed to enjoy it.
“Hermione?” called a voice, entering the room.
Hermione looked up and saw Lavender Brown.
“Oh, hi, Lavender,” she said softly, trying not to sound like she was still emotionally worn out.
Her relationship with her dorm-mates had always been neutral. Lavender, Parvati and Fay didn’t bother her, and she didn’t interfere in their lives either. Still, there were moments when Hermione felt a little left out—especially on nights when the three of them gathered for their “girl talks”, giggling and whispering before bed. Hermione had learnt to ignore it, but the feeling of isolation never completely went away.
“Decided to turn in early?” asked Lavender casually, swapping her uniform—as if it were a heavy suit of armour—for a long pink pair of pyjamas.
“Yeah, I’m just tired. Thought it best to head up early,” Hermione replied politely. “Everything all right with you?”
“Oh, yes, all fine,” Lavender answered with an easy smile. “Thought Parvati and Fay were already here. Oh well, I’ll turn in too. Night.”
“Good night,” Hermione replied, watching her climb into bed.
As soon as Lavender tucked herself behind the canopy curtains, Hermione closed the diary and hid it back behind her bedside table.
With two flicks of her wand and soft murmurs of enchantment, she shrank it and camouflaged it, rendering the diary almost invisible to any curious eye. But Hermione, being Hermione, wasn’t satisfied with that.
Twisting her wand once more, she cast a protective jinx.
“If anyone tries to take it…” she muttered to herself, with a slight, satisfied smile, “well, enjoy a whole week of boils and pus on your face.”
Her diary contained her deepest thoughts, secrets she didn’t want to share even with her closest friends. It was a little bubble of privacy in the chaos of life at Hogwarts, so every bit of security had a purpose.
She put her wand away, gave one last look to make sure the charm was perfect, and drew the curtains around her bed.
She snuggled beneath the covers and pulled Aslan to her chest in a fond hug—his scent was familiar and reminded her of home, and that always soothed her whenever she felt troubled, the soft sound of rain outside lulling her.
Within minutes, she was deep in dreams.
“Uh...” she groaned softly, still half-asleep with her face buried in the pillow.
Hermione woke the next morning feeling as though a lorry had run her over.
Even though she'd gone to bed early, her body felt as if it had been through a battle overnight. She felt heavy and exhausted, every muscle protesting at the slightest movement, and the strange, uncomfortable sensation dominating her abdomen only made things worse.
Outside, the rain continued to drum against the dormitory windows, muffling the room in a steady, monotonous rhythm. Silence reigned—her dorm-mates never really made any noise at night, they were as quiet as could be.
Hermione sighed, still trying to summon the strength to leave the covers.
Normally, she liked waking up early—having a few moments of peace to tame her hair and make it at least somewhat presentable before facing the rest of the school and starting another day. But right now, the thought of getting up felt impossible, a lost battle.
She turned over beneath the blankets with difficulty, a grimace forming on her face as she felt a sharp twinge in her lower back and an uncomfortable sensation in her lower belly, as though something were being twisted inside her.
Something was definitely not right.
As she adjusted the covers, a strange dampness on the mattress caught her attention. Hermione frowned, confused. For a moment, she froze.
No, it can’t be… I didn’t wet the bed, did I? she thought, beginning to panic.
The shock of the idea made her sit up abruptly, ignoring her body’s protests. Her eyes widened and locked onto the stained fabric of the sheet. The sight hit her like a Stunner.
Blood.
That was definitely worse than wetting the bed.
Her heart raced, and heat rushed to her face. She gasped, tugging the covers up more tightly, as if simply covering the sheet could undo what she’d seen.
“No, no, no, no, no…” she murmured quickly to herself, her mind spinning in circles.
"This can’t be happening. This… this can’t be happening, not now!" she screamed inwardly.
She pressed a trembling hand against her stomach, the pain and discomfort finally making sense—but that did nothing to soothe the rising panic.
Hermione had just faced one of the inevitable milestones of growing up as a girl—her first period. And, true to the way everything in her life seemed to go, it hadn’t happened quietly.
She’d never gone through anything like this before, least of all without her mother there to guide her. Her mind—usually so sharp and brimming with solutions—felt completely blank.
The pieces began to fit together in her head, albeit slowly and with gut-wrenching clarity. The inexplicable moodiness over the past few days, the bone-deep tiredness since she’d woken up, the odd pains, and now that stain on the bed… it all made sense. How could she have been so blind to the signs?
Hermione took a deep breath, determined to stay calm. But it was like trying to tame a storm. Shame and panic swirled in her chest, crushing her. The dormitory, which moments ago had seemed far too quiet, now seemed to roar with sound. Hermione prayed none of her dorm-mates would wake just then.
She clenched her hands, trying to control the trembling that threatened to expose her, and her eyes began to sting. Blinking rapidly was the only thing she could do to stop the tears from falling.
“Okay, okay, calm down, Hermione… you’re a witch,” she murmured quietly to herself, pressing her lips together. “There are spells for everything, right? This… this is just another problem that needs a solution.”
She grabbed her wand from the bedside table, her mind spinning as she tried to remember a proper Cleaning Charm. But even as she whispered incantations with trembling hands, she couldn't shake the knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.
Of course she’d tried to look up something about the female body and its cycles in the library, but there had been hardly any mention that menstruation, cramps or even premenstrual tension were ever an issue for witches, so she’d simply assumed that perhaps witches didn’t have that sort of thing to worry about—maybe their bodies sorted it all out magically—but then why in Merlin’s name was she having it?
She knew the other girls—Lavender, Parvati and Fay—never seemed to deal with anything like this. They never talked about it, or at least, it never seemed to be a problem for them. In fact, they seemed to live in a world where those kinds of problems were irrelevant, as she’d never once heard them mention them.
And for the first time in a long while, Hermione Granger felt completely and utterly lost.
None of the Cleaning Charms were working. The red stain persisted—stubborn and unrelenting—as though it had been left there on purpose. Hermione looked at her pyjama trousers, still damp, and felt her throat tighten.
“Scourgify,” she muttered again, pointing at the bed, her wand jerking in a rushed, panicked flick.
Nothing. The stain remained, defiant, as though mocking her.
“Why isn’t any of this working?” Hermione whispered, more to the wand than to herself, as though the blame lay with the instrument.
The soft patter of rain outside dulled the air. The curtains around the four-posters were all closed—a clear sign that her dorm-mates were still fast asleep, as usual. Hermione knew she had time; they were nearly always the last to wake in the girls’ dormitory tower.
“Right. Stay calm,” she said softly, trying to convince herself. “Just don’t panic. I’m good at solving problems, aren’t I? This is just another one.”
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment, her wand fingers still trembling slightly.
“But what do I do?”
Her gaze swept the room, as though some magical idea might appear written across the walls.
With a resolute sigh, she rose from the bed, covered the evidence of her humiliation with the blanket and drew the curtains shut with a swift gesture.
Carefully, she crept over to her trunk, trying to make as little noise as possible. But even the sound of her footsteps seemed deafening now. She prayed once again that no one would wake up—because if they did, she’d have to explain herself. Horrifying.
The growing ache in her abdomen was forgotten for a moment beneath the dread of being found out.
When she pulled out a clean change of clothes, the weight of having to deal with all of it alone settled heavy in her chest.
“I knew this would happen eventually...” she thought in despair, “but why now? Why me?”
Hermione cursed herself for not being prepared. Always so organised about everything—trips, studies, timetables, even the tidiness of her own room—her mum had never needed to worry about those details. Hermione liked to do it all herself, perfectly and ahead of time.
But when it came to herself, her diligence always seemed to vanish.
“I don’t need to worry about that yet,” she’d always tell herself, pushing the problem into some distant future.
And now, as though fate had decided to punish her for her own negligence, here she was—regretful down to the last strand of her curly brown hair for not having thought about this sooner.
Her eyes landed on the stained purple pyjamas, and she felt a mix of frustration and sadness.
“Why did it have to be my favourite?” she thought.
She sighed quietly, trying not to make a sound, and then crept to the dormitory door. Every creak of the wooden floor made her flinch. Her heart was pounding in her chest.
“Please, no one in the corridor...”
She felt a rush of relief when she reached the bathroom without running into anyone. She locked the door and, forgetting her cramps for a moment, focused on washing herself as thoroughly as she could. The hot water helped her body to relax, though it wasn’t nearly enough to rid her of either the physical aches or the tight anxiety lingering inside her—it merely dulled them for a moment.
Once changed, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was completely wild—she knew she had no time to do anything about it now, not even enough to make it less hideous than she already thought it looked.
She felt a sharp pang of disgust—she hated her hair being like that—but she knew she couldn’t give in.
“I can’t worry about that now,” she muttered to herself, turning away from the mirror.
She pinched her arm, as if somewhere deep down she still hoped to wake up from a nightmare. But all that happened was a small, stinging thud against her skin. This wasn’t a dream. It was real.
“This happens to all girls,” she said under her breath, trying to convince herself, as though repeating it might make it feel true. “It’s normal. Just a bodily response. Natural.”
The word “natural” rang hollow in her mind as she thought of the stains on the sheets. If it was even possible, the knot in her stomach tightened further.
Maybe it was time to go to Madam Pomfrey. If anyone would understand, it would be her. If she could save Harry when he was nearly dead after that troll attack and help him recover after stopping You-Know-Who from getting that Stone, she could help Hermione with this... at least, that’s what Hermione hoped.
“It’s going to be all right,” she whispered to herself before leaving the bathroom, her fingers clenched tightly around the hem of her clean jumper. She gave her reflection one last glance in the mirror—still doubtful, but with just a touch more strength.
Knowing she had to sort this out before anyone noticed, Hermione didn’t even grab her bag. She hurried down the Gryffindor tower staircase, her steps echoing down the empty corridor. Her mind was fixed on the Hospital Wing, so far away on the first floor—but the moment she reached the common room, she froze.
Seated at a round table in the centre of the room, Harry and Neville were talking, their bags already out, as though waiting for her.
“Merlin, of all people... Since when do they wake up this early?!” she thought, her inner voice shouting.
“Morning, Hermione,” Harry greeted her with a smile, while Neville gave a polite wave.
“Erm... hi,” she replied, clearing her throat. Her voice sounded a bit off, and she tried to force a more natural tone.
“Act normal. Act normal.” she repeated the mantra in her head.
“We thought we’d try waking up earlier today,” said Neville, sounding a little nervous. “Since you’re always waiting for us... and, well, we knew you were feeling a bit off yesterday. I mean, because of Lockhart... and that thing with Ron...”
Hermione tried to smile, but her face burned.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” she said quickly. “I’m fine, really.”
Her tone was rushed, and the attempt to sound calm failed miserably. She felt both of their eyes fall on her, studying her from head to toe.
Her hair was a wild tangle, her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment against her pale skin, and her tie hung loose and slightly crooked. Her uniform looked like it had been thrown on in a hurry—her shirt slightly rumpled, mismatched socks, and her jumper’s collar twisted. To make matters worse, a sheen of cold sweat glistened on her forehead.
“Er... so, did you sleep well last night?” Harry asked, his tone casual, though the concern in his voice was unmistakable.
“Of course, of course. Slept wonderfully, thanks for asking,” said Hermione, attempting to sound convincing, but the words came out all in a rush.
Stupid answer. Stupid!
Harry and Neville exchanged a quick glance, but didn’t say anything straight away. Instead, they began picking up their schoolbags.
“Well,” said Neville hesitantly, throwing a look at Harry. “We were thinking of heading down to breakfast a bit earlier today.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, trying to keep his tone light. “Ron said he’ll meet us there—wanted a bit more kip.”
Neville frowned at him.
“He didn’t say anything,” he replied. “Just rolled over and grumbled, really.”
Harry shrugged.
“You didn’t hear him. He thought it was Fred and George and swore at them for waking him up so early.” He gave a small laugh. “So no harm if we go ahead—might even be some food left for us, who knows?”
He chuckled, trying to lift the mood, but when she didn’t seem to notice the joke—or perhaps didn’t hear it at all, looking as though she wanted to bolt from the room—Harry ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat.
“Where’s your bag?” Neville asked suddenly, adjusting the strap of his own over his shoulder.
Hermione blinked, as if waking from a trance.
“Oh, I... well, I need to sort something out first,” she said, twisting her fingers nervously. “Nothing important, just... a thing.”
“Sort something out?” Harry tilted his head, his brows drawing together in a look of concern that would have made Professor McGonagall proud. “Hermione, are you all right? D’you need help with anything?”
“Yeah,” Neville added, offering a tentative smile. “If you do, you can count on—”
“No, no! I don’t need help, honestly!” she interrupted, waving her hands like she was trying to shoo away a swarm of noisy fairies. “Wait for me in the Great Hall. I’ll... I’ll be right there. See you in a bit!”
Before they could say another word, Hermione spun on her heel and headed for the exit, her quick steps echoing down the stone corridor like a string of dry cracks. She didn’t bother looking back.
“She’s acting odd,” Neville murmured, low enough that the portraits on the walls would’ve had to lean in to catch it.
“She is,” Harry agreed, frowning. “I’ve noticed it for a while now...”
Both of them stared at the portrait hole that had just swung shut behind Hermione, as though willing it to open again on its own.
“Should we go after her?” Harry asked, biting his lower lip.
“Follow Hermione?!” Neville’s eyes widened as though Harry had suggested they take on a dragon. “Why?”
“Have you ever seen her act like that?” Harry argued, nodding towards the exit. “There’s something wrong, Nev. She was sweating, couldn’t string a proper sentence together. And did you see her tie? Since when does Hermione Granger show up in a messy uniform?”
“Ron says she’s got a speech prepared about uniforms he’s memorised by now,” Neville mumbled, staring at his shoes.
“Exactly! So you see what I mean.”
Neville hesitated, fiddling with the cuff of his robes.
“But... what if it’s something personal?” he asked, clearly reluctant to cross a line that might leave him singed—or scorched. “She’s never been one to share everything, Harry. And she didn’t ask for help...”
Harry adjusted his bag over his shoulder and stepped purposefully towards the exit.
“If it were just personal, she wouldn’t look that rattled,” he said.
“Actually, I reckon because it’s personal, she—”
Harry rolled his eyes so hard it looked like he was trying to see his own brain.
“You know Hermione! She could be on her last legs and still wouldn’t ask for help. It’s worth checking—if it’s nothing, great. But if it’s something serious...” he let the thought hang in the air as he strode towards the portrait hole.
Neville let out a deep sigh, like a man marching towards his doom.
“All right...” he sighed, matching Harry’s brisk pace. “But if she turns us into toads afterwards, it’s on you!”
“Then we’ll keep Trevor company,” Harry shrugged.
As they stepped into the corridor, they spotted Hermione turning right at the far end, almost running towards the stairs.
“See? She’s running!” Harry whispered, quickening his pace.
“Or maybe she’s just hungry,” Neville tried, though his voice was as convincing as a first-year explaining why he hadn’t done his Potions homework.
Harry shot Neville a look that clearly said do you even believe that yourself?, without slowing down.
“We were heading that way anyway!” he argued quickly. “And since when does Hermione run to breakfast? She’s not Ron.”
“Thank Merlin she’s not Ron,” Neville muttered awkwardly. “That’d be weird.”
The two of them continued down the corridor, keeping a safe distance to avoid being spotted, trying to work out what could possibly be going on with their friend.
She looked nervous, constantly adjusting her skirt and sometimes quickening her pace, her shoes echoing against the corridors, still dimly lit by the rain-dimmed morning light.
They began trailing her across floors, careful not to lose sight of her as she zigzagged through staircases and passageways. Some students were already awake, trudging sleepily towards the Great Hall, but no one seemed to notice the strange behaviour of the pair—an unexpected benefit of lazy Hogwarts mornings.
Neville couldn’t help but notice how easily Harry moved, hugging the shadows, his steps light and silent. He, on the other hand, was certain he moved with all the grace of a Giant Fire Crab in a tight room.
“Mate, how are you so good at this?” Neville whispered, trying to keep up.
Harry glanced back briefly, a half-smile on his face.
“Practice. After all the sneaking around last year, it sort of becomes instinct,” he explained, pausing to watch Hermione from behind the corner before continuing to follow her.
“Glad to know our illegal escapades are finally coming in handy,” Neville muttered, trying not to trip over a particularly treacherous step.
Harry merely shrugged, his eyes fixed on Hermione’s disappearing figure as she rounded another corridor.
“Just keep up,” he motioned with his hand. “She’s moving too fast.”
“Are we seriously just going to keep following her like this, from a distance?” Neville asked, frowning as he tried to match Harry’s pace.
“Give me a better idea and I’ll do it right now,” Harry replied in a hurried whisper.
Neville sighed, clearly uncomfortable, but kept following his friend.
They trailed Hermione until they saw her slip through the doors of the Hospital Wing.
The moment she disappeared, Harry and Neville stopped, ducking behind a statue of a knight in full armour, sword raised alongside his shield. The armour shifted slightly upon noticing them, as though startled.
Harry cast Neville a worried look. “I knew something was wrong. But why wouldn’t she tell us anything?”
“Do you reckon it’s serious?” Neville swallowed, trying not to imagine the worst.
“She was sweating... could be an illness. A fever maybe, or the flu.”
“But she didn’t look ill—no sniffing, no runny nose—properly disgusting stuff,” Neville countered, shaking his head. “I can barely get out of bed when I’ve got it.”
“Same. Nothing’s worse than the flu,” Harry agreed. “It’s torture having a blocked nose—unless it’s sore. Then it’s even worse.”
“Well, that’s true,” Neville murmured. “I hope it's not the flu then.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, as he stared at the closed door of the Hospital Wing.
“Damn it... What’s wrong with her?” he asked, brow furrowed. “And why is she hiding it? She looked worse today than yesterday.”
Neville, fidgeting, glanced around as though expecting the door itself to answer him.
“Should we go in?” he asked, uncertain.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The pair spun round, startled, to find Professor McGonagall standing there, arms crossed and eyes assessing them sternly from behind her spectacles.
Bang! Clack! Clink!
Neville jumped in fright, banging his head on the knight statue, while Harry stumbled in the process, knocking into the suit of armour, which dropped its sword with a metallic clang.
The armour placed both hands on its hips and glared at him, as if thoroughly offended.
“Sorry!” Harry exclaimed, quickly trying to replace the sword in the knight’s hand.
The armour simply took the sword from him and resumed its original stance, shaking its head.
“What is the meaning of this?” Professor McGonagall asked, her voice sharp as a blade. “Two Gryffindor students sneaking about the corridors like goblins on the fiddle, furtively spying on Miss Granger?”
“P-Professor... w-we weren’t exactly spying,” Neville stammered, rubbing the spot where he’d hit his head. “We just... we were worried about her, that’s all.”
“And you believe chasing a housemate through the corridors constitutes appropriate behaviour?” McGonagall arched an eyebrow with such force it might have felled a dragon. “Or should I presume you’re plotting something you’d prefer not to share with me?”
“We’re not doing anything wrong! I swear!” Harry responded in a flash. “It’s just that Hermione’s... different, Professor. She’s been acting strangely, and we wanted to know if she was all right.”
To the boys’ surprise, McGonagall’s severe expression softened slightly, replaced by genuine concern that made her spectacles glint in the torchlight.
“Something is wrong with Miss Granger? And what exactly led you to this conclusion, Potter?”
Harry and Neville exchanged a meaningful glance—a look that held an entire silent conversation—before Harry summoned the courage to explain:
“She’s more irritable than usual,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “Yesterday... well, Professor Lockhart seemed to make her particularly nervous.”
Neither Harry nor Neville mentioned the row with Ron—that was between the three of them, and didn’t need a professor’s interference.
“Ah, Lockhart,” McGonagall murmured, pressing her lips together in a way that made her opinion of her colleague perfectly clear. “Go on.”
“And she’s not speaking up in lessons,” Neville added quickly, eyes wide with worry. “She’s not putting her hand up, not answering questions. That’s... that’s not the Hermione we know, Professor.”
McGonagall fell silent for a moment that felt like an eternity, her keen gaze shifting between the two boys. At last, she turned to Harry.
“Mr Potter, you’re her partner in lessons, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Professor, but not in all of them.”
“Have you noticed anything else unusual? Perhaps her holding her stomach, or seeming uncomfortable?”
Harry furrowed his brow, trying to recall. “Now that you mention it... yes. And she’s been distracted too. Hermione never gets distracted.”
A sudden understanding lit McGonagall’s sharp eyes, and she nodded slowly, as though pieces of a puzzle were finally falling into place.
“I understand your concern,” she said, her voice noticeably gentler. “However, following a friend through the corridors is not the most appropriate way to show you care. If Miss Granger has chosen not to share her troubles with you, she must have her reasons.”
“But Professor—” Harry began to protest.
“No 'buts', Potter,” McGonagall cut in with the authority of someone who’d ended thousands of student arguments. “Now, head to the Great Hall for breakfast. I shall deal with this matter myself. I’m quite certain it’s nothing alarming.”
Reluctantly, Harry and Neville nodded and began to walk away. They had just turned the corner when McGonagall’s voice called after them again:
“One more thing!”
“Yes, Professor?” they answered in unison, turning back.
“This evening, I want all Gryffindor students in the common room. I have an important announcement to make. Therefore,” and here her gaze pierced each of them in turn, “I expect not to find either of you in any sort of trouble before then. Is that clear?”
Neville went as pale as a ghost, as though already envisioning every possible way he might end up in trouble without even trying.
“Y-yes, Professor,” he stammered.
Harry merely nodded, then turned to follow Neville towards the Great Hall.
McGonagall sighed, turning towards the Hospital Wing. A peculiar smile—somewhere between resignation and amused exasperation—played on her finely drawn lips.
“And to think I believed those two would be more like Lily and Alice,” she murmured to herself, as the echo of her heeled shoes rang across the stone floor. “But no... they’ve got the same good hearts, true enough, but they’ve also inherited that dreadful knack for trouble James and Frank had.”
She shook her head, her square spectacles gleaming in the torchlight. “To our eternal despair—and the Hospital Wing’s permanent overcrowding.”
The door to the Hospital Wing creaked softly as Hermione opened it, the sound echoing through the empty space like a lonely sigh.
Her brown eyes swept quickly over the room—all the beds were unoccupied, the sheets impeccably made, and Madame Pomfrey’s office door remained firmly closed. The silence was so absolute that the faint clinking of bottles on the shelves could be heard.
“Madame Pomfrey?” Hermione called, her voice sounding oddly loud in the stillness.
No reply came, only the steady ticking of the large wall clock marking the seconds.
“Have I come too early?” she wondered, nervously twisting the ends of her jumper between her fingers.
She felt like a cornered rat in Snape’s laboratory—lost, vulnerable, and completely out of her element. How could she explain this? And, more importantly, could the nurse really help her? All she wanted was for it to be something simple, ordinary, and—Merlin save her!—for no one else to find out.
“Where is she?” she murmured, biting her lower lip as she glanced around once more.
She sat down on a bench near the exit, trying to steady her quickened breathing, but the anxiety bubbled inside her like a poorly brewed potion ready to explode.
Her greatest fear? Making this into a bigger problem than it already was.
Her absolute dread? That Lavender and Parvati would find out.
Hermione closed her eyes tightly, as if she could erase the mental image of her dorm mates chattering away in the Great Hall. They weren’t mean exactly, but they had a knack for spreading secrets faster that a fire spread in dry straw by a Incendio. The mere thought of becoming the main topic of breakfast chatter made her stomach churn as though she’d swallowed a live chocolate frog.
After what felt like an eternity, she stood up determined. Perhaps it was better to deal with this alone, even without the faintest idea of how. But just as she reached for the door handle, the door suddenly opened, revealing the imposing figure of Professor McGonagall, whose expression combined genuine concern with her usual severity.
“Professor McGonagall!” Hermione exclaimed, stepping back instinctively. “I... I was looking for Madame Pomfrey, but she isn’t here. I need to speak with her about... about—”
McGonagall offered a rare smile that softened her sharp features.
“Madame Pomfrey has gone to Hogsmeade for supplies and won’t return until evening,” she explained with unusual calm. “But I did not come for her. I came to speak with you, Miss Granger.”
“With me?” Hermione felt her legs turn to jelly.
“Precisely,” McGonagall confirmed, tilting her head in that characteristic way that made students feel utterly exposed. “You do not look well. Is something amiss?”
Hermione felt her cheeks burn as though she had swallowed a Fire Seed.
“I… well… it’s just that…” The words seemed to hide deep in her throat as her eyes insisted on studying her shoes with academic intensity.
“Take your time,” McGonagall said, more kindly than Hermione had ever heard her. “There is no shame. Whatever it is, I am here to help.”
Hermione swallowed hard, feeling the last barriers of resistance crumble.
“I… think I’ve started my period. For the first time.”
To her relief, McGonagall’s expression did not change a fraction, maintaining the same professional composure she would when explaining a complex Transfiguration theory.
“There is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, Hermione,” she said gently. “It is perfectly normal—for witches as well as Muggles.”
“And I… have wet my bed,” the words rushed out in a torrent, “I tried to clean it with spells, but I was so nervous I must have said them wrong, and my pyjamas are stained too, and it hurts so much, and I don’t know what to do, and… and…”
The tears she had been trying to hold back finally spilled over, running down her face like tiny waterfalls.
McGonagall closed the distance between them in a purposeful step, placing a firm but comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Breathe, Hermione. First, let’s calm those nerves. What you’re experiencing is perfectly natural.”
With a gentle motion, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to Hermione, who accepted it with trembling hands.
“Now, come with me to my office,” McGonagall continued, with an unusual brightness in her normally severe eyes. “I have exactly what you need.”
Hermione hesitated for a brief moment, but something in the professor’s unexpected maternal manner—so unlike her usual sternness—made her feel safe as she had never since arriving at Hogwarts. With a small nod, she followed McGonagall down the corridor, her steps now a little lighter than when she had entered.
In the professor’s office, the atmosphere seemed warmer than usual.
The persistent rain and cold outside contrasted pleasantly with the heat of the lit fireplace, which cast dancing shadows on the wood-paneled walls. The professor adjusted her spectacles and, with a decisive movement, called:
“Fribsky.”
Pop!
With a faint popping sound like a bubble bursting, the small, discreetly mannered house-elf appeared in the middle of the room, her large ears pricked for the professor’s orders.
“Fribsky,” began McGonagall in a gentle yet direct tone, “there’s a situation in the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory, second year. Miss Granger has had her first menstruation and there have been complications with the sheets. I believe some spells will need to be applied. Could you take care of it, please? Discreetly, as always.”
“Of course, professor,” Fribsky replied, bowing slightly before casting a reassuring glance at Hermione, who looked on the verge of disappearing from embarrassment.
“Oh, don’t worry, miss,” said the elf, in a soft, sweet tone. “It’s very common. Elves menstruate too! It’s an achievement, not something to be ashamed of.”
Hermione blinked, stunned by the simple and frank statement, but Fribsky’s warm smile made some of her tension dissolve.
Pop!
As the elf vanished, McGonagall went over to a discreet cupboard in the corner of the room. With a skilful motion, she opened the small door and took out an amber glass bottle with a silver dropper.
“This,” she explained, holding the bottle with the ease of someone who had done this hundreds of times over her years at Hogwarts, “is a Mensis Regula Potion. It relieves cramps, regulates the flow and, rather than being expelled, the blood is magically transformed into nutrients your body absorbs.”
Hermione’s eyes widened like two full moons, her intellectual curiosity momentarily outweighing her discomfort.
“That’s... incredibly advanced!” she remarked. “Magic really thought of everything, didn’t it?”
“Not everything,” McGonagall continued, carefully pouring three drops of the potion into a goblet of water that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, “unfortunately, we haven’t yet discovered how to ease the irritability and fatigue that come with the cycle. Some things, even in magic, we simply have to accept.”
She handed the goblet to Hermione.
“Here, drink it all.” She offered.
Hermione took the cup with slightly trembling hands and raised it to her lips.
The liquid had a surprisingly pleasant taste—like treacle sweets with a hint of mint—but, to her disappointment, she felt no immediate effect.
McGonagall, with that keen perception that made students suspect she could read minds—when she didn’t even need to—smiled faintly.
“The effects may take a little while to appear, especially since you were already feeling the symptoms. You may still feel some discomfort.” Her sharp eyes softened for a moment. “If you need it, I can excuse you from lessons for today.”
“No, professor!” Hermione replied so quickly she nearly dropped the goblet. The very idea of missing lessons seemed as absurd as the suggestion that she might stop reading. “I won’t miss lessons for... for this.” Her face flushed slightly, but her voice remained steady. “But thank you. I already feel much better just knowing there is a solution.”
McGonagall nodded with an expression that was at once satisfied and resigned—as if she had expected exactly that answer from Hogwarts’ most diligent student.
“Very well,” she said, as she put the bottle away with precise movements. “But remember: the infirmary is always available, and Madame Pomfrey has enough stock for all the witches in the castle. When you need it, just speak to her.”
“That helps a lot already,” said Hermione, with a smile.
McGonagall held out the small amber glass bottle, its contents sparkling in the sunlight beginning to break through the grey clouds.
“Take this with you. Five drops at the start of each cycle—you may take them directly on the tongue or mix them in water or juice if you find the flavour too sweet.”
“Professor...” Hermione began, her fingers closing carefully around the bottle.
A spark of indignation started to rise in her voice, like fire in a wand ready to cast a spell.
“This potion... is it really so common in the wizarding world?”
“Extremely common,” McGonagall confirmed, adjusting her half-moon spectacles.
Hermione frowned, her expression turning into the one she usually reserved for particularly poor explanations.
“But how was I supposed to know? How many witches born to Muggles go through this without any guidance? Suffering from cramps and using Muggle methods, completely unaware of these potions’ existence?” Her voice grew louder with each word. “I myself researched exhaustively in the library and found not a single reference!”
McGonagall raised her eyebrows almost disappearing beneath her pointed hat. For a brief moment, it seemed Hermione was about to earn a detention for her frankness, but then the professor sighed.
“At this particular point, I must admit you are absolutely right,” McGonagall acknowledged. “Most of our pupils arrive already familiar with it, having learned from their mothers or older sisters about when to take it and the ease of obtaining it from the infirmary.”
McGonagall pursed her lips into a line as thin as the edge of a parchment leaf.
“The truth is, since this matter doesn’t directly affect the academic curriculum, we never considered it necessary to include it in our reference materials. That information is traditionally found only in advanced magical healing manuals.”
Hermione felt a surge of indignation rising through her chest like a dragon awakening. Such a fundamental potion, so universally known among witches, and not a single mention in the countless books in the Hogwarts library?
It was absurd!
But then, as if turning the page of a complex spellbook, another understanding struck her.
The magical world was full of these peculiarities—basic knowledge passed down orally, ingrained customs never written down, family traditions handed down from generation to generation like precious heirlooms. How many times had she come across that frustrating gap? From simple things like colloquial expressions—saying ‘Merlin’ instead of ‘God’ or ‘Jesus’—to the unwritten rules of Quidditch that everyone apparently knew, so many aspects of wizarding life existed only in collective memory, never recorded on parchment.
McGonagall interrupted her thoughts with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries of tradition.
“It was, without a doubt,” admitted the professor, her lips pressing together as if she’d just chewed a particularly unpleasant Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean, “a grave mistake to assume everyone shares the same basic knowledge. This matter should have been addressed far more transparently.”
Hermione nodded vigorously, her brown hair swinging with the movement, her eyes shining with that determination which usually preceded the founding of a new student society.
McGonagall tilted her head in an almost imperceptible gesture, but to Hermione, it meant more than a standing ovation.
“I shall personally rectify this omission,” declared the professor. “I will speak to all Muggle-born students to ensure they are informed of this option. Meanwhile,” she continued, her tone softening slightly, “know that my door—and Madame Pomfrey’s—will always be open if you need more potion or any other assistance. We’re here to help, Hermione.”
“Thank you very much, professor,” replied Hermione, her voice laden with such genuine gratitude that even McGonagall’s glasses steamed up for a brief moment.
“Before you go, Miss Granger, may I offer you a piece of advice?”
Hermione, already with her hand on the door handle, turned, surprised by the question.
“Of course.”
McGonagall adjusted her glasses and folded her hands in front of her, her expression calm but attentive.
“I know you’re close friends with Messrs Potter, Longbottom and Weasley.”
“Yes, of course,” Hermione answered without hesitation, the tone implying it was obvious.
McGonagall inclined her head slightly, already expecting that answer.
“Well, I see you spend a lot of time with them, and I know they’re worried about you—considering your current state—if you understand what I mean.”
McGonagall had to admit that those boys really did care for her, even if they acted in a somewhat unconventional and reasonable way, trailing her through the corridors in secret, which they did was at least proof of that, more than Hermione herself might have imagined.
Hermione blushed slightly, averting her gaze.
“I know what you mean, professor,” she admitted, her voice quieter.
She knew she was acting differently, but didn’t feel comfortable sharing details with her friends.
McGonagall let out a brief sigh, recalling Harry and Neville, so restless behind the armour in the corridor.
“I’ll set aside our Professor-to-student relationship for a moment and speak woman to woman,” she began, in a gentler tone, “I don’t think you need to go into details, especially if it makes you uncomfortable. But, being the only girl among those three, it’s good to remember that… well, things work differently for you. And that’s absolutely normal. Them being aware of this might even help you, or at least not bother you when you feel you need space.”
Hermione raised her eyes, surprised by her sincerity.
“But let’s be frank,” McGonagall continued, with a small smile at the corner of her lips, “boys can be a bit… ignorant when it comes to us witches, especially at this age. So my suggestion is at least to let them know when you’re not at your best.”
Hermione reflected on the professor’s words.
“Makes sense. I’ll try,” she replied with a simple smile.
McGonagall nodded with an approving look. “Good. Now, go enjoy your day, Miss Granger.”
Hermione squared her shoulders as if gathering courage, and approached the Gryffindor table with her head held high.
Her uniform was now immaculate—having dressed properly—but the slight flush on her face betrayed her discomfort. As she sat down beside Harry, the friends’ gazes fell upon her. Even Ron, mouth full of sausages, paused to look. Neville let fall the spoon he was about to dip into his morning pudding, and Harry stared quietly at her, brow furrowed with concern.
Hermione noticed the awkward silence hanging over the group.
Around them, the Great Hall was full of laughter and carefree chatter, but inside the small bubble surrounding them, everyone seemed to be waiting for something from her.
“I’d like to say,” began Hermione, her voice clear and polite, breaking the strange atmosphere before anyone could ask, “that yes, I’m not feeling very well, but it’s being sorted. So if I act odd—as I probably have—it’s because I’m not having my best day. Alright?”
Ron blinked, still chewing, and cast a look at Harry, as if seeking an interpretation, but found his friend just as confused.
“Ah... right,” said Ron after swallowing quickly. “I mean, it’s fine, you don’t need to explain anything, y’know? Not that we don’t want to know, but... well, you understand.”
“No, I don’t understand,” Hermione murmured, raising an eyebrow.
Harry, not wanting to have to sort out another quarrel first thing in the morning, leaned forward, keeping his tone soft.
“What Ron means is that what matters is you’re alright. If you need anything—anything at all, just say.”
“Yes, of course!” Neville added enthusiastically but soon flushed. “I mean, if you need help, or maybe... a pudding? Want a pudding?”
Hermione suppressed a laugh, surprised by the peculiar offer.
“No, but thanks, Neville,” she said with a genuine smile.
“So... we just act normal, yeah?” Ron asked, still looking confused.
“Exactly that,” Hermione replied with a relieved sigh. “No weird questions or looks like those just now.”
“Alright, alright!” Ron said, raising his hands in defence. “Got it, no looks.”
“Great,” said Hermione, taking a piece of bread and beginning to help herself.
“But if I may ask,” Ron ventured, “why exactly would you act weird?”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Hasn’t your mum ever told you anything about the menstrual cycle?” she asked impatiently.
She was still stressed from the fight the day before.
The three boys, as if a light had flickered above their heads, blinked at her until they grasped what she was saying.
Of course, none of them knew.
“Oh, so that was it... well, right, no problem,” Harry cleared his throat.
Ron nodded. “Yeah, like... there’s that PMS thing and... well, now I know what you mean.”
Neville stayed silent, watching while eating his pudding without taking his eyes off his friends.
“What did you think it was?” Hermione suddenly asked.
“Well... we thought it might have something to do with Lockhart?” Neville suggested hesitantly, not wanting to offend her while waving his spoon and holding his pudding pot. “But you were odd before... I mean, you just weren’t normal—well...”
Hermione sighed; she had to at least give them credit for noticing she really wasn’t well.
“Alright, no need to explain,” she said. “I got what you meant.”
As the minutes passed, the atmosphere at the Gryffindor table began to normalise, as if a calming charm had been cast over them.
Ron debated animatedly with Harry about possible candidates for the Quidditch team—the trials were to be held next week—while Neville, with the expression of someone facing a crucial decision, alternated his gaze between treacle pudding and apple pie as if confronted by a particularly difficult Transfiguration test.
Hermione, however, noticed the furtive glances Harry gave her out of the corner of his eyes—quick as a Golden Snitch, but just as noticeable. When their eyes finally met, Harry looked away so fast he almost knocked over his pumpkin juice, feigning sudden interest in the contents of his mug.
Neville, oblivious to the silence between the friends, engaged in a discussion with Ron about the relative merits of Puddlemere United’s players, leaving Harry free to become absorbed in his thoughts while drinking his tea with a distant expression.
Feeling the need to make things right, Hermione leaned slightly to one side, poking Harry’s arm with the delicacy of someone handling a fragile object.
“Harry?” she whispered, her voice almost lost in the murmur of the Great Hall.
“Hmm?” He raised an eyebrow, lowering his mug after another sip of tea.
Hermione nervously fiddled with the edge of her robes, her eyes meeting his only briefly before darting away again like an evasive cat.
“I... wanted to apologise. For yesterday.” The words came out in a rapid flow. “I was stressed and rude, and—”
“It’s alright,” Harry interrupted, his instant smile easing some of the weight Hermione had been carrying in her chest since the night before. “I knew you weren’t having a good day. And now that… you’ve explained, it’s fine. Nev understands too, no need to worry.”
A shy smile blossomed on Hermione’s lips as she nodded, relieved.
“Oh, right... thanks. I... I will talk to Neville later too,” she murmured, casting a quick glance at the boy, who was now gesturing animatedly while explaining something about Quidditch strategies to a sceptical Ron.
“No way that’d work, it’s Montrose Magpies stuff,” Ron grumbled. “They attack like cowards when the other team’s knackered.”
Neville sighed, trying to explain the tactic, but in vain. He still hadn’t mentioned which team he supported, apparently Ron really wouldn’t like it.
Harry didn’t ask why Hermione hadn’t mentioned Ron when apologising.
There was no need. Both knew that bridge would only be rebuilt when Ron chose to take the first step—and, knowing the stubborn redhead as they did, it would likely require something as dramatic as a dragon attack or, perhaps, divine intervention.
After breakfast, Hermione noticed that if this was a bad day for her, it could obviously get worse as she barely registered when they entered the dungeons.
“Potions today... how did I forget that?” Hermione murmured to herself as they walked down the corridors.
“If we threw Snape in the midday sun, do you think he’d burn?” Ron asked suddenly, a speculative look in his eyes.
Neville let out a nervous chuckle. “I’m all for testing that, as long as I’m not involved.”
“I reckon he’d evaporate,” Harry said, amused. “Like Dracula.”
The three burst out laughing, but Hermione just sighed, clutching the book to her chest as if wanting it to protect her from something dreadful.
Today would be the first Potions lesson of the year, and she was determined to stay low-key. Normally, she’d make a point of sitting in the front row, preferably right in the centre, where she could soak up every word of the professor.
But today?
Today she wanted to slip into the middle of the class and go unnoticed. The less she drew Snape’s attention, the better.
Harry accompanied her to a table in the centre of the room, standing by her side.
Snape, with a closed expression, was already at the board, waving his wand to make chalk start scribbling information without even bothering to explain anything. His look was cold, as if taking out his bad mood on the whole room, as always.
Hermione tried to keep up with the writing, hurriedly, but she seemed slower than usual. She barely managed to copy half of what Snape had written before he erased the board and added a whole bunch more.
Her frustration grew.
She was beginning to get annoyed at her own inability to keep pace and wondered when the blasted potion would take effect and she’d return to normal.
“Hey, relax.” Harry’s voice came quietly beside her. “I’m writing it all down. I’ll give it to you later.”
She hesitated, not wanting to be a burden.
“You don’t have to, Harry. I’ll manage... just—”
“Look, let me do this for you, alright?” He cut her off, raising one hand subtly. “You did the same for me last year. Now let me return the favour. Friends do that. If you’re not well, me, Nev and Ron will help.”
He smiled that sincere smile that made her feel a little lighter.
Hermione felt unsettled for a moment. She looked at him, feeling lost in those green eyes, so clear and understanding. When she realised she was staring, she gave a shy smile back and nodded.
“Thanks, Harry.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, a friendly sparkle in his gaze. “Oh, and Nev will give you the Herbology notes too. You couldn’t write them down yesterday, right?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, amused. “And you lot know what I’m writing and what I’m not?”
Harry shrugged with a cheeky grin. “Well, when you’re not scribbling like mad, we know something’s wrong. So yeah, we notice.”
Before Hermione could reply, Snape turned abruptly, his black robes rustling, and cast a frosty look at the pair.
“I see the conversation is interesting,” he said, voice sharp as an ice blade. “Something you wish to share with the rest of the class, Potter? Granger?”
The murmur in the room stopped immediately.
All eyes were now fixed on Harry and Hermione. She kept her gaze on the parchment before her, while Harry straightened his shoulders, trying to appear indifferent.
“No, professor,” said Harry, with as much neutrality as he could muster.
“No?” Snape raised an eyebrow, his expression as unpleasant as the smell of a burnt cauldron. “What a pity. I was looking forward to hearing another one of your grand stories. I don’t doubt you were telling how you bravely faced wild griffins in a flying car. Perhaps Professor Lockhart could help you write a book about it.”
The class burst into laughter. Harry felt his face burn but gave Snape no satisfaction by reacting.
“Or perhaps,” Snape continued, turning to Hermione, “Miss Granger has decided that my Potions class is the ideal place for her academic chit-chat sessions? Tell me, Granger, was your conversation with Potter contributing to the advancement of the theory of substituting the main ingredients of the Fire Protection Potion with sterilised, substandard second-class substances?”
Hermione swallowed hard but kept her composure.
“Sorry, professor,” she said with raised shoulders and polite voice. “It won’t happen again.”
Snape gave a cold, humourless smile.
“Minus five points from Gryffindor for distraction in class,” he said in a slow, low tone.
Harry gripped his quill harder than intended, almost breaking it, his frustration growing. Snape, satisfied with the silence that returned to the room, turned to the blackboard and continued writing instructions.
Hermione leaned slightly toward Harry, not meeting his eyes directly.
“Ignore him,” she whispered quickly.
“Easy for you to say,” Harry replied quietly, not looking away from the back of the greasy bat.
“What I just said—Potter,” Snape called without even turning his head, “if your words are as necessary as your attention, can you not simply shut up and copy the board? Or do you want to share with the class what is so important to say now?”
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold back the urge to reply rudely.
“No, professor,” he said finally, striving to keep his voice calm.
“Then keep copying. Minus ten points from Gryffindor for another interruption.”
That excessive points deduction made the lion house grumble audibly. Fifteen points lost—less Slytherin—in under ten minutes was a record he frequently broke.
“Today we shall make no potion,” Snape explained without looking at the class, continuing to write. “I want you to know the basics of second- and third-class ingredients... if you can manage at least that.”
Snape’s bad mood hung in the air, heavy as thunder about to break.
He was at the board, explaining the necessary elements for the making of the so-called Fire Protection Potion, a preparation which, Hermione knew, had been the very same used during the logic test for the Philosopher’s Stone.
But for her, the only thing that seemed to matter was the growing weight of pain in her body and the uncomfortable pressure in her abdomen.
The potion had relieved far more the weight on her conscience than the actual pain in her body.
With every word Snape uttered, Hermione shrank a little more, not wanting to draw attention.
She was silent, something utterly unusual for her, but it was clear that her mind and body were in a difficult state. Hermione could barely pay attention to what the professor was writing.
And that, he noticed, like a dragon shark smelling blood in the water and hunting the wounded prey. Hermione did not notice when Snape spoke to her.
“You’re not going to answer, Granger?” Snape called her attention abruptly.
“Sorry?” Hermione lifted her head, slightly surprised.
“Curious. I saw the atmosphere in the classroom was more... pleasant, but didn’t know why,” said Snape, looking at the class with that cruel smile. “Now I see you’ve decided to abandon your usual display of intelligence.”
He looked directly at Hermione, his tone steeped in sarcasm. The same students, especially those from Slytherin, laughed.
Hermione wished she could disappear at that moment. Beside her, Harry noticed her discomfort and tensed his jaw. He shot a scorching look at Snape but kept silent.
“I ask you a question and you refuse even to pay attention in class. Disappointing.” Snape continued, approaching with a slow, threatening step, “Tell me, Granger, have you noticed your classmates do not require your brilliance? Or do you simply not think answering my questions is worth your time?”
“Sorry, professor,” Hermione replied in an almost inaudible voice, not knowing what to say. The headache was becoming unbearable, and her words came out quieter than intended, her nerves rising sharply with all that attention.
“She’s just not well today,” Harry said, his voice firm.
He could no longer bear seeing his friend attacked and intervened before Snape could continue his acidic monologue.
Snape shot a cold look at Harry, but Harry did not look away. Holding the fierce emerald-green eyes steadily against the professor’s eternal darkness.
The tension between the two increased.
For a moment, Snape slightly lost the icy disdain from his face while staring at him, but quickly regained his posture.
“Oh, really?” Snape said. “And feeling unwell is reason to refuse answering questions, Potter? No wonder you say nothing in my lessons. Who knows, I might be frightened by the nonsense that would come out of your mouth.”
Harry held the professor’s gaze, determined not to be intimidated.
Snape looked back at Hermione, with a cruel smile.
“Tell me, Granger, what is the level of sentience of a bursting mushroom?”
She hesitated, thinking, as if desperately searching for the information in her mind, but found no answer.
“Sorry, I… I didn’t understand the question,” she answered quietly.
Harry knew Snape had been dishonest; this was one of the components of the Fire Protection Potion, but he hadn’t given details about this part of the ingredient, which Harry clearly thought was a mistake, and did not suspect it could be intentional.
Snape’s smile widened, an expression of pure pleasure at another’s humiliation.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk... Seems you’re not so bright after all. No wonder spending so much time with Potter has left you so careless and sloppy.”
The students’ laughter echoed through the classroom like a swarm of buzzing beetles, growing louder every second. Hermione felt a burning heat rise from her neck to her face, which now blazed as if rubbed with fire dust. A sharp pain—sharper than any sarcastic remark from Snape—pierced her chest, not from the cramps, but from the humiliation spreading through her body like poison.
While the twists in her abdomen writhed like enraged serpents and her head throbbed in time with the rapid beating of her heart, she could only think of one thing:
Her bed in the Gryffindor dormitory.
How she wished to be there now, wrapped in her duvet like a protective cocoon, with Aslan cuddled in her lap, far from all those curious eyes and wicked smiles. For that moment, she regretted not accepting Professor McGonagall’s suggestion to take a day off.
Snape, with perception as sharp as a dagger’s blade, seemed to know exactly where to poke to make the pain burn stronger. His black eyes sparkled with satisfaction as he watched Hermione shrink in her chair, her shoulders curved as if carrying the weight of all the world’s humiliation.
At that moment, she wished more than anything that the floorboards would split beneath her feet, swallowing her up and taking her somewhere—anywhere—where she wouldn’t have to face those judging looks. Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk so tightly that her knuckles turned white, as if that small contact with reality was the only thing keeping her from completely collapsing.
“May I have the right to answer the question?”
Harry’s voice sounded defiant, interrupting the laughter-filled atmosphere.
Hermione glanced at him quickly, her eyes slightly widened in surprise. He had an almost blazing green look.
“Or would you be frightened by the nonsense that would come out of my mouth?” he said with a venom similar to the professor’s.
Snape stared at him immediately, his gaze cold as an iceberg.
“For your cheek and undisciplined rudeness, five points off Gryffindor,” he said with a sarcastic smile. “Now, having got that over with, enlighten me then, Potter, since you’re so clever to answer.”
Harry did not hesitate. Not even blinking.
“The bursting mushroom is semi-sentient because it can detect presences around it,” he explained fluently. “If picked incorrectly, it can explode and cause serious injuries, even tear off limbs depending on its size. It’s a fungus that can be found in various places, even in the Forbidden Forest because of the damp, dark environment there, near rivers and streams. The best way to defend against it is using a shield charm, but if you don’t know how to do that, the other way is to kick it to make it fly away and hope it doesn’t blow up your foot.”
Snape narrowed his eyes and answered, without hiding his contempt.
“Correct.” He spoke, almost as if forcing himself to swallow the fact that Harry had gotten it right, before turning his attention back to the board, ignoring him.
Some students looked surprised.
Harry did not speak much about Potions, and when he did, it was usually only when provoked by Snape. But now, his answer had been direct and precise.
Hermione looked at Harry with a mixture of surprise and admiration.
She had always known he had potential, but had never seen him speak so clearly about theory. He seemed so... confident.
Harry silenced Snape and won the argument. It was not by shouting or losing his temper.
It was purely within his own game.
He defended her from Snape.
Harry looked at Hermione and smiled softly—that same smile—which was enough to make her heart beat faster, that feeling that settled between her chest and abdomen, her aura, made her want to... snuggle close to him for some reason, it seemed like the safe choice.
Hermione ignored that idea and averted her gaze, not understanding why she had reacted like that.
By the end of the day, when the sun had already dried much of the earth dampened by the rain that had ceased that morning, Hermione took refuge in the library, as usual, immersed in her books and notes. Meanwhile, the boys took advantage of their free time to play Quidditch, returning just in time for dinner.
Harry and Ron chatted animatedly about how Neville was improving his flying skills.
Since Neville and Ron didn’t have their own brooms, they borrowed the school’s from Madam Hooch, returning them after they finished flying.
“Did you see that last dive he tried?” said Ron, still laughing. “I thought he was going to end up face-first in the stands!”
Neville, however, didn’t seem discouraged.
“I know I’m not good at it,” admitted Neville, out of breath as he filled his plate with mashed potatoes. “But... at least I didn’t fall off the broom today, right?”
Harry smiled encouragingly. “That’s true. And, if you keep at it, you’ll end up beating us.”
“Beat you lot?” Neville laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t exaggerate. I just want to manage to fly without looking like I need the loo.”
Ron let out a laugh. “At least you’re not like Seamus. He said he’d rather face a dragon than play Quidditch.”
Harry leaned towards Neville, a thoughtful look on his face. “Ever thought about trying out for the team? You two should consider it.”
Ron’s eyes went wide.
“You’re serious?” His eyes gleamed with expectation. “But where would we get a spot? The girls made the team last year in attack, and you’re the Seeker. Besides, taking the Beater spots from Fred and George would be suicide—and Oliver’s the captain.”
“And who else would be brave enough to be a Beater after Fred and George? Not even if they paid me,” Neville added.
“No need to start with Beaters,” suggested Harry, laughing. “But you’ve got plenty of time to train.”
“Train?” Ron frowned. “We barely have time to breathe with all the lessons, and you want to add that to the list? Like, playing the way we do is fine, but training’s serious business.”
Harry shrugged, smiling. “I manage it, and it’s not that hard. Besides, you never know, right? One day, the team’ll need new players. Better start preparing now if you want a place.”
“Harry’s right,” said Hermione, who had been quiet until then, finally speaking up. “But remember, to stay on the team you need good grades. Harry’s been working on that and still has time to train, so it’s just a matter of wanting to and dedicating yourself.”
Ron and Neville exchanged looks.
“Yeah, maybe,” Ron admitted, though without much conviction.
Neville, however, seemed to think more about the idea.
“Maybe...” he said slowly, his determined gaze returning. “I just need to make sure I can fly properly first.”
Hermione smiled gently. “That’s a good start.”
He nodded, giving a shy smile, while Harry gave him encouraging pats on the back.
After the meal, they all gathered in the common room, which was full of various students relaxing and playing.
They quickly greeted Ginny, who was in a more secluded corner of the room, writing in her black-covered diary, glancing at Harry out of the corner of her eye from time to time.
As they sat down to play another game of Hero Path, Hermione, as she had promised before the summer holidays, carefully studied the entire rulebook. She had practically become a walking encyclopedia, capable of reciting the rules precisely. This made the game much easier, especially as Harry and Neville frequently needed to consult the book at crucial moments. Ron, on the other hand, barely bothered to look at the manual, using his own character as an excuse.
“I’m a barbarian, remember? Can’t read,” he said with disdain, drawing giggles from the boys and frustrated sighs from Hermione.
Ron’s laziness was legendary.
“And when you’re not playing as a barbarian?” Hermione raised an eyebrow, making Harry and Neville laugh a little more.
“She’s got a point, mate,” Neville added, pretending to ponder her question.
“Oi! Don’t come at me with those rules. I’m here to kill monsters and save villages,” Ron grumbled, while, with a satisfied smile, describing what his character would do next in combat without consulting the book, which inevitably ended in a funny or stupid move.
Neville, who always took the role of game master, loved putting them in dangerous situations, usually bringing them to the brink of death in the game. Harry began to suspect Neville enjoyed making them struggle a bit too much, but maybe it was just his way of having fun.
It was hard not to laugh at Hermione’s frustration, who, despite her strategic skill, always ended up with a generous dose of bad luck on the dice. Even with the best tactics, the dice seemed to conspire against her. She couldn’t help but sigh exasperatedly whenever a low number came up, as if the universe was mocking her intelligence.
Amid the laughter, mockery, and loud chatter in the common room, the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open with a peculiar creak, and the familiar figure of Professor McGonagall entered the room.
All the students fell silent immediately, attentive. McGonagall never appeared in the common room without a reason.
“Good evening, everyone,” said the professor with her firm and clear voice, but her eyes, usually severe, seemed gentle that night. “I have some news to share, as Sir Nicholas and I warned you all earlier today.”
The boys exchanged curious looks while Hermione gave the professor her full attention.
“This year,” McGonagall continued, “I am planning to offer extracurricular classes running until just before the Christmas holiday for interested students. As Head of House, I have this prerogative. These will be optional lessons—on Sunday afternoons after lunch—focused on a subject I consider very important: Magical Sensitivity.”
The room fell into complete silence.
Harry and Neville exchanged curious glances, trying to decide what to make of the idea. Ron, meanwhile, seemed disinterested. Losing his Sunday to more lessons was almost blasphemous.
Hermione, on the other hand, had to restrain herself from raising her hand at that very moment to ask when the classes would begin.
“Simply put,” McGonagall went on, her voice clear and without hesitation, “in these sessions, we will learn to train and perfect the ability to sense magic around us and within ourselves. Most wizards do not develop this sensitivity, but it can be incredibly useful. With this skill, it will be possible not only to better understand your own magic internally—your aura with more clarity—but also to identify feelings, even intrinsic aspects of any wizard who cannot hide them properly.”
Ron frowned and leaned in to whisper to the others, “Seriously? A class to... feel magic? Do we really need that? I mean, it’s on a Sunday and it doesn’t even count for marks.”
Neville looked at him, then at Harry and Hermione, clearly seeking guidance. He seemed torn, as if he wanted to believe it might be interesting but wasn’t sure it was worth sacrificing some Sunday hours.
Harry, however, did not reply immediately. A sudden chill ran down his spine as disturbing flashes surfaced in his mind.
He recalled Voldemort’s presence in the Forbidden Forest, that night when the aura of pure evil hung around him like a cold and repulsive cloak. The sensation was so vivid it seemed real once more. He also remembered his other encounter with Voldemort in the Chamber of the Philosopher’s Stone—the disfigured face on Quirrell’s body was terrifying, of course, but what he’d felt in the forest... was worse somehow. That putrid, death-stained energy, from the fresh murder that had just taken place, was as if the unicorn’s own magic had been profaned.
Could this magical sensitivity that McGonagall mentioned explain that?
Or, better still, help control his own?
Harry sighed.
He knew, more than anyone, he had reasons to learn. Maybe this was even a path to understanding the magical explosions that happened when he lost control, the cataclysms that surrounded him in moments of extreme emotion. Those events had saved him, of course—the troll and Voldemort, whether they liked it or not, were targets of that power—but he suspected that if Professor McGonagall and Hagrid hadn’t arrived, he might have killed the Dursleys last year in the middle of his crying fit, as well as Malfoy in that Halloween fight if he had been just a bit angrier with the blonde.
He remembered the conversation with Dumbledore in the infirmary.
The Headmaster, with that wise and piercing look, had described his aura as “wild,” something rare and distinct from most wizards, whose aura was “contained.” At the time, the words sounded somewhat confusing, almost abstract, as if there was something there Harry still couldn’t fully understand.
Naturally, Hermione lost no time investigating the matter as soon as he mentioned the conversation to his friends. She dived into piles of books in the library, spending hours leafing through ancient volumes. But, to her frustration—and the knot that seemed to tighten in Harry’s stomach—little beyond what Dumbledore had said came to light. The strength and extent of his magic were, in fact, anomalous: a raw power that escaped control in the most extreme situations.
The most disheartening thing was that the texts Hermione found agreed on one point: there was no universal method for dealing with this kind of magic.
One author even stated that learning to control a wild aura was a deeply personal challenge, something that depended solely on the wizard himself. It was, as the text described, a journey of self-knowledge that no book could resolve.
“It’s so frustrating,” Hermione once said, dropping another heavy tome onto the library table. “Why is there so little documentation on this? It makes no sense! It’s a magical phenomenon, after all.”
Harry remembered her expression well when she asked that—a mixture of irritation and bewilderment he knew very well. Neville, of course, had muttered something about magic not always being as rational as Hermione would like. But, over time, she discovered the answer.
The rarity.
Fewer than thirty wizards registered in the entire history of magic had possessed what the books called a wild aura.
Most wizards were classified as having a contained aura, and the concept of differentiation was so rare that there were no in-depth studies on the subject. In fact, as Hermione explained with some reluctance, many simply referred to all wizards’ magic as “aura,” with no need for subdivisions, because, in the vast majority of cases, there was nothing different to record.
Harry, for his part, did not know how to feel about it.
Part of him just wanted to ignore it all, pretend his magic was no different from any other student’s, just be Harry rather than Harry Potter or the Boy-Who-Lived as everyone thought he was. But another part—the one that remembered the power explosions, the walls shaking and the fear in others’ eyes—knew he couldn’t afford not to try.
Hermione, watching McGonagall but very attentive to Harry’s prolonged silence lost in thought, spoke up to the group: “If I remember rightly, magical sensitivity is something that can be developed with practice.”
“Really?” Neville asked, curious.
“Yes! It can make all the difference for us,” she continued. “It’s not easy to learn but can be very useful. I’ve read about wizards who greatly improved their spell accuracy because of it. And, frankly, you two could benefit a lot.”
“You two?” Ron raised an eyebrow, pointing at himself and Neville. “Why me?”
“Because,” Hermione replied, as if it were obvious, “you still have difficulty maintaining your spells consistently and conjuring some as well. And, Neville,” she gave him a gentler look than to Ron, “with your wand like that... this could be even more useful for you.” She finished kindly.
Neville bit his lip, clearly considering her words. “Er... maybe it’s a good idea... And what do you want to do, Harry?”
“I’m going to take part,” said Harry suddenly, his voice firm and determined. “I want to see what it’s about. And if it’s useful, McGonagall wouldn’t suggest it for no reason.”
Hermione broke into a satisfied smile.
“Exactly! That’s what I’m talking about, Harry,” she said, excitedly. “It could even help us with the exams—knowing more about your own magic and others’ isn’t a bad thing.”
Ron still didn’t look convinced, but he knew he was losing the argument as he saw his friends nodding along to Hermione. “I just hope it doesn’t involve sitting in a circle, holding hands and feeling... the universe or something like that.”
Harry laughed, and even Neville gave a small smile.
Hermione, meanwhile, frowned. “You really think McGonagall would have us ‘feel the universe?’ Honestly...”
“Whatever,” muttered Ron, but without the conviction he’d had before. “If I go, it’ll only be ’cause you lot drag me along anyway.”
On Friday morning, everything seemed to have returned to normal.
Hermione was visibly more lively, which was a relief to Harry. He smiled to see her full of energy again, pointing at pictures and corners of the corridor while pouring out curiosities as she sometimes did.
“Well, at Hogwarts—” she began enthusiastically.
“—A story,” Harry and Ron finished in unison, their tones dragged out but playful, earning an indignant look from Hermione.
“You lot never take anything seriously,” she said, rolling her eyes, though clearly amused by the teasing.
“We try,” Neville shrugged, “but we can’t always manage it, we’ve got that limitation.”
She ignored the boys and continued talking.
“Did you know there’s a portrait of Sir Cadogan in the corridor leading to the Divination classroom?” Hermione began, her voice vibrant with enthusiasm, expecting no reply. “He was the one who defeated the Wyvern of Wye—a really dangerous creature, mind you—but no one knows how he died years later… some accounts speculate he probably sacrificed himself in another heroic act, quite typical of him, but who knows? Not even his portrait remembers! Oh, and he fought alongside King Arthur, of course, because he was part of the Round Table. Well, that’s according to wizarding records, since when I read the Muggle books about Arthurian tales, he was never mentioned. Quite curious… That means he probably knew Merlin, the founders, and even Morgana! Imagine how much history he carried… Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Harry nodded vaguely, more interested in following the flow of the conversation than absorbing the historical details. Neville, meanwhile, was distracted, watching a bunch of blue butterflies flying through the open corridor window.
Ron, however, made no effort to hide his lack of enthusiasm.
“Sure... fascinating,” he muttered, in a tone so devoid of feeling it almost sounded mocking.
But it wasn’t only Hermione’s good humour that caught attention.
It seemed she was also eager for another Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson—something none of the boys shared, especially with that same Lockhart who’d forced them to take that bloody test about himself.
When they arrived at the classroom, the flamboyant peacock—Lockhart—was already there, dressed in an absolutely over-the-top pale blue suit that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. His radiant smile lit up the room.
“Welcome, dear students! Welcome!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms as if greeting an audience. “Missed me, didn’t you?”
The girls, as expected, nodded as they spoke, while the boys sighed heavily. Lockhart took the boys' lack of response as a yes and continued without missing a beat.
“Today, we’re going to do something different,” he said, with a conspiratorial wink. “I imagine you’re tired of writing—after all, practice is important, but who doesn’t like a bit of action, eh?”
He made a flourish with his wand, and a large box covered by a cloth floated to the centre of the room. From inside came shrill and noisy sounds, accompanied by something banging against the bars.
“By Merlin,” Ron muttered, leaning towards Harry. “Hope it’s not another demonstration of how wonderful he is with creatures singing about it.”
“As long as we don’t have to sing along, I’m happy,” Harry replied sarcastically.
Lockhart tapped the box lightly, only to pull his hand back quickly when something inside thrashed about violently.
“As you well know,” he began, in a tone that suggested no one did, “I’ve faced numerous creatures over the years. And these here? Ah, I’ve seen so many times I’m sick of writing about them! Thought it’d be a good chance to bring a bit of… practice.”
Ron frowned.
“At least something now,” he whispered to Harry, who shrugged, though his eyes were fixed on the box.
“Right then!” Lockhart exclaimed dramatically, pulling off the cloth with a flourish.
The room erupted in murmurs and gasps when a cage full of small blue winged creatures was revealed. Very similar to the same creatures that had broken Neville’s wand and made them stop at that nest of Acromantulas a few nights before.
“Those things!” Ron growled, baring his teeth.
“Oh no,” Neville groaned, sinking into his chair as he paled.
“At least we’re going to learn to deal with them, yeah?” said Harry, sighing, though not sounding very confident.
Lockhart spread a wide smile, obviously pleased with the class’s reaction.
“These are Cornish Pixies,” he explained, gesturing towards them. “Mischievous, yes. Intelligent, no doubt. But dangerous? Only… if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Hermione raised her hand quicker than an arrow.
“Oh, Miss Granger!” Lockhart smiled, inclining slightly towards her. “Let me guess: worried about safety? Don’t worry, my dear. I’m here to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
Hermione blushed, but kept her composure.
“Actually, professor, I wanted to know exactly how we’re going to learn to deal with them,” she asked. “Because our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor last year never gave a practical lesson using creatures, and I’d prefer a better explanation of this part.”
Harry felt his stomach twist remembering Quirrell.
A whole year with a professor who was actually just a puppet for Voldemort—and who obviously had no interest in teaching them anything useful.
“Excellent question!” Lockhart declared with another smile, placing his hands on his hips. “Nothing beats direct practice! After all, when I defeated that Yeti in Tibet, I had no time to rehearse—I had to act! And act masterfully, I must say. Of course, that was before I spent almost a year with him when I had to cure him of a severe cold and didn’t want him to suffer… good fellow he was, but that’s a story for another day.”
He winked at the class, and the girls sighed.
Without waiting for a response, or explaining absolutely anything, with an exaggerated movement, Lockhart pointed his wand at the cage’s lock.
“Let’s begin, then! Alohomora!” he shouted.
The door clicked open, and before anyone had a chance to react, the pixies burst out of the cage, flying in all directions. High-pitched squeals and mischievous laughter echoed around the room, as the little creatures tore books and pulled hair and ears with frenetic energy.
Harry watched the pixies spread around the room.
One snatched a pupil’s book and, mercilessly, ripped it with its tiny sharp claws. Hermione, quicker than the others, grabbed her books with precision and stuffed them into her bag before they became another target.
It was then that the eyes of Harry, Neville and Ron fixed on a particular pixie, which was circling in the air, displaying a scar on its left eye—the same scar of that mischievous pixie that had broken Neville’s wand and nearly pulled Ron’s hair out.
“You! You little demon!” Ron shouted, pointing furiously at it.
The pixie, however, just laughed, spinning in the air as if it were a game.
“Come here, you little bastard!”
“Those are the same ones that attacked us!” Harry exclaimed, dodging one swooping at him.
“Not this again…” Neville murmured nervously, trying to hide his broken wand in the inside pocket of his cloak, praying no pixie had noticed.
“Oh yes, there it is!” Lockhart exclaimed with a satisfied smile, watching the chaos as the students shouted and tried to shake off the tiny creatures.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, searching for the right words.
“Now, I’ll show you how to get rid of them!” he said, crouching just before being hit on the head. “Just wave your wand like this and say… Peskipiksi Pesternom!”
Lockhart’s bizarre spell had no effect.
One pixie, with a mischievous grin, grabbed the professor’s wand and began passing it to the other pixies, who threw it to one another while laughing.
Lockhart cleared his throat, visibly nervous.
“Erm… well, this is our practical lesson, folks!” he said, failing to retrieve his wand, dodging books thrown in his direction. “When you’ve… Uh… finished getting rid of them all, you can go! Class dismissed!”
And with that, he fled to his private room, leaving the students to fend for themselves.
“Bloody charlatan!” Malfoy snorted from across the room. “I knew he was worthless!” And, turning to Crabbe and Goyle, he added, “Let’s get out of here!”
With that, he fled for the exit, followed by the other Slytherins closest to the door, who didn’t want to waste any more time with the chaos.
“This is the practical lesson?!” Ron exclaimed, desperately trying to fend off two pixies pulling his hair.
The pixies were pulling the hair of several students, but for some reason, they seemed to have a strange fixation on red hair.
“Complain later, Ron! Just protect your ears and hair, they’re their targets!” Hermione quickly warned, seeing a pixie yank Ron’s fringe with unexpected force.
“Yeah, we’re aware of that already!” Harry shouted back, pushing away a pixie that approached, while trying to fend off others with his hands.
“W-what do we do?” Neville asked desperately, shielding himself with his hands over his head, just as Hermione had suggested.
“I’m thinking!” Hermione said quickly, trying to buy time.
“You think all the time, Hermione! Just cast any spell, I don’t know!” Ron retorted, pushing a pixie that was laughing in his face. “Get out of here, you little git!”
“That’s not how it works!” Hermione replied in frustration.
“Just try to think of something, quick! Ouch! Hey, you bastard!” Harry added before being hit square on the head by a book.
The chaos in the classroom intensified.
More students were being dragged about by the pixies, and materials were being destroyed every second. The pixies began grabbing the portraits—showing desperate expressions—of Lockhart that hung on the walls and throwing them at the students. Terry Boot and Antony Goldstein, from Ravenclaw, were hit on the head by a frame while struggling to shake off three pixies.
“Bloody hell, now they’re throwing frames!” Terry shouted, hiding under a table, with Antony beside him trying to protect himself.
On the other side, the Hufflepuffs Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott were in a tug-of-war with three pixies, trying to wrest a Lockhart book from their hands.
“Give that back, you little bastards!” Hannah hissed, straining to keep hold of the book against two pixies.
“How can they be so small and so strong?!” Susan asked indignantly.
“Don’t do it, Ron!” Hermione shouted, eyes wide, trying to grab his arm when she saw what he was about to do.
But it was too late.
Ron, dodging one of the frames that almost hit him, found the perfect angle and punched with all his might the face of the pixie with the scar in front of him. The impact sent the little monster flying backwards, crashing against the wall with a thud and falling to the floor unconscious.
All the pixies stopped their chaos and looked at him, silence taking over the room.
“Ha! You tosser! I can fight back! Who’s next?” Ron shouted, making a challenging gesture while pointing his finger at the other pixies.
“Good grief, how can you be so stupid! Don’t you read anything?!” Hermione yelled, slapping his shoulder.
Ron looked at her, confused.
“Oh, of course not!” she replied, exasperated.
“Oh, stop being such a bore, Hermione! Don’t you see they’ve stopped? Maybe they’re putting themselves back in their places!” Ron grumbled, ears red, trying to justify what he’d just done.
“Bore? I’ll show you who’s a bore!” Hermione retorted, brandishing her wand and making Ron swallow hard.
“Ron,” Harry called, trying to warn him by poking his arm.
“What?” Ron answered, frowning, still irritated.
“I think you’ve pissed them off.” Harry murmured, noticing the dangerous silence that had taken over the room.
The pixies had fury in their eyes, growling and shouting in their own language, perhaps swearing. The atmosphere became even tenser.
“Shite, DUCK!” Ron pulled Harry down, almost getting hit by a dive-bomb.
The pixies, once mischievous, were now more aggressive.
They started pulling hair hard, destroying what they could, making the room even more chaotic.
Ron was surrounded by three of them; one grabbed his hair, pulling so hard he barely managed to defend himself while the other two gave little punches to his shoulders and stomach—not enough to hurt much, but surely enough to leave bruises.
Neville, nearby, was grabbed by the ears by two pixies, being levitated to the ceiling without being able to react.
“HELP!” he shouted desperately.
“NEV!” Ron yelled back, fighting the pixies attacking him and pushing them away with clumsy punches.
He climbed onto a table to try to help. He tried to pull Neville’s leg back but to no avail. The leg slipped from his hands and Neville was levitated even higher, hanging by his cloak from the unlit chandelier in the centre of the room.
Hermione saw a pixie approaching furiously and, without thinking, grabbed Harry’s hand.
He—almost reflexively—immediately put his body in front of hers, pointing his wand at the pixie.
“Arresto Momentum!” Harry said firmly, making the pixie slow down until it almost stopped in mid-air.
Hermione, taking advantage of the distraction, shouted: “Immobulus!”
A quick magical wave filled the room and all the pixies froze mid-air, and quickly Harry and Hermione levitated them back into the cage with levitation charms. When the last pixie was pushed inside, Hermione magically locked the door with a Colloportus.
“Is it over?” Harry asked, panting as he looked around.
“Yeah… I think so,” Hermione replied, examining the completely devastated classroom.
Torn books, scattered papers and desks overturned everywhere.
Gradually, the students began to emerge from under tables and cupboards where they had hidden, cautious as if expecting the pixies to escape again at any moment.
“So that was your hero, Hermione?” Ron sneered, massaging the fist he’d used to punch the creatures. “Merlin, these things are tougher than stone!”
“He’s not my hero, Ronald, and it would be good if you stopped talking rubbish for at least five minutes!” Hermione said angrily, grabbing her bag.
“ENOUGH!” Harry raised a hand to interrupt the two before the argument escalated. “Can we leave this for later? We still have to get out of this room before Lockhart comes back and gives us another ‘practical’ lesson.”
He then looked around, frowning.
“Speaking of which, where’s Nev?” Harry asked.
“Up here!” came a voice from the ceiling.
Everyone looked up to see Neville hanging by his hood from the swaying chandelier, with an expression of resignation.
“If someone could give me a hand… I’d really appreciate it,” he added, swinging from side to side as the chandelier creaked threateningly.
“I’m coming, Nev,” said Harry, hurrying to help while Hermione muttered something about how that kind of thing only happens to Neville.
“Why does it always have to be me?” Neville complained, his voice full of indignation, as Harry tried to find a safe way to free him without causing more damage.
“Don’t forget, we’re the ones getting detention over the Ford Anglia mess,” Ron commented, helping to steady the chair Harry was using to climb down.
“Brilliant, thanks—just remembered I’ve got detention with Snape,” Harry said, lips pressed into a grimace.
“Always happy to help,” the redhead laughed.
Hermione simply watched the three boys from a distance. Apparently, they could manage on their own... even if it meant nearly dying countless times and almost being expelled from school.
Chapter 21: The Battle of the Clock Tower
Chapter Text
Harry stewed over his detention with a resentment that grew by the minute, like a foul-smelling potion bubbling in a cauldron.
His mind wandered to punishments that, though unpleasant, would be infinitely more bearable. He could be mowing the lawns under the lukewarm sun, planting new flowers for Madam Sprout, or even scrubbing the Quidditch stands until his fingers went numb. Even scouring the slime from the castle’s fountains—with a toothbrush or, perhaps, a cotton bud—seemed less cruel.
Not that he minded manual labour—quite the opposite. After years under the Dursleys’ thumb, Harry considered himself nearly an expert in Muggle chores. Cleaning, fixing, organising… even gardening struck him as a fair punishment for something that, deep down, hadn’t entirely been his fault. At least he’d be outdoors, under Hogwarts’ open sky, perhaps even with the stars as silent witnesses.
The truth was, anything. Anything else would’ve been better than this detention.
Or, to be precise, the detention that had been unilaterally imposed upon him like some dictatorial decree from someone who seemed to feed on sheer disdain. Harry could almost taste the venom in the air, thick and acrid, every word from the professor a razor-sharp thread meant to fray his patience.
But then, of course, nothing about that evening would be fair.
If it were, where would be the fun in that? Harry saw plenty of fun—but for someone like that pit of stinking black sludge, it’d probably count as a wasted day.
Detention at Hogwarts wasn’t a stroll in the park, and the notoriously grim-humoured individual who’d intercepted them that night—after they’d narrowly escaped death, as usual—didn’t seem interested in adhering to even the bare minimum of rules. No, to that wizard, Harry’s mere existence was a crime worthy of punishment. And the more painful, the better.
And that wizard, of course, was Severus Snape.
Who else could it be?
And so, on that Saturday night, Harry found himself once more in the dungeons of Hogwarts—a place so cold and damp even the shadows seemed to cling to the walls like a second skin.
The oppressive gloom, as familiar as it was unwelcome, wrapped around him like a heavy cloak, and his face was set in an expression of such profound disgust it might’ve rivalled Neville’s in front of his own potion cauldron.
His task? Sorting buckets of horned slugs—alive, slimy, and writhing in protest—without gloves, because, according to Snape, “You, Potter, do not deserve luxuries.”
The Potions Master, of course, seemed in his natural habitat.
He prowled the empty room like a vulture circling carrion, pausing now and then to inspect Harry’s work with a gaze that could’ve frozen even a dragon’s fire. Between these inspections, he busied himself with checking ingredient stores, meticulously noting them on a scroll atop his dark wooden desk—as gloomy as his Christmas-day mood.
Every remark Snape tossed out was sharper than a silver blade, delivered with such evident satisfaction it almost made the pungent reek of vinegar and the pestilent fumes of potions seem almost pleasant. Almost.
“Do not forget, Potter,” Snape said, gliding closer, his voice as cutting as the wind howling through the castle’s cracks. “Soft slugs to the left, fresh ones to the right. A simple task—though for you, even that may prove a considerable intellectual challenge.”
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the bucket in front of him, his fingers coated in slug slime, and resisted with every fibre of his being the urge to hurl one straight at that hooked nose.
"Yes, sir," he replied, with a dryness he hoped masked the seething hatred in his veins.
Harry wasn’t stupid.
He knew exactly what to do. But Snape always treated him as if he were a complete imbecile—and, Harry was certain, the professor genuinely believed it.
Snape tilted his head slightly, his black eyes gleaming like coals under the flickering candlelight.
"Surprisingly obedient for someone who considers rules mere optional suggestions scribbled in the hidden margins of a scroll," he murmured, lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Perhaps I should recommend more detentions like this. Given enough time, you might even be unbent into something marginally decent."
"Yes, sir," Harry repeated mechanically, not even lifting his eyes.
Years under Vernon Dursley’s roof had taught him one thing: when someone complained about your work—or your very existence—it was still better than when they started shouting. And at the end of the day, a whispered insult from Snape couldn’t hold a candle to his uncle’s bellows.
"You don’t even beat him at that, you batty git," Harry thought acidly.
At least Uncle Vernon, however unwittingly, had trained him to endure unpleasantness.
Taking a deep breath, Harry continued his work, avoiding direct eye contact as Snape swept away with that calculated stride of someone who knew exactly how to prolong another’s suffering.
The task itself was simple but revolting.
The softer slugs—old and nearly rotting—went into the left bucket, where they’d be steeped in vinegar, emitting a stench so pungent Harry’s stomach lurched. He focused on not thinking about dinner, or he’d soon be scrubbing his own vomit off the worktable. The firmer, "fresh" slugs were sliced into precise round pieces and frozen with a preservation charm.
Harry wondered how Ron and Neville’s detentions were going.
Snape, of course, had insisted on separating them, claiming it was to "ensure they couldn’t collaborate and might reflect on their errors without distraction."
But Harry doubted reflection was the professor’s true aim. It was far likelier Snape just wanted to watch them squirm—and, in Harry’s specific case, with his hands coated in slug slime.
"At least their detentions can’t be worse than this," he thought, grabbing another bucket of writhing creatures. He eyed the stack of empty buckets and sighed.
Halfway there.
"Enjoying your detention, Potter?" Snape’s voice sliced through the silence like a blade, honeyed and venomous.
Harry glanced up briefly.
The professor sat at his desk, surrounded by parchment stacks, his black eyes alight with sadistic pleasure as he observed Harry’s discomfort.
Harry didn’t take the bait. He knew any reaction would only feed Snape’s amusement.
"Oh yes, Professor," he replied, with a dash of sarcasm. "Never had more fun."
"Marvellous," Snape drawled, savouring each syllable. "I knew your... exceptional talent would shine here. Slug-sorting appears to be the upper limit of what you can accomplish unaided. Though, I must say, even they seem nimbler than you."
Harry clenched his jaw.
"It’s detention, isn’t it? The point is punishment," he retorted, straining for neutrality, but contempt leaked through. "If it weren’t, you’d have given me gloves. I’d finish twice as fast without these things slipping through my fingers."
"I doubt it," Snape said, lips twisting cruelly. "Your incompetence rivals your fame, Potter. Perhaps surpasses it. I often wonder how you scraped through first year. Granger must’ve carried you—while you busied yourself hurling Dungbombs in Slytherin’s common room and gallivanting through corridors at midnight like a deranged kneazle." His eyes narrowed. "I so look forward to discovering what fresh disgrace you’ll bring this year... and how many nights you’ll spend here, slicing slugs."
Harry clenched his teeth so hard he might’ve cracked them.
He knew Snape loved prodding that wound, as if wielding a sharp knife to twist into his pride.
But the truth?
Harry didn’t regret what he’d done, and if those snakes tried humiliating his house by cheating at Quidditch again, he’d repeat the prank gladly... especially since the Slytherins were a bunch of arrogant gits who thought themselves untouchable, and that greasy bat doling out his detention was proof enough.
Harry wasn’t one to judge, but he’d yet to meet a Slytherin worth respecting.
Lying for the thousandth time that he’d had nothing to do with the Dungbombs wouldn’t change a thing. Snape had already decided what to believe, and what grated most was that he was right, even without proof.
Maybe he truly didn’t know who’d done it—but since the culprits were never caught, blaming Harry killed two birds with one stone. So this time, Harry stayed silent.
Snape seemed dissatisfied with the quiet.
“Nothing to say, Potter? How shocking. Your father was just the same—”
Harry’s jaw tightened further, but he kept his eyes fixed on the bucket. Unthinkingly, he squeezed a slug so hard it burst into foul green slime.
“—doing as he pleased without consequence... always shielded by professors, with that despicable idiot at his side—no, three despicable idiots. All fawning over him, like the rest. That’s why he grew up an insufferable, spoiled—”
“Stop talking about my dad!” Harry’s voice erupted before he could stop himself.
Crash!
A small glass vial on the table shattered as his magic briefly flared out of control, the magical gust sending shards skittering across the floor.
Snape fell silent for a moment, his black eyes boring into Harry with an intensity that seemed to see what untrained eyes couldn’t.
Harry regretted shouting instantly, but it was too late. The dungeon’s oppressive silence thickened around him.
“Control yourself,” Snape said, his voice low and dangerous. “Clean up that glass.”
Harry took a steadying breath, fighting the tremor in his voice and the fury simmering beneath. His heart raced, his throat tight—but something in him refused to back down this time.
“If you had problems with him, that’s got nothing to do with me,” Harry said, firm but not aggressive.
Snape’s neutral expression soured like milk left in the sun.
“So you can keep humiliating me all you want—since you clearly enjoy it,” Harry continued, “but don’t talk about my father around me.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any words. Snape stared, nostrils flaring slightly, but said nothing.
On this particular point, Snape outdid Uncle Vernon. Hearing his father maligned was something Harry still couldn’t handle—and sometimes, he failed.
Returning to his work, Harry tried to ignore the searing gaze burning into his neck. The slugs slipped between his fingers, but he barely noticed, focused only on keeping his breathing even and denying Snape the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.
The task continued in suffocating quiet for twenty more minutes, until Harry reached the last bucket.
Then a strange whisper, low and sinister, drifted through the air like an icy breath.
"I woke to kill you... I'll tear you apart soon... don't try to run..."
Harry froze suddenly, eyes blinking rapidly as he scanned the dark dungeon.
"What?" he asked, his voice louder than intended. "Did you hear that?"
Snape, bent over his paperwork at the desk, didn't even look up.
"Keep working, Potter. No distractions," he replied, voice dripping with boredom.
"But you didn't hear it?" Harry pressed, feeling his heartbeat quicken.
This time, Snape lifted his face slowly, staring down his nose at him with disdain, one eyebrow arched challengingly.
"Hear what?"
Harry barely had time to respond before the whisper returned, clearer than before, as if someone were breathing the words directly into his ear.
"I will find you... tear you to pieces..."
He swallowed hard, the hairs on his neck standing upright.
"Again," he murmured, twisting in his chair as if expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows. "He... he's saying he'll find me."
Snape crossed his arms, his expression openly sceptical.
"If you think this pathetic attempt at feigning madness will convince me to end your detention, you're even more foolish than I imagined," he said, voice like a whip. "No matter how many imaginary voices you hear, you will finish that bucket. Now, back to work."
Harry shot the professor an exasperated look, but Snape had already returned to his scrolls, determined to ignore him.
Turning back to the bucket, Harry scanned the dungeon once more.
There was nothing there—no visible spellwork, no hidden figure, no logical explanation for that voice. And yet, it felt so close, so real, he could almost feel warm breath against his ear.
One thing was certain: that voice... was calling for him. And the fear crawling down his spine was as icy and undeniable as the darkness surrounding him.
The following day—the first Sunday of the school year—dawned sunny, with light and cheerful weather, the students already weary from an intense week of lessons making the most of the holiday.
As it was a Sunday, all the students were dressed in casual clothes, without school robes or uniforms.
Harry wore Dudley’s "new" old clothes, since his aunt and uncle had replaced his entire wardrobe when he’d grown even fatter than before, and his old clothes no longer fit.
As Harry, Ron, Neville, and Hermione walked towards the Great Hall for breakfast, they took in the lively castle.
In the corridors, Nearly Headless Nick was chatting animatedly with the Fat Friar about a party scheduled for Halloween in the dungeons, both seeming quite excited, while a few students passed them by, smiling and laughing at the amusing stories they appeared to be telling.
Peeves, ever in his mischievous essence, was juggling lit torches for the first-years, earning nervous squeals as he pretended he was about to set them alight, chasing after them with the torches in hand, blowing flames while cackling like a maniac.
They also spotted Percy, who, with his usual stiff posture and stern expression, was scolding two Hufflepuffs who had been running hurriedly through the corridors. The students, visibly flustered, quickly straightened up upon noticing the prefect’s presence, listening to his lecture with disinterest.
As they neared the door to the Great Hall, the twins stood side by side, muttering conspiratorially, their eyes gleaming with excitement.
“What’re you two plotting now?” Ron asked, amused, stepping closer to them.
“Oh, the usual, dear Ronnikins… or near enough,” Fred replied with a wide grin.
“Where have I heard that before?” Neville asked rhetorically.
“Nowhere, I reckon… seeing as we’re clean of all those things people say are wrong to do, theoretically speaking,” George pretended to defend himself.
“And our new ‘usual’—”
“—is very innocent—”
“—extremely innocent—”
“—perhaps not that innocent? I mean, there’s that bit with the—”
“—Shhh—” Fred hissed, making a dramatic silencing gesture at his brother.
“Well, it’s within the law and order of things… mostly,” George finished, grinning toothily and waving his hands behind his back as if hiding something.
Hermione, who had been watching them with a suspicious expression, crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow.
“More pranks, of course,” she surmised. “How many times do you two need to do this before you actually land in serious trouble? At some point, Percy and McGonagall might tire of giving you detentions and take real measures!”
“We never said anything about pranks,” Fred said, placing a hand on his chest in a gesture of innocence.
“We’re merely… conducting a feasibility study,” George added in a serious tone.
“Surveying the field—”
“—laying the groundwork—”
“—peeking through the keyhole—”
“—assessing statistical probabilities of trouble—”
“—weighing the pros and cons—”
“—the consumer market—”
“Merlin’s beard! We get it!” Ron interrupted, laughing. “It’s business, all just business!”
“Exactly, little brother. Anyway, they’re just… ideas, Hermione,” Fred said. “Nothing major. What’s wrong with ideas, eh? The trouble only starts when we put them into practice.”
“Or when someone else puts them into practice after buying a few of our ideas, if you catch our drift,” George added, stroking his chin.
“Who buys ideas?” Neville muttered to Harry, who shrugged, having no answer.
“You two want to open a shop, is that it?” Hermione asked.
“Well, yes… sort of. Not quite yet, we don’t know, but something along those lines. What we’ll sell is still a mystery even to us,” Fred mused, shrugging.
George put his hands on his hips and gestured casually as he spoke: “But business is business, and outside of business, we also do the usual, as usual.”
“If you catch our drift without quite catching our full drift, if you know what we mean,” Fred added with a mischievous grin.
“They’ve had too much coffee…” Neville muttered under his breath, only for Harry to hear, who let out a quiet chuckle.
“I unfortunately understand,” Hermione huffed, though she couldn’t suppress the smile that escaped at their antics.
“Just don’t get caught,” Ron teased.
“And when have we ever been caught?” they asked in unison, placing their hands on their hips in mock offence.
After speaking with Fred and George, the golden quartet entered the Great Hall and settled at the Gryffindor table in their usual seats, helping themselves to toast, scrambled eggs, sausages, and pumpkin or apple juice as they lazily chatted about the previous night’s detentions.
“Ended up with your chore, Nev,” Ron grumbled, shovelling another forkful of scrambled eggs and sausages onto his plate.
Neville looked up curiously, chewing a bite of toast.
“My chore? What chore?”
“Plants, mate. Lots of plants. Green ones with loads of leaves,” Ron replied, pulling a face.
“Not an expert, but I reckon that sums up plants,” Harry remarked.
“Right, and what’s that got to do with Neville? Herbology?” Hermione guessed, delicately slicing her sausages into perfect rounds.
“Yeah, had to help Professor Sprout in the greenhouse,” Ron sighed through a mouthful of omelette.
“Oh?” Neville smiled faintly, picturing Ron wrestling with pruning shears. “Didn’t think you were a Herbology fan.”
“I’m not!” Ron exclaimed, waving his fork toward the ceiling. “And I don’t know how you can stand it. You don’t get House points, no extra credit, and yet you’re always there, working for free!”
“That’s called a hobby, Ron,” Hermione said, as if it were obvious, raising an eyebrow. “Some people do things they enjoy without expecting anything in return.”
Ron shrugged, staring at his plate as though that explained everything.
“Yeah, something like that… Had to trim some brown leaves off the Mandrakes and slather some stuff on ’em.” He took a swig of pumpkin juice. “Some sort of protective paint or something. Sprout explained it, but I wasn’t listening.”
“Oh yes! The hybrid plant base coat!” Neville said, eyes shining with enthusiasm at the mere thought. “Did you brush it on the healthy bases of the females and the stems that grow after the waning moon on the males?”
Ron raised his eyebrows, surprised.
“How d’you know that?” When Harry and Hermione arched an eyebrow as if the answer were blindingly obvious, he waved a hand. “Ah, never mind. Don’t answer, dunno why I even asked.”
Harry grinned, cutting into a sausage.
“I’d love to see an academic duel between you and Hermione about Herbology,” he said, glancing between her and Neville.
“Clash of the titans,” Ron agreed with a crooked smile.
Hermione lifted her chin determinedly.
“I'm good at Herbology, but I admit: academic knowledge doesn't always trump natural talent.” She recited it like a line straight from a textbook. “Neville would definitely win.”
Neville turned as red as a beetroot.
“It’s not that big a deal,” he said, shaking his head.
The idea of him surpassing Hermione in anything academic seemed as unlikely as him winning a Quidditch match against Harry as the rival Seeker.
Ron, chewing a heavily buttered slice of toast, shrugged again.
“Dunno, I’d pay to see it anyway,” he said. “Might be a surprise result.”
"You'd probably fall asleep halfway through the debate and get poisoned by something in the greenhouses that only those two would know the name of," Harry teased, grinning.
Ron narrowed his eyes, pointing his fork at him and taking a deep breath as if preparing to deliver a scathing lecture—everyone waited to hear what he'd say.
But then he sighed, going back to his food and answering through a mouthful.
"Yeah, you're right," he muttered, stifling a laugh. "Would be a wasted Galleon and a trip to the hospital wing at worst."
"I'd say at best," Harry said with a mischievous smile.
Neville took one last bite of his toast and let out a nervous chuckle.
"Well, I'd rather handle Mandrakes than what I had to do," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Had to clean the second-floor girls' loo... and it was, er... weird."
"Because it was the girls' one?" Ron asked, leaning forward with interest, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"At least it wasn't the fourth-floor boys' loo," Harry pointed out, as if that were something worth celebrating.
"Merlin, don't remind me of that place!" Neville shuddered, his face twisting in disgust. "I went in there once and came out with my nose and eyes burning like they'd been dunked in acid!"
That particular loo was the most dreaded in the castle, as Filch reserved its cleaning for the worst detentions. Fortunately, since the school year had only just begun, it was still relatively clean—at least by the caretaker's exacting standards.
"Might not be worse than the fourth-floor one," Ron remarked, stacking more toast onto his plate until it formed a small tower, "but I've heard the girls' loo is a nightmare to clean too."
Hermione shot him a sharp look.
"It's not worse than yours, I assure you," she retorted firmly.
Ron flashed a mischievous grin, and Harry could tell he was setting something up.
"Oh, really? I suggested we lock the loo door, but does anyone listen to old friend Ron Weasley? Nooo, let him keep his 'mad ideas'!" he said, mimicking a shrill voice and waving his hands dramatically.
Hermione frowned. "What? What are you on about?"
"If you're so sure your loo isn't worse than ours," Ron replied, his grin widening, "it's because you've been in ours. Been peeking at the boys in the loo, have you, Hermione? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk."
He clicked his tongue as if he was disappointed
She turned as red as a pepper and nearly spat out her pumpkin juice.
"I have not!" she protested, dabbing her lips with her napkin faster than necessary. "But I have been in your dormitory, and if the state of where you sleep is anything to go by, I don't even want to imagine what your loo looks like!"
Harry remembered the morning in first year when Hermione had woken him after he'd gotten the Nimbus 2000. Even back then, she'd had critiques ready.
The boys' dormitory always looked like a warzone—clothes strewn about, books stacked haphazardly, crumpled parchment and abandoned owl feathers on every surface. This time, luckily, she hadn't noticed the underwear scattered randomly on the floor—something that happened more often than he'd care to admit.
"She's got a point," Neville conceded, shrugging. "Our loo doesn't exactly smell of roses."
"Since I've never been in a girls' loo," Ron declared, raising his nose with an air of superiority, "I won't agree or disagree. I've got principles."
Harry could see Hermione, who seemed to have taken the prank seriously, wearing the classic expression that screamed that she was about to start a heated debate about principles, hygiene, and the disparity between the castle's bathrooms—and Ron seemed more than willing to provoke her.
Fearing this might escalate into how Lockhart ought to maintain his loo hygiene, Harry turned very quickly to Neville, trying to steer the subject away before things got worse.
“But how was detention?” asked Harry, returning to the matter.
Neville shrugged.
“Quiet… except for the ghost.” He pointed with a scrunched face. “I had to negotiate with Moaning Myrtle to get any cleaning done.”
“Negotiate?” Hermione frowned.
“Yeah,” replied Neville, shaking his head and sighing. “Every time I dried the floor, she’d fling water back from the sinks and toilets and start wailing about how cruel the girls are to her. Only finished after promising to listen to her moaning for ten minutes so I could clean in peace.”
“Gross,” said Ron, pulling a face.
“That’s why no one uses that loo—it’s awful trying to do your business with someone bawling next to you, downright unhygienic,” remarked Hermione, leaning forward. “From what I’ve heard, girls used to tease her when she was alive and kept at it after she died. Dunno if they still do now.”
“If you’d told me that two years ago, I’d have found it morbid,” said Harry, crossing his arms, thinking of his pre-Hogwarts self. “But we live with ghosts all the time… like Nearly Headless Nick and Peeves. So is it really that weird?”
“It’s… a bit weird,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “But I suppose we’ve got used to it. When it’s every day, it becomes normal.”
“Haven’t got used to the Bloody Baron… don’t think I ever will,” Ron muttered, watching him float past the Slytherin table.
Neville shuddered in agreement.
“What about you, Harry? How was your detention?” Neville asked, chewing a bit of treacle tart.
Harry pulled a face that made it clear he’d rather face any other punishment.
“Snape,” he grumbled, as if that one word contained all the misery in the world. “Had to sort horned slugs—no gloves, of course. The old ones went into vinegar jars, and the fresh ones I had to slice up and freeze.” He sighed deeply, as if the very air of the Great Hall still carried the stench of that traumatic experience. “Knew I was in for it, but that man’s a proper misery. At one point, I—accidentally—squeezed one that was completely rotten…”
Hermione was already grimacing before Harry continued.
“It just exploded in my hand,” Harry went on, gesturing dramatically. “The slime was nearly black, and the smell… well, imagine rotten fish mixed with sewage, then multiply it by—”
“We get it!” Ron cut in, raising his hands in surrender.
Neville, meanwhile, had gone a shade of pale that oddly matched his cream-coloured jumper.
“Sorry,” Harry said quickly, noticing Neville’s state. “You alright, Nev?”
Neville swallowed hard.
“Just… maybe skip the slug and sewage bits if you can,” he murmured, clearly fighting to keep his breakfast where it belonged.
“Right. But that was basically it,” Harry concluded, shrugging. “What else is there to say?”
“Fewer graphic details, perhaps?” suggested Hermione, in a tone teetering between sarcastic and genuinely disturbed.
Harry rolled his eyes and, on impulse, wiped his hand on her shoulder as if brushing off something invisible.
“Harry!” Hermione shrieked, recoiling so fast she nearly fell off the bench, her face a mix of horror and outrage.
“Oh, come off it!” Harry laughed, amused by the reaction. “That was yesterday, I’ve washed my hands!”
"I’m not so sure about that!" she shot back immediately, scrubbing her shoulder with a napkin as if trying to remove several layers of skin.
"Want a sniff to check?" Harry teased, thrusting his hand toward her.
"No, take that hand back," Hermione replied tartly, leaning even further away.
Harry shook his head, amused, and took a sip of pumpkin juice.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him in a look that promised retribution, but when she settled back down, she unconsciously ended up sitting slightly closer to him than before.
Ron, who’d watched the whole exchange with a hesitant grin, seized the pause to ask:
"So he really gave you a hard time, then? Snape?"
Harry huffed, crossing his arms tightly.
"As always, Snape never misses a chance to be the greasy shite of the dungeons." Before Hermione could open her mouth to protest, he added: "And before you say anything, Hermione, no, I’m not apologising, and yes, the term is rude, I don't care. Making me sort those slugs without gloves was low even for him."
"It’s Professor Snape, Harry. Professor," Hermione corrected for the hundredth time, sighing as if the entire weight of academic ethics rested on her shoulders.
"I’d accept that if he actually acted like a proper professor," Harry retorted acidly. "But seriously, I’m convinced he makes up these detentions just to wind me up."
"Was it really that bad?" Ron asked, though Harry’s disgusted expression was answer enough. "Like, I know he’s awful, but you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I get it. He started with the usual rubbish about my dad being an idiot or arrogant… Honestly, it’s like he can’t go a day without bringing up something that’s got nothing to do with me. It just—it gets to me. Like he’s trying to punish me for something I didn’t even do."
"Detention alone with Snape… that’s my worst nightmare," Neville murmured, shuddering.
"But believe it or not, there was something worse," said Harry thoughtfully. "Last night, right before detention ended, I heard a voice too."
All three of them stared at him immediately.
"Voice?" they echoed in unison.
Harry nodded. "Yeah. It was… properly weird."
"Hearing voices isn’t a good sign, like… not at all," Ron said, worried. "Did Snape hear it too?"
"I asked, but he didn’t seem to hear anything," Harry replied, shaking his head.
"Oh, is it that bad?" Hermione asked worriedly. "I've never read anything about voices."
"It's... it's not good," Neville muttered.
Hermione looked at him with concern, while Neville and Ron exchanged uneasy glances.
"What did it say, exactly?" Hermione pressed, tense.
Harry hesitated. "That it had woken up and was going to kill me, rip me apart. That it would find me."
Neville went even paler. "That’s really not good."
"Oh, I hadn’t noticed, thanks for letting me know," Harry quipped, trying to lighten the mood, but no one laughed.
"Well," said Ron, clearing his throat, "let us know if it happens again."
Harry just nodded, letting the subject drop, and they continued breakfast, the conversation shifting to lighter, mundane topics.
Ron started complaining about their Transfiguration homework, while Hermione, as usual, attempted to explain for the third time the difference between a partial and complete transformation—which only seemed to confuse Neville further.
The chatter was interrupted when Colin Creevey—with his ever-present camera—tried to take more photos of Harry. Unsure how to escape, Ron saved the day by making up an excuse about needing to finish an Astronomy essay in the library.
"Cheers for getting me out of that," Harry sighed.
Ron planted his fists on his hips and puffed out his chest dramatically.
"You’re welcome, citizen. I know I’m not the hero you deserve, but I’m the one you’ve got."
"If you’re the one we’ve got… Merlin help us," Neville joked, only to get a playful shove from the redhead as Harry and Hermione laughed.
Harry already knew Ron was a good mate, but making up an excuse about doing homework on a Sunday just to save him from more fawning… that even surprised Hermione.
Of course, he didn’t actually do the homework afterward—who in their right mind does assignments on a Sunday?
A few hours later, the group arrived at the room designated for Magical Sensitivity class on the seventh floor, not far from the common room.
Upon entering, Harry immediately noticed the cosy atmosphere, with the same comforting feel as the Gryffindor common room—including remarkably similar décor, with the house’s lion colours everywhere.
The walls were adorned with red and gold tapestries, and large, soft cushions were scattered across the floor, inviting students to settle in. The gentle glow of candlelight danced on the walls, while enchanted windows cast a golden shimmer reminiscent of sunset over the lake. It was a peaceful place, almost magical in its comfort—and yet, Ron seemed determined to ignore the charm of the setting entirely.
"Come on, Ron, it won’t be that bad!" said Harry, holding the door open as Hermione and Neville tried, rather unsuccessfully, to push the redhead inside.
"All right, all right! I’m going… but only because you lot won’t stop nagging me!" Ron grumbled, finally relenting with a dramatic sigh. He crossed his arms the moment he stepped in, his face a mask of disdain. "We could be playing Exploding Snap, chess, Hero Path, or even Quidditch. It’s perfect out there, and we’re stuck in here doing… what, exactly? Feeling the air?"
"Don’t be dramatic," Hermione retorted, rolling her eyes. "I’ve already explained that Magical Sensitivity could be useful. And there’s no harm in trying something new."
"Useful for what?" Ron scoffed. "To sense if a wizard’s a git before he even opens his mouth? Because I can already do that without magic."
"Oh, really?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, her eyes gleaming challengingly. "So you knew Quirrell was the Dark wizard in our first year, and not Snape?"
Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again, defeated.
"Well… that was different."
"It was," Hermione replied tartly.
"But McGonagall didn’t notice anything off about Quirrell either," Harry mused. "So I reckon it’s more complicated than it seems."
"At least you understand the logic," Hermione said, shooting Ron a triumphant look. "Someone here just doesn’t want to step out of his comfort zone."
"Let’s just see how it goes," Neville interjected, trying to diffuse the tension. "If it’s boring or useless, we don’t come back. Simple."
"It won’t be useless," Hermione insisted, her cheeks flushing. "You all act like learning is a punishment!"
"Relax, Hermione, it was just a joke," Harry said, making her huff in frustration.
As they waited for the professor, Harry observed the room.
It was fuller than he’d expected—students from different years were sprawled across the cushions, whispering amongst themselves. He recognised Lavender and Parvati giggling together in one corner, and Ginny, seated near the window, scribbling in her diary. Beside her, Luna Lovegood swayed slightly in place, humming to herself while admiring a necklace made of Butterbeer corks.
Harry had seen her in the corridors before but had never spoken to her beyond that encounter in the woods near the Burrow.
He knew she’d been sorted into Ravenclaw, and with her ethereal, eccentric manner, there was no doubt the house of eagles was the perfect place for her.
"The professor said other houses could join, but it doesn’t seem to have drawn many," Harry remarked, glancing around.
Indeed, there were few students from houses other than Gryffindor. Just as Harry disliked Snape, many students disliked Professor McGonagall for her strict, overly professional demeanour. It was a matter of affinity.
"It may not have drawn many, but it would make sense if it had," Hermione murmured thoughtfully. "Magical Sensitivity is personal, but working in a group could help us understand how everyone senses magic differently, if they make an effort too, of course.”
Ron raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Or it could just be an excuse to shove us in a room full of people and have a right laugh when it turns out to be a complete waste of time."
Neville let out a small chuckle, but before Hermione could launch into another impassioned speech, the door creaked softly open.
All eyes turned to the entrance—and there stood Minerva McGonagall, her posture impeccable, her sharp eyes gleaming behind square spectacles, radiating authority and mystery as always.
She positioned herself at the centre of the room, her keen, piercing gaze sweeping over the group of students.
"Very well, I believe everyone has arrived, so there is no reason not to begin," the professor said with her trademark formality, though a touch of warmth coloured her voice. "Welcome to your first Magical Sensitivity class."
She looked around the room, her eyes lingering on each student with the calm confidence only she possessed.
"I believe it important to start with theory, so you may grasp the concept before we proceed to practical application."
The professor began pacing slowly around the room, maintaining eye contact with the students. They watched her intently, captivated by her presence and the novelty of the subject.
"To begin, Magical Sensitivity is a distinct branch of magic. In most subjects studied here at Hogwarts, the focus lies on external agents. Can anyone tell me what these agents are?"
Hermione’s hand shot up immediately, followed by a few others, though with considerably less enthusiasm.
"Miss Granger," McGonagall acknowledged with a slight nod.
"External agents are those in which a witch or wizard uses their own magic or magical elements to alter the world around them. This can include casting spells, brewing potions, tending magical plants or even creatures… anything that involves an action which transforms our magic reality in some way," Hermione answered crisply, her tone unmistakably academic.
"Perfect." McGonagall smiled almost imperceptibly, visibly pleased. "Now that we’ve recalled what external agents are, I ask you: does Magical Sensitivity function the same way? Does it alter the world around us?"
A murmur rippled through the room. Some students, including Ron and Neville, exchanged confused glances before offering hesitant nods.
"Certainly not," McGonagall replied, brushing aside the incorrect answers with a tone that brooked no argument. "Magical Sensitivity does not change the reality around us. It operates on an invisible magical plane—one we cannot see, but may learn to sense and, eventually, wield."
Lavender Brown raised her hand timidly.
"Yes, Miss Brown?"
"I… didn’t quite understand, Professor," admitted Lavender, her voice hesitant.
McGonagall nodded as if she’d anticipated the question.
"Let me simplify," she began, her tone patient and instructive. "Magical Sensitivity is the ability to perceive the magical plane which, unlike our physical plane—where you and I stand now—exists parallel to it, invisible to the eye but perceptible to those who learn to sense it. This includes, for instance, detecting the emotions of other witches and wizards. When we experience strong feelings, they affect our magic, making it more agitated or more subdued. Moreover—as you may recall from Professor Flitwick’s lessons—every witch, wizard, and living being possesses what we call an aura. Witches and wizards, in particular, have a far stronger aura than most ordinary creatures, Muggles, and even some lesser magical beings. But all of us have one."
"So Muggles have... magic inside them, Professor?" a sixth-year Gryffindor asked.
"No. All living beings possess an aura, but only those with active magic—such as witches, wizards, goblins, or house-elves—project it strongly enough to be perceived. In creatures without active magic, the aura exists but remains undetectable, like a silent whisper lost in the wind. An aura is a manifestation of one’s magical essence—unique to each individual, like a magical fingerprint. While all living beings have one, only those with active magic project it in a way we can perceive."
She paused, observing the attentive faces before her before continuing.
"With practice in Magical Sensitivity, it becomes possible to perceive the auras of witches and wizards around you, interpret them, and if you wish, even conceal your own aura so it cannot be detected or interpreted by others. It is a useful skill—particularly if you wish to move unnoticed or shield your aura from being sensed. Remember: sensing an aura is not the same as reading emotions. It is a raw impression, like feeling warmth from a flame without understanding why it burns.”
The room fell silent as the students absorbed the information.
"For now, I believe this introduction will suffice," McGonagall continued. "I do not wish to delve too deeply and risk confusing you. Today, our focus will be on learning to identify them."
The students nodded, and McGonagall gestured for them to settle onto the cushions, where she joined them, her posture remaining impeccable.
"Make yourselves comfortable. We shall begin with a relaxation exercise."
She demonstrated a meditative pose, which the students imitated—some more reluctantly than others.
"Now, take deep breaths," she instructed. "The secret to sensing the magic around you begins with a clear mind. If you find yourself distracted, try imagining a blank white space, as though you're wiping away your thoughts."
Ron muttered something under his breath, clearly annoyed, but quickly fell silent under Hermione's disapproving glare.
Once everyone understood the exercise, McGonagall moved between the students, correcting postures and encouraging those who seemed to be struggling most.
"If you don't feel anything today, don't worry," she added. "That's perfectly normal. It takes time to open your sensitivity to the magical plane. The key is patience."
Harry closed his eyes, trying to follow the instructions. As the room grew quieter, he began wondering what it would actually feel like to sense magic...and whether he'd be able to.
Within the first few minutes of practice, Harry realized how difficult it was to keep his mind still and focused.
The silence of the room, combined with the comfort of the cushion beneath him, seemed the perfect trap for sleep - especially when he leaned against the cool, soothing wall. Professor McGonagall, as if anticipating this, had warned that dozing during exercises was normal and encouraged students to simply try again if it happened.
Harry fought against sleep, unlike Ron who had nodded off twice, with soft snores that only stopped thanks to Harry's timely elbow jabs.
Hermione, seated beside Harry, appeared to be having similar difficulties. Her expression showed that maintaining absolute focus wasn't as simple as she'd likely imagined, and her frustration was visible.
Neville, however, sat perfectly still, eyes peacefully closed with deep serenity.
Just as Harry felt he might finally be achieving a deeper state of relaxation, a sound abruptly broke his concentration.
An audible gasp, almost like a choke, made his eyes fly open. Lavender Brown was staring directly at him, eyes wide, her face a mixture of shock and tension.
Before Harry could react, he realized every gaze in the room had turned toward him. His face began to heat up, and he wondered what he'd done wrong, momentarily freezing as he questioned whether he was actually dressed.
"Miss Brown, is everything alright?" asked McGonagall, approaching with concern in her tone.
Lavender blinked, seeming to snap out of her trance at the professor's voice.
"Eh? Oh yes, Professor, everything's fine," she said quickly. "I just...got startled. Sorry."
"Startled? By what exactly?" McGonagall pressed, following Lavender's gaze directly to Harry.
Harry felt a chill in his stomach. McGonagall's look shifted from concern to something deeper - almost as if she knew exactly what had happened.
She pursed her lips and gave him a knowing, serene look that only made Harry more nervous.
"Well...I think I felt the magic, just for a second but...well, it's nothing. Never mind," Lavender murmured, looking down at her lap.
"You've made progress already?" McGonagall asked, arching an eyebrow. "Well, it's rare for a student to achieve that in the first lesson. Well done, Miss Brown," she encouraged, trying to ease the tension.
Yet the atmosphere remained heavy.
The following silence was broken by hushed whispers as other students looked between Lavender and Harry, clearly wondering what had occurred.
"I felt it too," Luna Lovegood suddenly said, her soft voice cutting through the quiet. "But there's no need to be frightened."
McGonagall turned to Luna with curiosity. "And what did you feel, Miss Lovegood? Can you sense the magic as well?"
"Oh yes," replied Luna with a serene smile. "I've been able to do this for quite some time - my mother taught me when I was younger. I just wanted to see what the class was like." She pointed at Lavender. "She felt Harry's magic. I didn't find it hard to identify, actually. It's quite strong."
The murmurs grew louder, and Harry wished he could dig a hole like a frantic mole to hide in.
"Why is it always me?" he groaned inwardly.
"But it's good magic," Luna continued in her dreamy way. "Very positive, actually. You must have felt it too, Professor."
If the comment was meant to reassure him, it had the opposite effect. Harry grew even more embarrassed, desperately wishing the lesson would end.
McGonagall, noticing the mounting tension, pursed her lips.
"Quite right, Miss Lovegood. Very well, I believe we're at time. We'll conclude for today." She addressed the class. "I'd remind you that Magical Sensitivity requires considerable effort, and very few - very few indeed - achieve true proficiency or even basic competence. But that's no excuse not to practice. For those wishing to progress faster, I recommend ten minutes of meditation before bed. You're dismissed."
Students began gathering their things, still casting curious glances at Harry. As he, Ron, Hermione and Neville moved toward the door, McGonagall called out.
"Mr. Potter, a moment please."
Harry stopped, his heart pounding. When the others had left, McGonagall closed the door with a delicate flick of her wand and stood before him.
"Yes, Professor?" he asked, trying to mask his nervousness.
McGonagall studied him a moment before speaking, her tone gentler.
"I imagine all that attention was rather uncomfortable." She said calmly. "Do you understand why Miss Brown reacted that way?"
Harry sighed, shrugging.
"I suppose it's my aura." He said with an embarrassed half-smile. "Professor Dumbledore explained I've got something called a wild aura."
McGonagall nodded slowly, her eyes full of understanding.
"Yes, your magic expresses itself rather singularly, Harry." She explained calmly. "But that isn't a bad thing. It's merely... different, shall we say."
"How isn't it bad?" Harry's voice cracked. "I... I nearly destroyed my aunt and uncle's house when you came with my Hogwarts letter! Then I killed a troll and demolished an entire bathroom! Now people will start fearing me just for sensing my magic?"
He steeled himself, looking away to compose himself without appearing unstable, swallowing back any emotion threatening to surface as tears.
McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her expression softening.
"Harry, look at me." He reluctantly raised his eyes. "Your magic isn't frightening. It's powerful, yes, but positive - as Miss Lovegood said. Miss Brown was startled simply because she didn't understand that strength; a perfectly normal reaction for someone unaccustomed to it. Don't take it to heart."
"And how... how do I hide it? You said it was possible, right?" he whispered. "I don't want anyone else... feeling it like that."
McGonagall considered him. Harry was clearly willing to do whatever it took to prevent a recurrence, and she seemed to understand perfectly. This was his choice.
"It isn't simple, but as I said, it's possible. It will require considerable practice. Begin with the meditation exercises from today's lesson." She advised. "As you learn to feel the magic, the ability to hide it will emerge over time if you commit to practicing regularly."
Harry nodded, still hesitant. "Okay. I'll try."
McGonagall gave him a small smile.
"You have extraordinary magic, Harry. Don't see it as a burden, but as a part of who you are." she said in an almost motherly voice.
He thanked her and left the room. Hermione, Ron, and Neville were already waiting for him outside.
The day of the first Magical Sensitivity lesson had undoubtedly been one of the unluckiest in Harry Potter’s life. As he struggled to grasp the basic concepts, Lavender Brown—with an exasperating air of ease—seemed capable of sensing and capturing others’ magic as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
"It’s an exceptionally rare talent," Hermione murmured, studying from their table near the window in the common room while Lavender, further across the room, appeared to be attempting to sense the auras of passing classmates to determine their very essence.
Hermione’s chocolate-brown eyes held a mix of admiration and envy.
"It’s hard enough finding wizards who even know Magical Sensitivity, let alone someone who truly masters it..." she finished.
Lavender’s abilities might have been genuinely impressive, even noble, if she and Parvati—who’d also been in the lesson—weren’t two of Hogwarts’ most dedicated gossip apprentices. They were outmatched only by a few fifth-year Hufflepuffs and, of course, the Gryffindor upper-years, who seemed to have made a silent pact to pass down the art of nosiness to the younger students.
"It’s all part of some secret cult," Ron declared with conviction as he and Harry watched the two whispering animatedly. "They probably hold midnight meetings to teach the first-years how to spread chaos about things that are none of their business."
Harry couldn’t disagree.
And as if his abysmal performance in the lesson weren’t bad enough, news of what had happened there spread through the castle like wildfire. Within a day, everyone seemed to know that Harry Potter was "incredibly powerful"—or at least, that’s what the rumours claimed.
Some students eyed him with wary suspicion, while others openly scoffed at the idea, exchanging snide remarks the moment his back was turned.
"Powerful, is it?" Harry heard a third-year Ravenclaw mutter to his mate as he tried, in vain, to focus on his Transfiguration book in the gardens. "He can barely hold his wand straight!"
"Short memory, have you?" the other shot back in a low voice. "Potter killed a troll last year! A fucking troll! D’you know the size of that thing? The sound of its club hitting the ground felt like it shook the whole castle that night!"
The Ravenclaw let out a derisive snort.
"And you actually believe he did it?" he said, eyebrows raised with superiority. "Give over... they exaggerate those stories way too much. Bet it was luck—or some dodgy retelling."
Harry snapped his book shut with a loud thud, making both boys whirl around.
Upon realising he was there, their eyes widened, and they took a step back, as if expecting him to draw his wand on the spot. But Harry just glared at them for a second, jaw clenched, before shoving the book into his bag and striding off, searching for somewhere he could escape the stares and whispers.
He didn’t know what was worse: the fear in some eyes or the outright mockery in others. But one thing he knew for certain—he couldn’t stand either.
His friends, at least, understood. He’d already explained the little he knew about his "wild aura," something even Dumbledore had tried to clarify.
Neville and Hermione insisted he should simply ignore the looks and whispers, which he was trying his best to do. But the constant discomfort of being watched reminded him of the previous year, when everyone believed he was a threat.
Before, he’d been "dangerous."
Now, he was "powerful."
It was a subtle shift, but it still drew more attention than Harry wanted.
The four of them were gathered in the library, occupying the most secluded corner they could find, far from Madame Pince’s keen ears. The table was strewn with scrolls, open books, and scattered quills as they whispered amongst themselves, juggling homework and conversation.
"At least they’re saying your aura’s good," remarked Ron, dumping the contents of his bag onto the table with a surprisingly loud clatter for someone trying to stay unnoticed.
He spoke as if stating the obvious, but his careless tone only made Harry press his lips together.
"Yeah, till they decide I’m going to murder everyone like some Dark wizard straight out of hell… Again," Harry replied, pressing his quill into the parchment harder than necessary, leaving an ink blot on his Charms essay.
Hermione, who was turning a page of an ancient, fragile book with extreme delicacy, looked up and gave him a sympathetic glance.
"It’s natural for people to talk, Harry," she said softly. "You know what Hogwarts students are like."
"And what are Hogwarts students like?" asked Ron, pausing his disastrous attempt to copy down magical herb names for Herbology. He seemed genuinely curious.
"A bunch of nosy gossips," Hermione replied tartly, not to Ron, but to the whispers that had been echoing through the corridors about Harry.
"But... well, it doesn’t matter what they say about you," Neville murmured, quietly but with a firmness that surprised everyone.
Harry raised his eyebrows skeptically.
"Why doesn’t it matter?"
Neville shrugged, tearing his eyes from his Transfiguration work to meet Harry’s gaze with a determined expression.
"Because, like all gossip, it’ll pass," he said simply. "In a few days, no one will care. D’you realise nobody even talks about that Hufflepuff couple they spotted coming out of a broom cupboard? All rumpled clothes and dishevelled hair? It was all anyone mentioned for days, but now d’you see anyone bat an eyelid when they snog in the Entrance Hall?"
Ron let out a muffled laugh, trying not to draw Madame Pince’s attention.
"Oh, I remember that," he agreed, eyes bright with amusement. "Word was, when Filch caught them red-handed, they were sweaty, panting, and everything—which, to be honest, is a bit gross—but... they also said they came out grinning like they’d won a cauldron full of Galleons in the lottery, even with detention. Reckon it was worth it."
"At least someone’s having fun," Harry muttered sarcastically.
Hermione, her ears pink, cleared her throat and straightened in her chair, abruptly changing the subject.
"Have you seen how lovely it is outside?" she said, staring fixedly out the window. "Why don’t we go for a walk after lunch?"
Neville, oblivious to the conversation and Hermione’s embarrassment, scratched his head and murmured absently,
"Bit of sun would be nice... good for the skin..." He kept writing, tongue poking out in concentration.
Ron, noticing their friend’s discomfort, smirked mischievously and coughed pointedly.
"Y’know, George told me sometimes the problem isn’t just leaving a stuffy broom cupboard," he said, in a tone that made it clear a joke was coming. "Not having a cloak—or at least a jumper—to hide... certain situations can make a wizard’s life very complicated."
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Neville laughed so hard he choked.
Harry covered his mouth to stifle a guffaw, and even Hermione couldn’t suppress a smile, though she pretended outrage.
"Honestly, Ronald!"
Ron put on an exaggerated look of innocence.
"What? It's just what I heard!" He raised his hands in surrender.
"SHHH!"
Madame Pince hissed loudly from her desk, and the four of them fell silent, returning to their work.
Despite the initial discomfort the rumours had caused Harry, they’d had an unexpected side effect: Magical Sensitivity had become a roaring success.
Suddenly, the number of enrolled students grew by the day, attracting not just the usual curious sorts, but intrigued Ravenclaws, open-minded Hufflepuffs, and even a few older Slytherins—all eager to discover what was so special about the subject.
"It’s only a matter of time before most of them drop out," said Hermione, sinking into one of the Gryffindor common room’s plush armchairs that evening.
She was exhausted after a particularly intense day of studying, but still couldn’t help analysing the situation with her usual pragmatism.
"Because it’s difficult?" asked Neville, who was sitting on the floor, trying to balance a Herbology book on his lap while nibbling a ginger biscuit.
Hermione raised her eyebrows as if the answer were obvious.
"I’ve told you, Magical Sensitivity isn’t easy for most wizards," she explained, in a tone that suggested she’d already read every possible book on the subject. "Detecting or felling magic is tricky enough; concealing or manipulating it? That requires a level of control few ever master."
"Harder still is actually going," Ron yawned, sliding even further down the sofa as if about to merge with the cushions.
His eyes were heavy with sleep, and he could barely keep hold of the teacup in his hands.
Harry grinned, amused.
"They ought to make a statue of you and call it the symbol of laziness," he teased, giving his friend’s foot a light kick.
Ron rolled his eyes but couldn’t be bothered to move.
"Mate, losing an hour of my Sunday is an hour less of napping," he replied, as if this were the most irrefutable logic in the world. And to him, it certainly was. "And if they do make a statue, make it gold—a really big one—and give me muscles. Oh, and don’t forget ‘Weasley’ starts with a ‘W’ on the plaque, cheers."
He slurped his tea noisily, pinky raised, eyes closed and eyebrows lifted.
Hermione laughed at his silliness while Neville chuckled quietly, but then shrugged thoughtfully.
"I actually liked it," he admitted honestly. "I mean... I didn’t fall asleep or lose focus. So for me, that’s already a win."
Harry sighed, running his fingers through his already-messy hair—a habitual gesture when deep in thought.
He didn’t mind the subject’s challenges.
All he wanted was to learn how to hide his magic, to bury the whispers and the piercing stares that still followed him through the corridors for good. No matter how long it took.
A few more days passed, and the day of the official try-outs for the Gryffindor Quidditch team arrived.
As with every year, the students had a chance to show off their skills, and the top candidates would become the new starters. Oliver explained that the process not only gave aspiring players a glimmer of hope, but also forced the existing team members to train even harder to hold onto their positions.
Harry, however, didn’t feel threatened in his position as Seeker.
He had trained, of course, but no one other than Cormac McLaggen had signed up to go for the spot, and if he had the same skills as last year, Harry feared he’d be more likely to lose his lunch from waiting for the bloke to spot the Snitch than lose his place on the team.
He’d managed to convince Neville and Ron to sign up for a spot on the team. Neville didn’t seem too confident he’d get through, but Ron cheered him up with a friendly clap on the shoulder.
“If we don’t get in, at least it’ll be fun, yeah?” the redhead said to him.
They weren’t daft; they knew being picked as the new Gryffindor Chasers wouldn’t be easy, since Angelina, Katie and Alicia weren’t about to give up their spots without a fight.
But hope was the last thing to die.
As they sat having breakfast on a quiet, near-empty morning in the Great Hall—where hundreds of floating candles cast a gently golden morning light over the few early risers—Hermione, even without signing up for any position, had woken early to support her friends during the try-outs.
Harry was calmly eating his sausages while watching her deeply engrossed in a heated discussion with Ron, gesturing with her honey spoon as she argued.
“No, Ronald, it’s ‘Evanesco’, not ‘Evanesce’!” she said in a professorial tone. “Pronunciation makes all the difference in Vanishing Spells. Get it wrong and Merlin knows what might disappear.”
“Whatever,” Ron muttered through a mouthful of honeyed toast, “we haven’t even learned them yet anyway. You said yourself it’s fifth-year stuff.”
Beside them, Neville was fully focused on building an elaborate fortress out of his slices of toast, carefully stacking them until they formed a wobbly castle on his plate. When one of the towers began to lean dangerously, Hermione shot him a stern look over her shoulder.
“Neville, stop playing with your food!” she said, in a tone very reminiscent of Madam Pince catching someone scribbling in a library book.
“S’just an experiment,” he murmured, looking disappointed as it collapsed.
“I’d rather not be under any of your experimental buildings,” Ron quipped, amused.
Meanwhile, Harry watched the scene with a faint smile, lost in thought about how completely his life had changed in just a year.
He was still a newcomer to the wizarding world, of course—sometimes he could scarcely believe that things like “magical leeches” actually existed, or that the castle staircases liked to shift when you least expected it. But at least now he could tie his own tie without it ending up looking like it had been done by a drunken sailor.
That thought made him smile to himself as he looked over at Hermione, who’d done that first knot for him that had lasted for weeks on end.
His current mood was a stark contrast to the one he’d had the year before. Harry remembered vividly waking before dawn for his first try-out, his stomach in knots with nerves, dreading the inevitable taunts and threats from Malfoy and his gang. Back then, the dark corridors of Hogwarts had felt just as threatening as the cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive.
But now... now Harry looked at his friends and felt a wave of warmth in his chest.
Since leaving the hospital wing after the Halloween incident, those three had become his constant companions—sharing meals, lessons, and secrets in the library's most hidden corners.
They spent so much time together that Mrs Norris now recognised them as a single suspicious group to be tailed. But of course, there were moments when each needed space.
Hermione regularly vanished to study, though Ron suspected it was partly to get some peace away from them pestering her when she wanted time to herself—likely to read in silence... more than she already did quietly with them around.
Neville spent hours in the greenhouses with Professor Sprout or tending to more harmless plants alone, having earned her trust enough for it, with the promise that if he kept up his steady dedication, he might eventually handle more dangerous, venomous, even rare plants within those green-glass walls—something he dearly hoped to achieve.
And Ron... well, Ron sometimes just needed a kip.
As for Harry, these moments of solitude were precious.
He filled them by studying the cooler, practical bits of Transfiguration with his wand—there was something fascinating about transforming objects and conjuring things that always drew him in. Or he’d take his Nimbus 2000 and fly across the castle grounds, with Hedwig wheeling gracefully around him, her white feathers gleaming against the grey sky. The owl seemed genuinely happy then, as much as Harry himself.
Lately, there’d been another activity occupying his free time: Magical Sensitivity meditation. Harry had found he could easily spend a full hour sitting by the Black Lake, feeling the cool breeze on his face while trying to tune into the magic around him. It was strangely peaceful, considering how chaotic his life usually was.
"Harry?" Hermione’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You all right? You looked miles away."
Harry smiled and picked up his goblet.
"I’m fine. Really fine, actually," he replied, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.
When they reached the Quidditch pitch, it was nearly empty as expected, with only a few hopefuls and supporters about. The air was icy—a fitting welcome to Scotland’s harsh autumn—and Harry wound his faithful red-and-gold scarf around his neck, half burying his face when the biting wind hit.
Hermione watched him fuss with the scarf and hid a fond little smile.
Ron and Neville were first to trial. While Ron showed some enthusiasm, Neville seemed far less confident.
When the tryouts finally ended, to Neville’s dismay, it was clear he wouldn’t be picked as Beater.
He’d performed the worst of everyone.
Ron, on the other hand, landed somewhere middling-to-poor, also well short of the top three.
Neville slumped heavily onto the stands, letting out a defeated sigh.
"I was rubbish," he mumbled, shoulders hunched as if bearing the weight of the entire castle.
Ron sat beside him and gave his back an awkward but comforting thump, though with a lopsided grin.
"No drama, Nev. At least you gave it a go." He tried to rally him. "Look, I didn’t exactly set the pitch on fire either, and honestly... you did loads better than I expected, remember you only started playing recently."
Neville looked up, a timid smile forming. "Cheers, Ron, but... I really thought I’d do better. Didn’t even come close to hitting a single Bludger through the hoop. Was bloody awful."
"Hey, everyone's got to start somewhere," said Harry, pulling his cloak tighter as an icy breeze swept across the pitch. "Did you see how nervous Ron was? And he plays brilliantly in the Burrow's garden. The Hogwarts pitch is a whole different story."
"Ah, cheers for reminding me," grumbled Ron, pretending offence but clearly relieved. "To be honest, I was more worried about not falling off my broom in that wind than actually hitting anything. But like Harry said: it's just the beginning. We can improve, right?"
"Absolutely," Hermione cut in, her expression kind but practical as ever. "You're only second-years. And this was your first tryout. Don't forget Angelina, Katie, and Alicia will graduate someday. The spots will open up, and you'll have plenty of time to practise before then."
Neville nodded slowly, but discomfort still lingered on his face.
"That's the spirit," Ron insisted, trying to cheer him. "Besides, they know competition's important. Makes us better. They've been training like mad to keep their positions, haven't they? You've just got to do the same."
As the sun dipped lower and the cold deepened, the trials continued.
When it was Harry's turn to defend his Seeker position, he mounted his Nimbus 2000 with quiet confidence. Cormac barely seemed focused, more interested in impressing Oliver with unnecessary flashy moves than actually catching the Snitch.
Harry, meanwhile, kept his eyes sharp.
He spotted the golden Snitch glinting above the stands and shot toward it.
Even with his place all but guaranteed, his friends cheered wildly—Hermione with her hands clasped to her chest, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
With one fluid motion, he stretched out his hand and seized the tiny ball, clutching it firmly.
The sharp blast of Oliver's whistle cut through the air.
"Nice one, Harry!" roared the Captain with a satisfied grin. "You're still our Seeker. No question about it."
Harry landed smoothly to congratulations from Hermione, Ron, and Neville—who seemed to momentarily forget his own disappointing performance.
The rest of the trials went exactly as expected.
Angelina, Katie, and Alicia kept their positions as Chasers, the twins remained the best Beaters Gryffindor could ask for, and Oliver stayed steadfast as Keeper and Captain.
By the end, the team stood unchanged.
Gryffindor was ready for another season, with Harry feeling more confident than ever about their chances. He looked at his friends and saw the same excitement—even in Neville, who seemed determined to train harder and maybe, just maybe, impress next year.
It didn’t take long for the newly formed Gryffindor team to have their first official practice.
Oliver, more organised than the year before, had secured the Quidditch pitch well in advance to prepare the team for their match against Slytherin, scheduled for mid-November.
This time, though, Oliver had been cleverer. The previous afternoon, he’d gone round to each member of the team, warning them about the not-so-cruel training hour—seven o’clock in the morning.
“I’m telling you ahead of time… so don’t try and hex me for not warning you,” he’d said, casting a pointed look at Angelina, who simply shrugged.
Harry had received the news while flying lazily around the castle with Ron and Neville. They weren’t doing anything in particular—just enjoying the view and chatting about classes—when Oliver pulled up alongside Harry’s broom.
“Eight o’clock, Potter,” said Oliver with a grin. “Meeting point’s by the clocktower, at the fountain. Don’t be late.”
“Why not meet straight at the pitch? Like always?” Harry asked.
“Because it’s easier to fly down from there to the pitch,” Oliver shrugged. “Because I know sometimes you lot take your time on purpos—and don’t try to fool me, I’ve seen you and the twins doing it.”
“So lax about it?” Ron joked. “I expected more from our Seeker of the Century.”
Harry rolled his eyes at his friend, and Oliver simply repeated the time before flying off.
Trying to argue with Oliver that he didn’t dawdle on the way to practice was harder than explaining diplomacy to a garden gnome.
The next morning, Harry was jolted awake by a nightmare in which he saw a bright green flash strike his mother before his eyes. After recovering from the unpleasant nightmare, he got out of bed, dressed in his uniform and pulled his scarf tight around his neck with a long sigh, then made his way to the clocktower that cold morning.
“Yeah, Potter…” he muttered under his breath. “Think being a Quidditch player’s all fun and glory… no one remembers the freezing mornings or Oliver’s lectures.”
When Harry stepped through the great doors of the clock tower, heading towards the front courtyard, the transparent dial at the top read exactly 7:45 a.m.
The massive pendulum swung majestically, nearly grazing the ground, its base sweeping just over three metres from the floor with every swing. The cold air sliced at Harry’s face, and he hunched his shoulders under his cloak for warmth.
“I’m doomed with this weather,” he thought, just imagining flying at top speed in such hostile conditions.
He passed a few students going to and fro along the path, but it was a surprise to see Ron and Neville waiting near the courtyard’s central fountain, both wrapped in thick cloaks and looking no more awake than he was.
“What are you two doing here?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. “Come to watch a rusty team fall flat in their first training session? You could’ve waited a few days—we’re bound to make fools of ourselves today.”
Ron snorted a laugh.
“Oh, it was Nev’s idea,” he said in resigned tones, adjusting the red gloves on his fingers. “He reckons watching practice might be educational or something. But if I’m honest, being back in the warmth of the common room sounds way better.”
“We won’t learn anything in there, mate. Quidditch magazines don’t have practical backing!” Neville countered, more animated than Harry had expected on the topic.
“When did you turn into Hermione?” Ron teased.
Neville shrugged.
“I just think we could observe the girls play and maybe pick up a few training tips,” he said matter-of-factly, eyes gleaming. “Who knows—next year we might make the team.”
Harry gave a small smile, impressed by Neville’s enthusiasm.
He knew his friend wasn’t the most confident, especially when it came to Quidditch—he’d come dead last in the trials—but he seemed determined to improve.
“If you say that near the twins…” Ron raised his eyebrows in warning, speaking like someone who knew the territory. “They’ll be convinced that when you said ‘we could observe the girls play’, you meant it in that way, if you know what I mean.”
Neville went scarlet at once, his cheeks so hot with embarrassment it was a wonder steam didn’t start rising as he gaped.
“What? But that wasn’t—Not like that… I-I-I mean, they are pretty? They are, but… I mean—b-but-but I—” he babbled, flustered.
“He’s gone again,” Harry joked, laughing with Ron. “Needs a reset—pull the cord, Ron.”
Ron tugged jokingly at Neville’s scarf, who batted his arm away and shook his head, still unable to string together a coherent sentence.
“Y-you… you twisted it!” he managed at last, words tripping over each other. “You know that’s not what I meant—I’m awful with words!”
“We got what you meant, just be careful,” Ron warned. “If the girls get wind of that… I’d laugh my head off.”
Neville pulled a face that clearly said he wanted that particular information to stay right there in the courtyard, but before he could respond, Hermione appeared at the main door of the tower, clutching her cloak to her body and huffing against the cold.
The morning wind tossed her curls about, strands falling into her face despite her attempts to tie them back.
“You too?” Harry asked, surprised. “It’s either you lot have completely lost it, or this practice’s turned into a PTA meeting,” he laughed.
Ron and Neville frowned, confused.
“PTA what?” they asked in unison.
“PTA meeting—it’s a parent-teacher meeting Muggles have at school to talk about boring things… and just so you know, Harry, that joke was terrible,” Hermione replied, her teeth chattering.
Harry gave a quiet snort of laughter.
“I know Quidditch isn’t really your thing, so you fancied studying outside today?” he asked. “The weather’s lovely, as you can see.”
Harry gestured at the grey, decidedly uninviting sky—hardly the sort of day for reading outdoors.
Hermione folded her arms with a sulky little frown, slightly annoyed at herself for having had the ridiculous idea to come out and see this. The cold was colouring her cheeks and nose red—Harry couldn’t help noticing she looked rather cute like that.
Cute?...
He shook his head, brushing off the intrusive thought.
“Actually, I wanted to see for myself what you lot suffer through in these practices,” she replied matter-of-factly. “But honestly, if I’d known it would be this cold, I’d have stayed in the library.”
“Suffering? A seven o’clock session’s easy,” said Harry, scratching his shoulder absent-mindedly. “The real trouble’s when Oliver drags us out before sunrise. He must’ve been in a good mood when he scheduled this one.”
“Yeah, you don’t know what you’re missing, Hermione,” said Ron, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “They say the sight of Oliver barking orders at five in the morning is something you’ve got to witness at least once in your life. George told me it’s invigorating.”
Harry let out a muffled laugh. “I can confirm the invigorating part—so long as he’s not shouting at you personally.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and tugged her purple scarf tighter with a sharp pull, while Ron and Neville shared a bottle of hot tea, far more interested in keeping the cold at bay.
“Bloody hell, the tea’s gone cold,” Ron grumbled, making a face as he swallowed a lukewarm gulp. “What a horrible shite.”
“Language!” Hermione snapped, giving him a sharp look.
Ron rolled his eyes and, turning so she wouldn’t see, mimicked Hermione’s stern expression at Harry, silently mouthing a stream of truly horrendous swear words.
Harry laughed, covering his mouth to muffle the sound, while Neville was puffing into the air, fascinated and distracted by the thick steam coming from his breath. Hermione, meanwhile, was eyeing the clocktower, wondering when on earth the rest of the team would show up.
The group waited by the fountain as Oliver had instructed the night before. The castle grounds weren’t exactly inviting—days of rain had left the grass sodden and squelching with every step.
Hermione crossed her arms so tightly that her purple scarf seemed to cinch even closer.
“Absolutely not!” she declared, with the firm finality of someone who’d made an unshakeable decision. “I’m not flying to the pitch. I’m walking. I’ve no intention whatsoever of balancing on a broomstick—especially in this freezing wind.”
Ron let out a little laugh, his lips trembling either from the cold or amusement—it was hard to tell.
“Think this might be the first time I’ve seen someone choose frozen mud over flying,” he said with a cheeky grin.
Harry, though he thought Hermione was being a touch dramatic, couldn’t help agreeing with Ron.
“Er… want me to give you a lift, Hermione?” he offered, trying to sound helpful. “You’ll take half an hour to get there, and the ground’s full of puddles.”
“Not a chance I’m getting on a broomstick!” Hermione shot back, eyes narrowing in that particular way Harry knew all too well—the “don’t even try it” look.
“Er… you sure?” Neville asked, his voice so low it nearly vanished on the wind. “I mean, I didn’t used to like brooms either, but, you know, it’s not that bad once you get used to it, and at least you won’t get all muddy and—”
He stopped abruptly as Hermione turned to him with a look that could’ve made even a rather large dragon think twice about approaching.
“No,” she repeated, this time with an emphasis that made it absolutely clear the matter was not open for discussion.
Neville looked away and cleared his throat.
“Yeah… all right,” he muttered, stepping back as if afraid she might jinx him just for the suggestion.
The truth was Hermione really didn’t like heights—her “extremely basic” performance in last year’s flying lessons had made that crystal clear.
Harry, however, didn’t seem ready to give up just yet.
“What if…” He narrowed his eyes, a mischievous smile creeping across his face. “We were to, by pure twist of fate, accidentally Spellotape you onto a broom, just like that, and you flew all the way to the pitch without even noticing?”
Hermione didn’t miss a beat.
“Then you’d end up in the Hospital Wing,” she retorted, pointing a finger at him, “and for good reason this time. You and anyone else involved in that idea.”
Her tone was so sharp that Harry raised his hands in surrender, while Ron laughed and Neville stared down at his shoes, as though reconsidering all his life choices.
“She hasn’t called you ‘James’ yet, so it’s not that bad,” Ron joked, eyes glinting with amusement.
“Bad would be her using the full name,” Harry replied with a faint grin.
Hermione folded her arms again, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
“I’ll remember that, Harry James Potter.”
Harry, seizing the moment, turned theatrically to Neville.
“Neville Longbottom,” he said with mock solemnity, “what do you suppose Hermione Jean Granger is trying to tell me?”
Neville smiled and shrugged.
“No idea, Harry James Potter, but I reckon someone else might explain it better than me,” he teased, then pointed at Ron. “This one knows more about the subject. But what’s your full name again, mate?”
“Oh, piss off!” Ron exclaimed, flushing right to the tips of his ears, which only made them all laugh harder.
The atmosphere, which had felt tense before, was now light—and for the moment at least, not even the bitter wind felt quite so bothersome.
Not long after, Angelina, Alicia and Oliver turned up. Oliver looked completely unaffected by the cold, his eyes gleaming with excitement at the thought of practice. Angelina and Alicia, on the other hand, still looked half-asleep, exchanging knowing looks and rolling their eyes at Oliver’s over-the-top enthusiasm.
When they noticed Ron, Neville and Hermione, the three of them looked visibly surprised.
“You lot came to watch?” asked Alicia, smiling as she adjusted her glove. “Not every day we’ve got spectators this early.”
“Or ever,” added Angelina with a soft laugh. “Hope you’re ready for a grand display of misfired Quaffles.”
“We didn’t come to criticise,” said Neville. “I just thought observe…”
He trailed off, carefully considering his words so as not to sound like a creep or a weirdo.
When Angelina gave him a curious look, waiting for him to finish, Neville continued:
“…observe might help us learn something!” he said quickly, his cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment.
Harry and Ron exchanged a knowing glance and chuckled quietly to themselves—it was an inside joke nobody else caught.
Hermione, however, simply shrugged.
“I’m here to see whether these practices really are the hell Harry claims,” she said casually.
Harry stopped laughing at once and froze, feeling his cheeks heat up and wishing the ground would swallow him whole… or perhaps that he could jinx Hermione for saying that aloud, even if it was true.
Oliver, still pulling on his gloves, turned to him with wide eyes.
“Harry! What’ve you been saying about me?!” Oliver sounded utterly incredulous. “My practices are challenging, not hellish!”
“I… er… well…” Harry stammered, running a hand through his hair.
The rest of the group laughed at his reaction, but Angelina stepped in, laying a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
“Relax, Oliver,” she said with a smile. “Everyone knows you’ve got a deep, burning passion for the game… and yes, sometimes you go a bit overboard. And yes, some days it is hell—and don’t even look at me like that.”
Oliver muttered something about “showing them what real overboard looks like.”
Harry spotted the twins and Katie Bell approaching.
Fred and George looked cheerful, though the puffiness around their eyes made it clear they hadn’t slept much—if at all. Katie seemed wide awake, resting her broom on her shoulder.
“Finally!” Oliver exclaimed, clapping his hands and rubbing them together with enthusiasm. “Now that we’re all here, we can fly down to the pitch. We’ll start with a basic run-through. I’ll bet we’re absolutely rusty when it comes to teamwork, and brushing up on the fundamentals never hurt anyone!—”
“Not so fast, Wood.”
A smug voice cut through Oliver’s excitement.
Everyone turned—and came face to face with seven figures clad in green and silver uniforms. The Slytherin team had arrived.
At the front, Marcus Flint wore his usual twisted grin and lopsided teeth, giving off his signature ogre-like aura. Behind him, the team looked more or less unchanged from last year—except for one new addition.
Draco Malfoy, it seemed, had taken Terence Higgs’s place as Seeker—since Higgs was nowhere to be seen. His pinched little face wore an annoyingly smug expression of superiority.
“What now, Flint?” Oliver asked, already sounding exasperated. “Can’t you see we’re about to start practice?”
“Practise all you want,” Flint replied, shrugging. “Won’t make a difference—your sorry excuse for a team won’t win anything. Actually, looks like this year’s going to be an even bigger humiliation.”
The Slytherin players chuckled behind him.
“Besides, you’re wasting your time,” Flint went on. “The Quidditch pitch is ours now. We’ve got priority.”
“Don’t even think about it.” Oliver crossed his arms. “I booked the pitch with Professor McGonagall on the very first day of term. It’s ours today.”
Flint grinned wider, as though about to spring a trap. He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and held it out to Oliver.
“Read it,” he ordered.
Oliver frowned but took the parchment. As he read, his eyes narrowed.
“This is absolute rubbish!” he huffed.
“What is it?” Harry asked, curious.
Oliver handed him the parchment, and Harry read aloud:
I hereby grant the Slytherin Quidditch team full use of the official Hogwarts pitch until next Sunday for the proper training of the new team Seeker.
Signed, Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House.
“If you want to complain, go right ahead,” said Flint with a smug smile. “But we need to train the new Seeker. Rules are rules.”
“Rules are only rules when they suit you, aren’t they?” Harry shot back, unable to hold his tongue, his hand tightening on the handle of his broom. “Otherwise, it’s sod the lot of them.”
A few students nearby had stopped to watch the scene, whispering amongst themselves.
“What’s the matter, Potter? Jealous?” Draco stepped forward, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “By the way, when are you lot planning on buying real broomsticks? That old Nimbus of yours should’ve been chucked ages ago—along with that collection of kindling you all ride around on.”
For a moment, the entire Gryffindor team stood in silence, staring at the opposing team. That’s when Harry noticed something: the Slytherin brooms were all identical. Sleek dark wood, polished to a gleaming finish—clearly brand new, the handles still shining with fresh varnish.
Fred suddenly lost his confident posture.
“Those are all… Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones?!” he blurted.
“They are,” Draco answered, his voice oozing smugness. “And take a good look—because this’ll probably be the only time you lot see anything like that outside a display window.”
The Slytherins’ laughter echoed around them, but Harry gripped his Nimbus even tighter, feeling anger surge through him, his magical aura bristling with irritation.
“So that’s it, Malfoy?” he said, challenging. “Higgs was a decent Seeker—well, for your grubby lot—even if he was a prat. But he’s out, you’re in, and suddenly the whole team’s got brand-new brooms?”
He turned to Flint, eyes sharp. “How much did Daddy pay to bribe you into letting him on the team?”
Before Flint could answer, Draco pulled a face of disgust and glared at Harry.
“My father didn’t bribe anyone! He donated. That’s how things work in the real world, Potter,” he spat his name like it left a bad taste. “More talent means more investment. And you lot—well, what is it those two are riding?”
He pointed at Fred and George.
“A pair of mum’s garden sweepers?”
Ron’s ears turned as red as a tomato, and the twins clenched their teeth, their freckled cheeks flushing hot. The atmosphere turned tense, with students and players glaring at one another.
“You’re a newbie here, Malfoy,” said Oliver in a harsh tone. “You’d better mind your words.”
“Quiet, Wood,” Flint retorted. “Draco deserves respect, Seeker or not.”
Angelina, Katie and Alicia exchanged disdainful looks, as though Draco were nothing more than an insect.
“Respect for him or respect for his father’s money?” Harry replied sharply.
“At least I have a father, you idiot,” Draco snapped, a cruel glint in his eyes.
Silence fell like a stone.
Harry felt his blood boil even more, like a potion left to bubble over fierce heat. He had to clamp down hard to stop himself from giving that blond prat another lesson for bringing up his parents again.
But before he could speak, Hermione stepped forward.
“You only say that because you need your father to carry you through everything you do,” she declared firmly. “Gryffindor wins by skill, not by broomsticks. And you’re only here because you were paid to be! Donor or not.”
All the Slytherins stared at her with contempt, as if she were beneath their notice.
“Shut your mouth, filthy Mudblood!” Draco snarled, fixing her with an icy glare.
The insult hung in the air.
Alicia gasped at what he’d called her.
“How dare you?!” she exclaimed indignantly.
Hermione looked momentarily shaken, her confident expression evaporating in seconds. Harry didn’t know what ‘Mudblood’ meant precisely, but regardless, he felt an urgent desire to punch that miserable blond right then.
The Gryffindors gripped their broomsticks and glared furiously at Malfoy, whose face remained sour as he stared at Hermione.
“That just had to come from a stupid Slytherin…” Katie Bell muttered, furious.
“What did you call her?” Ron stepped forward, facing Draco, his eyes burning with rage.
“Mudblood, you blood‑traitor scum,” Draco spat. “And I’ll call her that until Hogwarts is cleansed of such filth!”
That was enough for the redhead. His blue eyes flashed with anger, if such a thing were possible—almost shooting out rays.
“You’re going to eat those words, you blond shite!” He flicked out his wand in a swift motion.
Before anyone could react, Ron, without hesitation, bellowed:
“Slugulus Eructo!”
A jet of green light struck Draco in the chest.
For a moment, he looked merely surprised, but then, with a grotesque groan, he bent forward and vomited a slimy slug.
Everyone watched in disgust, Gryffindors and Slytherins alike stepping back to avoid any slimy mess.
“What the hell did you do, you idiot?!” roared Adrian Pucey, one of Slytherin’s Chasers.
“What he deserved! Nobody calls Hermione that and gets away with it!” Ron shot back defiantly, though his voice trembled slightly from the mounting tension and Pucey’s imposing size.
“That what? ‘That filth‑Mudblood’?! That’s exactly what she is!—and the rest of you lot of disgusting vermin who think you can mix with us!” Pucey spat the words with fervent contempt, his voice echoing across the courtyard as his cold eyes fixed on Hermione.
Hermione took a step back, her legs trembling as she shivered.
The hatred in the Slytherins’ eyes was like a wall of ice, pressing her to the ground. If it were only Malfoy and his cronies, she could’ve endured it. But six more tall, older Quidditch players stood ready to crush her under their boots… Her Gryffindor courage wavered.
Harry felt his aura stir again, restless, a warm wave climbing up his spine. The instinctive realisation rippling in him was that Hermione was threatened, and he had to do something. He couldn’t explain why he needed to act, but he simply moved forward.
Before he knew it, he’d placed himself between her and Pucey.
“You’d best watch your tongue with her, you pig,” Harry growled, baring his teeth. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”
Harry didn’t know where it came from, but whatever it was, he didn’t have to say any more. The way he stood, shoulders squared as best he could, his gaze steady behind his round glasses, said everything.
The Slytherins hesitated.
Harry remained unmoving, and a hush fell as everyone stared murderous at one another.
The message was clear: if they wanted to reach Hermione, they’d have to get past him first.
That old reputation of a “threat” had returned at just the right moment.
Ron may have cast a well‑placed spell on Malfoy and defended Hermione in classic Gryffindor style, but despite his bravery, no Slytherin there feared him.
Harry, however, was another matter. He didn’t need to cast a single spell to be heard and taken seriously.
It was well‑known that he had survived a Killing Curse at just one year old, that he’d faced down a troll alone—killing it brutally on Halloween past his eleventh birthday—and no one had suddenly forgotten that, not to mention his other feats—told in parts and omitting others—about what he’d done to stop Quirrell stealing the Philosopher’s Stone. Not to mention the recent gossip about the strength of his magical aura.
And for a moment, Hermione stood frozen.
Her heart pounded so loudly she almost feared everyone around could hear it. The Slytherins’ hate, the vile insult, the slug oozing down Malfoy’s robes—all seemed to fade when Harry placed himself before her.
He wasn’t particularly tall—in fact, he was perhaps an inch or two shorter than her—but certainly lacked the imposing height of the Slytherin Quidditch players. Yet in that moment, shoulders squared and green eyes flaming behind his glasses, he seemed… different.
Something inside her leapt, a warm, confused emotion making her swallow hard.
But despite her friend’s bravery, Hermione didn’t need protection!
Never did… except for the times her father had defended her from school bullies, giving them a moral lecture and speaking to their parents before she got into the car to go home, but that was a whole other story!
She was Hermione Granger—the girl who always faced down bullies when no one else was around, who never backed away from an argument, who never faltered at what was said of her, and who knew exactly how to defend herself with every spell she’d learned from her countless books.
But there… with Harry shielding her like a human shield, she felt something strange.
It was a mixture of gratitude, shame… and something else.
Something that made her cheeks burn hotter than they ought in the cold. Her aura reacted as if it wanted to stay closer to him, for some reason.
She didn’t understand what was happening to her, it was too confusing—even for her sharp mind.
“Harry…” she tried to speak, but the word came out a whisper.
He didn’t even look back, still staring Pucey down with an expression that clearly said, “Try anything. I dare you, son of a bitch.”
Pucey clenched his fists, jaw locked, but he twisted his gaze away first.
The other Slytherins also retreated, turning their attention to the Weasley twins, who until then had remained silent and were easier targets.
“Blood‑traitors are even worse!” mocked Miles Bletchley, Slytherin’s Keeper, folding his arms. “By the way, wasn’t it you lot who threw Dungbombs in our common room last year? I always thought it smelled of poverty and misery.” He spat the words with derision.
“Oh, we’ve hit a sensitive subject,” George added lightly.
“And as far as we know, you chaps were the ones who did it,” Fred snapped back, eyebrows raised, a scornful grin on his lips.
“Or you simply have short memories and love blaming others?” George pondered with faux seriousness. “So typical of slimy, slithering snakes.”
The provocation had the desired effect. The Slytherins tensed further, their faces contorting with anger.
“We know that prat over there was in on it with you—there were five wizards, right? You’re teaching that rat to be as disgusting as you?” Pucey stepped forward, facing Ron.
Although he was in his seventh year and far taller, Ron didn’t flinch, despite visibly trembling.
“Enough!”
Fred and George stepped up to stand alongside Ron, shoulder to shoulder, blocking Pucey.
“If you want to fight, pick someone your size, Pucey,” Fred said, his eyes shining with anger.
“But of course he won’t,” George sneered. “Snakes prefer attacking from behind.”
“Besides,” Fred added, “it’s been made clear that it was Slytherins who did that shite.”
“Literally,” George finished.
“Impossible!” Pucey exclaimed.
“Every single Slytherin was questioned, you prats!” Flint spat.
“Yeah, none of us threw those Dungbombs!” Montague protested.
“Then it’s down to you miserable rats!” Pucey snarled, pointing at them as if delivering a final verdict.
Fred stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous.
“Call us rats one more time, and you’ll find we don’t need wands to deal with idiots like you.”
“Or we can use our wands, if you prefer,” added George, flicking his wand out in one fluid motion.
The Weasleys’ faces were glowing red as coals, and the tension in the air was palpable.
No one noticed when Draco, who until then had remained hunched and kneeling, slumped under the slime, finally managed to raise his wand, grey eyes burning for revenge.
“Everte Statum!” he rasped.
An orange spell struck Ron squarely, sending him flying back a few metres. He hit the ground hard, gasping as he tried to catch his breath.
Everyone watched in stunned silence, eyes wide as Ron lay on the ground, moaning in pain from the impact.
That was the spark.
“FLIPENDO!”
Roared Fred, and a jet of blue light zipped through the air like a cutting thunderclap, striking Adrian Pucey’s arm, who cried out in surprise as he was pushed forcefully back, nearly falling.
“TARANTALLEGRA!”
George followed, and a sharp crack echoed when the spell hit one of the Slytherin players, making his legs dance uncontrollably.
“GET THEM! — STUPEFY!” Flint bellowed, and the pitch erupted into chaos.
“BACK, ALL OF YOU!” shouted Oliver, pointing his wand directly at Flint, but nobody seemed inclined to obey.
“Impedimenta!”
Harry heard Angelina Johnson said, and a shrill whistle cut the air before one of the Slytherin Beaters was flung back as though he’d hit an invisible wall—he staggered back to cover, still dazed.
Within seconds, the battlefield had formed before the clocktower.
The puddles of mud and cold water that covered the courtyard had become a scene of complete chaos, the few tidied trees serving as makeshift shields, while at the centre the stone fountain divided the duelling sides, its spray glistening under the flurry of spells.
The air was filled with a cacophony of bright lights and screams, spells flying in all directions like wild lightning. Around them, the onlookers pressed into the open corridors, trying to shield themselves from the magic storm, eyes wide and some screaming in fright.
Harry dropped instinctively, dodging a white bolt that whizzed past his ear.
“Stupefy!” Oliver shouted, knocking Flint down with a precise spell before being struck by a Glacius from Peregrine Derrick. The Gryffindor captain froze in place, white mist puffing from his nostrils.
Fred was hit by a Conjunctivitis, stumbling as his vision blurred, but George reacted swiftly with a Rictusempra, toppling Montague when he took a step back and fell backwards into the fountain, laughing uncontrollably.
“Fuck, I can’t see!” Fred yelled, blinking furiously as he tried to find cover.
Angelina saw Pucey waving his wand at Fred.
“Drop down, Fred!” she yelled, but to no avail.
He was struck squarely in the back just as he turned and crashed to the ground, bound by ropes conjured by an Incarcerous.
“Bloody hell!” Fred exclaimed.
Harry turned just in time to see Draco raise his wand again—this time aiming at him.
Harry was quicker.
“Furnunculus!”
He shouted, whipping his wand through the air.
The golden spell sliced through the space and hit Draco square in the face.
In the blink of an eye, enormous, pulsating boils began to sprout, grotesquely swelling and spurting pus in nauseating bursts.
Harry promised himself he’d thank the twins for teaching him that hex later.
Draco, still coughing up slugs, dropped to his knees and whimpered in growing panic, trying uselessly to shield his face with trembling hands, gagging between gurgled cries.
At any other moment, the sight would’ve been comical—almost a masterpiece of poetic justice, with his vomit now cleaner and less foul than what had spilled from his mouth minutes before.
But Harry had neither the time nor the inclination to laugh. His blood still boiled with the bigotry directed at Hermione.
“Got anything else to say, Malfoy?!” Harry shouted, ducking behind a tree as he watched the blonde writhe in the middle of the pitch, like some grotesque circus act.
“You son of—” Draco tried to snarl something vile back, but all that came out was a gurgle and another slimy slug wriggling to the ground.
“Yeah, thought so!” Harry snapped, shielding his head as a spell exploded against the tree, splintering bark into the air.
Neville, determined to help, lifted his broken wand with trembling hands, face flushed with focus.
“Locomotor Wibbly!” he cried, aiming at an unsuspecting Slytherin.
But the spell veered off.
Before he could process what went wrong, the jinx spun back and hit his own shoulder squarely.
“Oh no!” Neville yelped, stumbling and collapsing, his legs wobbling like jelly.
He tried to get up, but his knees buckled uselessly, leaving him stranded in the middle of the chaos.
On the far side, Hermione caught sight of Lucian Bole aiming at her. The Slytherin had a cruel smile as he raised his wand.
“Your turn, Mudblood,” he sneered.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
Hermione said quickly before he could strike.
Bole’s body snapped stiff in an instant, a surprised expression frozen on his face as he toppled like a plank. Only his eyes still moved as he hit the ground.
Hermione ran breathlessly towards Harry, hidden behind the tree. She ducked just in time to dodge a spell, letting out a squeak as bits of bark struck her cheek.
Ron groaned as he turned on the ground. He’d smacked his head in the fall and had nearly blacked out, but now only a nasty bump throbbed. He crawled towards his wand. The first thing he did was get up and dash for cover, sliding behind Harry’s tree.
“That bastard got me square on!” Ron panted, peering over his shoulder at the battlefield. He clutched his side, still winded.
“He’s curled up in a ball, spewing slugs and covered in pus—thank me later,” Harry replied swiftly, eyes scanning the duelling chaos.
Hermione, panting and with beads of sweat on her brow, scanned frantically.
“Where’s Neville?” she asked urgently.
“He wasn’t with you?” Harry shot back, eyes locked on hers.
“He was, but he didn’t follow me!” Hermione spun, scanning the pitch until her eyes widened and she pointed. “There! Out in the open!”
Harry and Ron followed her gaze.
Neville was sprawled on the ground, pale, dragging himself forward helplessly, his legs flailing uselessly behind him.
“AH!” he cried, shielding his head as a stray spell barely missed him.
“Damn it! He’s an open target out there! I’m not leaving him!” Harry growled, and without another thought, dashed out from behind the tree.
“Harry, wait!” Hermione shouted, but he was already moving.
“Don’t go alone, mate!” Ron grunted, chasing after him.
“Be careful!” Hermione called, wand raised, but they were already charging straight into danger.
Harry weaved through the duelling madness, spells whooshing overhead. Ron was close behind, guarding his back. When they reached Neville, Harry dropped to his knees.
“Come on, Nev, we’ve got to get you out of here!” he panted.
“Can you stand?” Ron asked, grabbing Neville’s other arm.
“My legs—they—they won’t move!” Neville stammered, trying to help with his arms.
“Grab his arm, Ron, help me lift him,” Harry ordered, looping Neville’s arm around his shoulder.
He ducked as a curse hissed past his ear.
“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed.
Hermione appeared at their side, scanning for attackers.
“Quick! Behind the tree!” she pointed. “I’ll cover you!”
Together, they dragged Neville, Harry and Ron moving as quickly and carefully as they could.
Hermione, wand clutched tight, kept a sharp watch, ready to hex anyone who came close, mind calculating every movement. Luckily, the Slytherins were too focused on their own duels to notice.
At last, they reached the cover of the tree.
Neville slumped against the trunk, trying to catch his breath.
“Sorry... I—I just wanted to help,” he mumbled.
“You did,” Hermione said softly.
Harry looked at him, trying to reassure him. “It’s alright, mate. We’ll finish this, quick.”
Neville nodded, still clutching his wand as if it were his last line of defence.
“We’ve got unfinished business with those gits. Let’s go, Harry!” Ron said, smacking Harry’s shoulder, wand raised.
“Ron, no!” Hermione cut in, urgency in her voice. She stepped between them, wand aimed at the battlefield. “We can’t just rush back out there. They’re older and better than us—we don’t even know proper Shield Charms—”
“I don’t care!” Ron shot back. “My brothers are out there fighting for us. I’m not leaving them! Stay here if you want!”
Before she could answer, he’d already bolted from cover, heading towards Fred, still tied up and half-blind.
“Ugh! Idiot! He never listens!” Hermione huffed, both furious and worried.
“George’ll look after him—but the rest are still in trouble,” Harry said. “If we move together, we can help.”
“Help how? This isn’t so simple—we don’t even know proper duelling!”
“We know the basics, Hermione!” he countered. “I bet you know at least five offensive spells from your books.”
Hermione sighed heavily, clearly not keen on leaving cover without a better plan.
“Fine—just be careful, for Merlin’s sake,” she said firmly. “I’m right behind you.”
The flurry of spells turned to a full-on pandemonium.
More Gryffindors, previously only watching, now jumped in, wands raised to protect their friends. The Slytherins followed suit, swelling the fray.
From afar, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs stared in horror, paralysed by the escalating spellfire.
Angelina gasped as a lilac jinx hit her knees, twisting her legs grotesquely backwards.
Bam!
“Oof—” she groaned, collapsing with a heavy thud, unable to move.
Katie lunged, ducking a hex that narrowly missed her head, and shouted:
“Bat-Bogey hex!”
A green flash struck Pucey, who screamed as massive, flapping bogey bats erupted from his nose and swarmed him mercilessly.
“Titillando!”
Alicia shrieked at Miles Bletchley.
The Slytherin Keeper dropped his wand and collapsed, howling with laughter, clawing uselessly at the unbearable tickling.
Before Alicia could dodge, a curse struck her, sticking her tongue to the roof of her mouth and silencing her completely.
Ron helped drag Fred—still bound and half-blinded—out of the courtyard, freeing him with a Relashio from George. While shielding his brother, Ron took a curse square in the shoulder, like being punched hard, and hissed in pain.
“Ouch!” he hissed, clutching the spot.
“That’s going to bruise,” George said, trying to keep light.
“No kidding!” Ron snapped.
In the middle of the pitch, Harry ducked curses and fired back the few spells he knew, losing sight of Hermione amid the chaos.
A silver jinx missed his glasses by a hair, and as he turned, he spotted her—too late.
“HERMIONE!” he bellowed, voice slicing through the cacophony.
A loud crack from a blue Flipendo struck her arm, hurling her like a rag doll.
“AH!” she screamed in pain, clutching her arm.
She landed hard in a muddy puddle, her arm twisted at a sickening angle. Her scream stabbed through Harry like a knife—his aura panicked.
Her hair was drenched and wild, her purple scarf and robes unrecognisable in the muck—utterly filthy.
Pansy Parkinson emerged from the chaos, eyes alight with vicious glee.
“Stay where you belong, Mudblood!” she shrieked, face twisted in malice.
Mudblood.
The word, spat with such venom, the sheer hatred in Draco’s and Pansy’s voices, twisted something inside Harry. He’d lost count of how many times they’d spat it in ten minutes. His aura raged hotter and hotter.
But before he could react, George appeared beside him.
“Calvorio!”
George roared, pointing his wand at Pansy.
The spell struck her head-on.
Within seconds, her hair began falling in clumps until she was completely bald. Pansy let out a piercing shriek and fled, stumbling through the mud in horror.
Harry dashed to Hermione, dropping to his knees beside her. The world faded.
He could no longer hear the duel. The battle at the clock tower disappeared.
"Hermione!—Hermione, are you alright?" he asked, his voice trembling, barely a whisper, utterly in shock.
Hermione tried to hold back her tears but couldn’t; thick tears streamed down her sweaty, mud-streaked face. She looked at Harry with an expression of pain and helplessness.
"My arm..." she murmured, her voice choked.
Harry followed her gaze to the injured arm.
He knew at once that something was seriously wrong—twisted or broken, it didn’t matter. His heart clenched as if someone had gripped it tightly, trying to tear it in two. He felt an intensely uncomfortable prickling in his aura, as though that pain ought to be his and not hers.
The sight was unbearable.
Hermione, the cleverest, bravest, kindest girl he knew—his first true friend in life—was lying there on the ground, hurt and crying. All because of cruel words and a ridiculous fight.
Harry felt it stirring inside him, that anger which wasn’t ordinary or simple. It was deep, like a primal, uncontrollable force, burning in his chest and spreading through his entire body like wildfire.
He could barely breathe as this energy grew, thick and pulsating, around him. It was as if the air itself trembled. The magic within him needed no invitation, no permission. He knew what it was—his wild aura—and this time, he didn’t try to consciously restrain it. He just wanted to make the wretched girl who’d reduced Hermione to this pay.
"She’s going to pay for this..." he hissed darkly. "She’s going to pay for this!" he said louder, more furiously.
His fingers were tingling, and he stood up in a sharp movement, his wand shaking in his hand. His eyes automatically sought the path Pansy had fled down.
She couldn’t escape unscathed after what she’d done.
She wouldn’t escape.
He would make her pay.
Right now.
"Harry... what are you doing?" Hermione asked weakly, noticing the warm magical wind forming around them, beginning to stir her dirty curls.
She’d never witnessed his magic acting so unpredictably, but she could tell it was happening—and growing stronger by the second. Harry was breathing deeply, angrily. Flickers of red began weaving into the green of his eyes, becoming more pronounced.
It didn’t matter if Pansy was already far away; he wanted to attack her, wanted her to feel pain—not just physical, but the humiliation and despair Hermione was feeling now.
But there was no time to do anything at all.
"HARRY, BEHIND YOU!" Neville suddenly shouted.
Harry spun around at once, but not fast enough.
PUM!
A blinding red light flashed before striking him squarely in the head.
And then, darkness swallowed him.
Chapter 22: Licking Wounds
Notes:
Hey, just a quick update! For those following the fic weekly—I originally tried to keep a comic book-style cover art, but it turned out way harder to replicate (at a quality I'm happy with) than I expected. So I've decided to switch to a more anime-inspired style for this fic instead. Hope you don't mind!
(Personally, I think it looks cuter this way)
From now on (or until I change my mind again, lol), covers will follow this new vibe. I'll also be retroactively updating older covers to match, so check back in a few weeks if you're curious!
That's all—happy reading! :)
Chapter Text
“Uh...”
Harry groaned, eyelids heavy as he fought to regain consciousness.
When he finally opened his eyes, a sharp pain throbbed at his temple, as if a garden gnome were hammering his skull from the inside. The world spun slowly, and it took him a few seconds to grasp where he was.
Still on the ground in the square, before the imposing clock tower—the giant hand, seen from below, sliced the sky like a silver sword.
The icy pavement pressed against his back, and the night’s dampness had already soaked his clothes, clinging to him with a cold that made him shiver. Luckily, he hadn’t landed in the mud puddle beside him, still marked by Hermione’s fall, though she was no longer there.
The grey, heavy sky seemed to laugh at him, as gloomy as when he’d left for his first Quidditch practice that morning. The wind now whistled louder, tearing dry leaves from the ground and twisting them into fleeting whirlwinds.
Harry fumbled across the ground with trembling hands, searching for his glasses, until a pair of sharp, immaculate shoes appeared in his blurred vision.
The silhouette was unmistakable: upright posture, greenish robes, and a gaze so piercing it needed no words.
“Professor... Professor McGonagall...” he croaked, trying to pull himself together.
She didn’t smile, nor did her stern expression waver.
With a precise movement, she fixed his lenses—which had cracked when they hit the ground—with a non-verbal Oculus Reparo, and handed them back. She also returned his wand, which had rolled away on impact.
“Get up and join the line,” she ordered, her voice as sharp as a sword’s edge.
Harry swallowed dryly, still dizzy, but obeyed.
Harry dragged himself over to where Ron and Neville stood, the professor’s stern gaze burning into his back like a Flagrante curse.
Gradually, the fog in his mind cleared, and the scene around him became terribly clear. The clock tower courtyard, once so peaceful and designed for serene, open-air study sessions on quieter days, now looked like the stage of a lost battle.
Injured students still moaned on the ground, hurried professors tried to contain the chaos, and Lockhart—that imbecile—struck dramatic poses amid the turmoil, brandishing his wand and proclaiming dubious spells that, with luck, would do no more than emit colourful sparks.
Gryffindors and Slytherins, once furious enemies, now stood in separate lines, equally humiliated.
The lions kept their heads low, their golden manes dust-streaked and ashamed, while the snakes, even wounded, still shot venomous glances their way, restraining themselves to mere hissed whispers of anger and indignation.
The air smelled of freshly turned mud, sweat, and a faint metallic odor of magic. The stone benches at the edges of the square were overturned, and scorch marks from spells stained the masonry of the fountain, which had been accurately cast on the tip of the roof structure that covered it, tearing off one of its corners. Splinters of wood from trees littered the ground, completing the desolate scene.
“You all right, mate?” Ron asked, his face marked by light scratches and his expression tense.
“Yeah, reckon so,” Harry muttered, rubbing his throbbing temple.
“That girl hit you dead-on,” Neville remarked, discreetly pointing at a black-haired Slytherin girl Harry didn’t recognise. “Actually, don’t think she even aimed at you—got you by mistake. She was trying to hit Lee.”
Who’d cast the spell or who the original target had been hardly mattered now. The damage was done.
Harry swept his eyes over the group, and then his heart gave a lurch.
“Where... where is she?” Harry asked, his voice rougher than he'd intended.
“Hermione? They took her to the hospital wing...” Neville whispered, quietly enough that only Harry could hear.
The words hit him like a bucket of ice water. She shouldn’t have been there. She’d tried to warn him.
“It’s my fault...” Harry sighed, his shoulders bowing under the weight of guilt. “If I’d listened to her—”
“Hey, wasn’t your fault, all right?” Ron cut in, his voice firm but low. “It was Parkinson who did that, I saw. George made sure she’d spend the rest of the day bald.”
“Don’t reckon it’ll last long, though,” Neville muttered under his breath.
Ron let out a snort, furious as a bull.
“Bloody hell of a time for hair-growth potions to exist.” His fists clenched, knuckles white with rage.
Harry knew Ron was right—it was Pansy’s fault—but that didn’t loosen the knot of remorse in his chest.
“You only wanted to help...” Neville said, shrugging. “We all did. And I tried, but... well, you saw how that went.”
He gestured vaguely at his own shoulder, where a purplish bruise beneath his robes would soon form—the result of his own wayward spellwork.
Harry shut his eyes, pressing a hand to his head, but the anguish on his face had nothing to do with physical pain.
“She’ll be all right, mate. Wasn’t anything serious, I’m sure—” Ron started.
“Oi! Quiet, you three!” Percy snapped, his voice cutting like a jailer’s rather than a brother’s. “You’ve caused enough trouble already. Pipe down now!”
Ron whirled around, shooting him a murderous glare. His face twisted with anger, flushing even redder, as if he might explode. Further ahead, Fred and George, who’d been muttering to each other, spun on their heels at Percy’s voice, their expressions mirroring Ron’s outrage perfectly.
“Instead of helping us. Rather kiss the professors’ boots or anyone with a title higher than his... prat,” Ron hissed through his teeth, fists clenched, so only Harry and Neville could hear. “Don’t know how he’s our brother sometimes.”
Harry—like Neville—said nothing. They just watched the professors’ movements in silence, unwilling to cause more trouble for themselves or the others around them.
Suddenly, the heavy clock tower doors burst open with a boom, and Albus Dumbledore emerged, his long purple robes—embroidered with tiny, magically shifting stars like a living sky—billowing like wings as he strode forward with steps that defied his age.
The murmurs in the air died instantly, smothered by the weight of his presence. His blue eyes, usually twinkling with benevolence behind half-moon spectacles, were now cold as ice.
Harry felt a chill run down his spine.
Never—never—had he seen the Headmaster look so stern. It wasn’t just anger, or disapproval... it was disappointment, and that hurt worse than any reprimand.
The effect was immediate. A wave of shame crushed the students as if an invisible giant had stepped on their chests. Even the Slytherins, usually so arrogant, lowered their eyes. Snape, with his habitual sneer, watched the Gryffindors like they were particularly repulsive insects, while Professor McGonagall was so pale with fury that Harry half-expected her to transform into a hissing, bristling cat any second.
It was Oliver who finally broke the silence, stepping forward with tense shoulders.
“Professor Dumbledore, the Quidditch pitch was reserved for us, but Professor Snape authorised the Slytherins to practise at the same time,” Oliver explained, his voice firm but not challenging. “And then... well, Malfoy started provoking us, called Hermione a... a...”
“Mudblood,” Ron finished, fists clenched. “And I wasn't about to let that slide!”
“You cast the first spell, Weasley!” Adrian Pucey accused, pointing a trembling finger at Ron.
“Because Malfoy said what he shouldn't have, and you egged him on!” Fred shouted, stepping forward as if ready to grab Pucey by the collar.
“Words aren't the same as actions—” Miles Bletchley fired back, raising his voice.
“SILENCE!”
Dumbledore had raised his wand to his own throat, and when he shouted imposingly, his voice echoed like thunder, making the windows of the tower shake.
The command was so powerful Harry felt his eardrums vibrate. For a moment, the only sound was the high-pitched ringing in everyone's ears.
Dumbledore lowered his wand slowly, his eyes scanning each face with an intensity that made Harry want to sink through the floor.
The weight of the silence was nearly unbearable—heavier than any lecture.
Then, at last, the Headmaster spoke again, and though his voice was soft, every word carried unquestionable authority.
“Violence is never the answer,” he began, and Harry could barely meet his eyes. “But the defence of others, when done with nobility... that is another matter.”
Snape opened his mouth to protest, but a single look from Dumbledore made him retreat.
“However, none of this changes the fact that what occurred here—this skirmish—was, by and large, disgraceful.”
No one dared disagree.
Lockhart seemed eager to say something, his mouth opening, but Dumbledore fixed him with the same piercing gaze he'd given Snape. The difference was, while the Potions Master merely fell silent, Lockhart gulped audibly and looked as though he wanted to flee. Instead, he stayed put, clearing his throat awkwardly.
“Those who are injured, proceed directly to the hospital wing,” Dumbledore ordered, his sharp eyes sweeping the crowd. “The rest of you, make your way to the Great Hall. Off you go.”
The Headmaster's voice was calm, but there was a steeliness in his tone that made everyone fall silent and move quickly.
The tension in the air remained palpable—likely to linger in the very stones of the courtyard for a long time.
The silence in the Great Hall was as oppressive as it had been in the square minutes before—not a single person dared speak a word on their way there.
Harry noticed Pansy hunched at the Slytherin table with her robe's hood pulled up; strands of her hair still littered the clock tower courtyard when he'd left. He imagined this was the least of the punishment she ought to have received after what she did to Hermione.
But if he were honest, he felt a sliver of vindication—not enough, but something. Pansy was notoriously vain about her hair—always fiddling with it during lessons—so every bit of suffering was deserved.
The occasional whisper or cough echoed through the vast hall, as if even the very atmosphere hesitated to make noise. Every student had been summoned, and gradually, those from the hospital wing began filing in—silent and visibly shaken.
Harry, Ron, and Neville exchanged uneasy glances when they saw Angelina enter.
She walked with slight difficulty but seemed recovered. They knew her legs had been turned backward by a jinx—simple enough to reverse with potions, though uncomfortable. A small mercy that the jinx didn’t inflict the agony of actual bone-twisting; at least that was harmless.
Harry remembered a bizarre illustration of the real Leg-Turner Curse from that curses book he’d skimmed last Christmas in the Restricted Section.
“Angelina!” Harry called as she passed. “You saw Hermione? Is she all right?”
“Yeah,” Angelina replied. “Last I saw, she just dislocated her arm—thank Merlin it wasn’t broken. Madam Pomfrey said she’ll be right in a few hours once the potion kicks in, so doubt she’ll be here.”
Harry exhaled sharply, unaware he’d been holding his breath, and felt his shoulders loosen.
After what felt like an eternity, the Hall was packed when Dumbledore’s imposing figure shattered the silence by pushing his chair back with an audible scrape. The sound reverberated, and every eye snapped toward him at once.
The Headmaster walked slowly to the podium, pausing to survey the students with a gravity that seemed to pierce even the most distracted. Just as the weight of his gaze grew unbearable, he finally spoke, his deep voice resonating with steel.
“I trust no lengthy explanation is needed as to why we are gathered. By now, the events of this morning between two of our noble Houses are common knowledge.”
Students exchanged knowing looks—the formalities were unnecessary.
“What transpired today is something I never expected from witches and wizards of your talent. It was shameful. It was base. And in every way contrary to what Hogwarts teaches.”
He paused. His blue eyes burned into them.
Like Neville, Harry couldn’t meet his gaze. Ron, though far from confident, didn’t seem repentant.
“Many of you have willfully misunderstood the concept of unity. Unity is not merely attacking to defend. Unity is, above all, preventing harm to those we care for. Today was nothing but a contest to see who could inflict the most damage—nothing more. The jinxes and hexes cast do not lie. Those who dared aim spells at their peers knew the consequences. You should be ashamed to leave your classmates in the hospital wing.”
The words struck like knives hurled straight into the chests of those who had wielded their wands too harshly that morning—some casting spells meant to maim rather than merely stun.
“Not only have Gryffindor and Slytherin disappointed me today,” Dumbledore declared, his voice echoing through the Great Hall like an icy wind.
A murmur of bewilderment swept across the tables of both mentioned Houses as students exchanged confused glances beneath the floating candles.
“Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw have likewise left me deeply dissatisfied,” the Headmaster continued, his blue eyes glinting severely behind half-moon spectacles. “You stood by and watched the conflict as though it were entertainment, rather than seeking help or intervening as responsible Hogwarts students ought. Your inaction was as condemnable as the violence itself. Every minute of delay resulted in more students injured in the hospital wing, more destruction in the courtyard, and more time allowing this disgrace to continue.”
The other two Houses' students initially looked indignant, but quickly lowered their eyes when Professors Sprout and Flitwick fixed them with stares as stern as those McGonagall and Snape directed at their own.
“For these reasons,” Dumbledore announced, bringing absolute silence over the Hall, “we professors have reached several decisions regarding these events.”
A wave of apprehension rippled through the student ranks.
“The Houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin will forfeit all points accumulated thus far.”
A collective groan rose from the lions' and snakes' tables. Harry felt disappointment spread through Gryffindor's table like a black tide, mentally watching their rubies vanish from the hourglasses.
“Though we are early in the term,” Dumbledore pressed on impassively, “both Houses had already amassed considerable totals and were competing for the lead, as you can see on the large hourglasses outside this hall. Until this moment, Gryffindor was ahead of Slytherin.”
He paused dramatically.
“And since this conflict arose from a dispute over Quidditch—a sport meant to foster healthy camaraderie, but twisted into violence—I declare this year's Quidditch championship… cancelled.”
The Hall erupted in hushed protests. None dared grumble too loudly while being lectured—least of all by the Headmaster.
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students, who had earlier observed with detached disdain, now shot furious glares at the involved tables.
Harry felt his heart sink—he'd promised himself he'd train harder than ever this year, to bring McGonagall the victory she deserved, to honour his father's memory... and now it was being ripped away.
“Thirdly,” Dumbledore pressed on, silencing the room with a mere gesture, “all those actively involved in today's events—with few exceptions—will serve detentions. Primary instigators from both sides shall receive two full weeks of detentions.”
Ron visibly paled.
“Two weeks?!” he whispered, his blue eyes wide with disbelief. “Because of that son of a—?”
“And finally,” Dumbledore cut across, “students of Gryffindor and Slytherin involved in the conflict are hereby banned from visiting Hogsmeade until semester's end.”
This final punishment seemed to strike the older students like a jinx to the gut.
Harry could see the upper-years' faces contort in despair.
Hogsmeade was a privilege reserved for third-years and above. Losing those trips—the sweets at Honeydukes, butterbeers at The Three Broomsticks, secret romantic rendezvous away from teachers' eyes—left the seniors visibly shaken.
“For now, that is all,” concluded Dumbledore, ignoring the muffled grumbling. “Lunch will be served early today. There will be no lessons—the professors will distribute the assignments that would have been given in class, to be completed here in the Great Hall under supervision.”
He made a final pause, his eyes sweeping every face in the room as if he could see directly into their souls.
“I want everyone—I repeat, everyone—to reflect deeply on what transpired today. And I sincerely hope this never happens again.”
A silence as heavy as a cloak settled over the Great Hall, thick with shame and desolation. Harry let his gaze drop to the oak table, feeling each of Dumbledore's words weigh on his conscience like stones tied to his heart.
He hadn't imagined that cold but exciting morning of Quidditch practice would turn into such a colossal cock-up.
Harry did his best to keep up with the assignments while helping Neville as much as he could with their Potions work—which involved brewing the Swelling Solution and the tricky task of explaining how to transfigure a hedgehog into a Pin Cushion in Transfiguration.
Neville, in return, offered a detailed explanation about Jumping Toadstools in Herbology.
Ron, on the other hand, was more interested in finding ways to pad out his essays on the International Warlock Convention of 1289 for History of Magic, which had to be two feet long.
The DADA assignment didn’t help matters; writing about encounters with Lockhart’s creatures felt even more tedious, and none of them really cared about the subject—especially when they were learning so little, just a handful of spells that might be mentioned here or there in the textbook.
Quirrell had, of course, been a dreadful professor, but Lockhart had somehow managed the astonishing feat of being even worse.
“Defence Against the Dark Arts is one of the most useless subjects we’ve got,” Harry thought as he worked on his essay for Lockhart. “It’s supposed to teach us how to defend ourselves. How hard can it be to find a decent professor?”
Harry not only did his homework, but also tried to leave everything organised for Hermione, giving her the references where she could find the material she’d need for her own essays.
Not that she needed it—she’d probably turn down his help because she already knew exactly where every reference was—but even so, Harry wanted to help.
He would’ve let her copy what he’d done, but knew she’d never accept it—Hermione always liked to do everything herself. Harry gave a sheepish laugh at the thought that, if she’d given Madam Pomfrey enough of a headache, she was probably already doing everything one-handed up in the Hospital Wing.
“Even with a hurt arm,” he thought with a pang of melancholy and guilt, “I don’t doubt she’ll find a way to keep everything up to date.”
They weren’t allowed to leave the Hall until all their assignments were done.
After hours of effort, they finally managed to finish everything. They handed in their essays to the professors, who let them go around mid-afternoon. The three of them were exhausted, the words of their texts still swirling in their heads and their hands aching from all the writing.
“Merlin, I don’t want to hear the word ‘convention’ again until I graduate,” Ron said, exasperated. “What a load of rubbish. Who cares about something that happened seven hundred years ago? I mean, literally seven hundred. They probably didn’t even know the spell to clean their own arses yet.”
“I don’t want to hear about History of Magic again until I graduate, full stop,” Harry replied, feeling just as drained.
“In sixth year, you can drop it, you know?” Neville said, shrugging. “No one takes it, as far as I know.”
“Obviously—who can stand Binns? Five years is already torture, imagine seven!” Ron asked rhetorically. “Even Hermione—come on, you can tell she doesn’t like it. She only stays awake and listens out of politeness.”
“Anyway, that’s ages off,” Harry sighed.
Ron gave a disheartened nod and a lopsided smile.
“So now what? Where’re we headed?” Neville stopped in the middle of the corridor, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.
“Hospital Wing, I reckon. We should check on Hermione, yeah?” Ron asked, glancing at the others.
“Let’s go. She might be allowed to leave by now,” Harry suggested hopefully.
When they arrived at the Hospital Wing, they were granted permission by Madam Pomfrey to visit Hermione.
She was wearing clean clothes, with no trace of mud, and her purple scarf was neatly wrapped around her neck. Her injured arm was carefully supported in a sling.
“Hi, Hermione,” said Harry, approaching the bed cautiously. “How are you?”
Hermione forced a smile, trying to sound optimistic.
“Better than the last time you saw me,” she said quietly. “The potions and a few hours of rest seem to be enough to fix me, I think.”
“So, will you be here much longer?” asked Neville, his voice gentle.
Hermione sighed, tired, and shook her head.
“No... I can leave whenever I want, I just need to avoid moving my arm too much,” she said, wincing slightly in pain—though she failed to hide it completely. “Best to stay still for today.”
“Oi, how about popping round to Hagrid’s for a cuppa? We haven’t been this week yet,” Ron suggested, trying to cheer her up.
“I've got the notes from your work today—if you like, I can help you with it later,” Harry offered.
Hermione nodded, blinking and smiling tiredly.
“Of course, that’d be good,” she replied softly.
“Harry’s the favourite in Transfiguration, isn’t he? Who knows what he might do for you,” Ron remarked with a cheeky grin, making Hermione roll her eyes—though she was still smiling.
“Did they cover a lot in lessons today? You even finished early,” Hermione commented as she slowly got up from the bed.
The boys rushed to help, but she waved them off with her good hand, saying she was fine.
They walked with Hermione slowly to the gamekeeper’s hut, explaining what had happened, while Ron made sure to voice his outrage over two weeks of detention thanks to Malfoy.
The sun was beginning to set and, as usual at that hour, smoke curled from the chimney above a roaring fire.
They knocked on the door and were greeted by Hagrid and Fang.
They’d already visited the giant once last week, but hadn’t said much beyond what Hagrid had been up to and how their near-death escapades in a flying car had gone.
The only thing that had truly shocked the four of them was that the giant Acromantula in the Forbidden Forest had a name… of course, everything dangerous had a name where Hagrid was concerned—and this time it was Aragog.
He’d said that if they’d told Aragog they were friends of his, the spider would’ve left them alone—but Ron had made it very clear that he never intended to see that thing again in his life.
“Hermione, what happened to yer arm?” Hagrid asked, visibly worried, his expression softening as he looked at her.
“Long story,” Hermione sighed, settling into her chair as Hagrid began pouring tea for everyone.
“Got time, I ‘ave—fancy a rock cake? Fresh out the oven,” Hagrid offered, setting out his infamous stone-like cakes, which they politely declined—Harry could feel his teeth cracking just looking at them.
The four of them told the whole story, from start to finish, and Hagrid listened carefully, his concern deepening with every word.
“He called yeh what?!” Hagrid exclaimed, slamming his heavy fist on the wooden table, making the teacups rattle.
Neville jumped in his seat—startled—he’d been staring absent-mindedly out the window.
“Malfoy called her a Mudblood, the bastard!” Ron growled, clenching his fists in fury.
“And then?” Hagrid prompted, his voice low but threatening.
“Ron hit him with a hex that made him throw up slugs, and Harry finished it off with one that made his face squirt pus,” Neville explained, sipping his tea.
“Deserved it,” Hagrid snorted, nodding.
He looked at Hermione, who had her head down.
“Oi, ‘Ermione, don’ yeh let it get ter yeh, alright? I know yeh’re ten times smarter than those fools,” he said firmly. “All raised ter think like that by their parents, as always… some things never change,” he muttered in the end.
Hermione simply nodded in silence, her eyes still fixed on her injured arm—the same one Pansy had struck with a spell, knocking her into the mud and telling her to stay where she belonged.
“That was ridiculous,” said Ron, brow furrowed, clearly outraged. “You're not actually taking what they called you seriously, are you?”
Hermione looked at Ron sharply—not to scold him, but almost as though she were trying to mask her pain behind an impenetrable wall.
“How many times have you been called a worm, Ron?” she asked. “Or how many times have you been completely unwanted for being who you are—something you can’t change? It just... it gets to you,” she said quietly, sipping her tea with her other hand.
Ron didn’t know what to say, scratching at his arm.
“Well… never, but you shouldn’t let it get to you! That’s what I’m trying to say. They’re just a bunch of idiots, that’s all,” he said, shrugging.
“It’s not just that,” Neville shook his head, thoughtful. “It hurts—it really hurts, deep down. And… I know it’s not the same, but I feel awful too when they call me a Squib. Not because being a Squib is bad, but because they think I shouldn’t be a wizard—that I’m magically weak.” He spoke while staring sombrely into his tea.
Hagrid gave a heavy sigh.
“Load o’ rubbish, all of it. There ain’t no such thing as stronger or weaker wizards. Yeh work hard, yeh’ll be good as any other… and if yeh don’t, yeh won’t be.”
Harry leaned forward slightly.
“But what exactly is that insult? Mudblood? I... I didn’t understand,” he said.
Neville hesitated before answering.
“Well… Mudblood is a term used for Muggle-borns,” he began slowly. “A lot of wizards in our society believe that pure-bloods are superior—those born entirely from magical parents, who themselves come from magical families, with no Muggle ties at all. And… calling someone a Mudblood is an extremely nasty insult. The last war, in fact, started because of that. They wanted to wipe out Muggle-borns.”
Harry’s eyes widened, his chest tightening. He glanced at Hermione, who was staring down at her lap, her expression filled with sorrow. That familiar urge to jinx Draco and Pansy rose again—he wanted them to swallow their words.
“But… but that makes no sense. Hermione’s a witch!” Harry said, disbelief written all over his face. “How can anyone think someone’s better or worse because of blood?”
“Good question,” Ron muttered, arms crossed.
“They don’t care, Harry,” Hermione answered softly. “If they could… they’d throw me out of here without a second thought—maybe even worse.”
Harry scowled, fists clenched.
“What a load of rubbish,” he huffed.
“Welcome to the club of those who think it’s complete bollocks,” Ron grumbled.
Hermione didn’t even bother correcting Ron’s language this time.
Harry’s head was spinning with everything they’d said. Now he understood.
That’s why Hermione pushed herself so hard—to prove she was capable, that she was worthy of being called a witch like any other. Because there were people who believed she wasn’t good enough. If a war had been fought over this, then the problem was far worse than he’d ever imagined.
How had he never noticed it before?
Or rather—how could the wizarding world have people so rotten? Apparently, it wasn’t something confined to the Muggle world.
“And let me guess—they called yeh a blood traitor too?” Hagrid asked, as though reading Ron’s mind.
“How d’you know?” Ron asked, surprised.
Hagrid shrugged, unbothered.
“Saw yer parents go through school here, and all yer brothers too… I know what they stand for,” he said, munching on a rock cake as though it were as soft as freshly baked bread.
“You lot would be first on the list for a name like that.”
“Another daft term?” Harry suggested, with disdain.
Ron nodded, frustration written all over his face.
“Yeah, obviously. Nothing but shite comes out of their mouths,” the redhead said acidly. “My family’s pure-blood, but we believe in equality between Muggle-borns and other wizards. Mum and Dad have always made it crystal clear—we’re all the same. And that, to some tossers, makes us blood traitors.”
“My family’s never had a problem with Muggle-borns either,” Neville added with a shrug, “but we are not blood traitors to them”
Harry gave a long sigh.
He hadn’t expected it to be this complicated—or this absurd. Before, he’d only thought the wizarding world was a bit old-fashioned. Now, he was sure of it—and it made him feel hollow. He’d always believed the magical world would be the perfect refuge, far from the sick, suffocating house of his aunt and uncle—a brilliant and fair alternative to the Muggle world that had let him down so many times. But more and more, that illusion was crumbling.
There were so many good people—kind and loving—Harry could spend ages naming them all, including Hagrid, who was sitting right in front of him. But there were cruel ones too, ready to hurt others for reasons as petty as blood prejudice. They’d probably use Dark spells and terrible methods to keep their hatred alive. Not that the wizarding world was entirely bad—far from it. But it was a long way from the perfection he’d once, in his innocence, believed it would be.
“Want a bit o’ friendly advice?” Hagrid asked, noticing the silence that had settled over the room while everyone sipped their tea.
The four of them nodded and murmured in agreement, waiting for him to go on.
“If yeh act like yeh couldn’t care less, laugh in their faces and just ignore it—that’s what really gets under their skin,” Hagrid said, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“And how am I supposed to do that?” Hermione asked, without much hope.
Hagrid sighed.
“If yeh don’t know how yet, yeh’ll learn with time,” he said sadly. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been called a freak. I’m half-giant, remember? Eventually, yeh learn to let it go.”
“Oh... that’s—that’s awful!” Hermione said indignantly. “And are you all right with that? Do people still say things like that to you?”
Hagrid waved a hand, brushing off her concern.
“Nah, I don’t mind anymore. Like I said—I learned ter ignore it. An’ when yeh do that, it takes the fun out of it for them. Or at the very least, it makes it easier on you.”
Ron looked down, ears turning slightly pink with embarrassment. Having grown up in a fully wizarding family, he sometimes carried prejudices instilled by habit rather than malice.
Harry noticed and remembered how Ron had once felt a bit disgusted—and even afraid—upon learning Hagrid was a half-giant. Clearly, Ron now regretted that thought in silence.
They drank their tea in quiet for a moment, trying to steer their minds away from the day’s tension. The cosy warmth of Hagrid’s cabin was a comfort, and Harry thought a lighter subject—something completely unrelated—would be very welcome just now.
“I really just wanted to practise Quidditch today…” he thought to himself.
Harry sighed softly, wishing the day had been simple.
“So, what d’you all think of yer new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?” Hagrid asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Of all the topics in the world, why did it have to be that one?
Neville and Harry exchanged glances like weary veterans preparing for yet another battle.
Hermione’s eyes lit up and she sat up straighter at the mention of Lockhart, but before she could list all the brilliant and shining points about him, Ron cut in.
“Absolute rubbish, if you ask me,” Ron said without hesitation, and Harry and Neville couldn’t help bursting into laughter at the blunt honesty. Even Hagrid gave a muffled chuckle, shaking his head.
“Ronald!” Hermione gasped, surprised by her friend’s frankness, but quickly lifted her chin with a defiant look. “He is our professor! And he’s got extensive experience in the field—he deserves a bit more respect!”
Ron rolled his eyes, clearly fed up.
“Yeah, all right, all right… more respect for the bloke who literally left an entire classroom to deal with a swarm of pixies, who dangled Nev from the ceiling and nearly tore my hair out. Real hero, that one,” he added sarcastically.
“I looked like a right idiot, swingin’ from the chandelier,” Neville muttered awkwardly, voice muffled against the rim of his teacup.
“Look, I’m not exactly defending Ron here, but… he’s got a point,” Harry said, trying to ease the tension.
Hermione shot him a narrow-eyed glare—threatening even with her arm in a sling.
“I mean the part where he abandoned us in class,” Harry hurried to clarify.
“He didn’t abandon the class!” Hermione began explaining as though they were being wildly dramatic. “He did it to show we were capable of handling the situation,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It was a practical lesson, after all—nothing more. And isn’t that what you always ask for, Harry? Well, that was a practical. He just wanted to test our skills—and he did, didn’t he? We should be better prepared next time.”
“Merlin help us if the next thing’s any bigger,” Neville muttered under his breath, and Harry was the only one who heard, snorting quietly to himself.
“Lockhart left yeh alone with those pixies?” Hagrid frowned, concerned. “He asked me ter catch ‘em for the lesson—I thought it was just a demonstration... those things are far too mischievous for a classroom. Must’ve torn the place apart.”
“Looks like he skipped that part,” Ron said with a shrug, unfazed. “Don’t know what’s worse—him lettin’ them loose and legging it, or us being forced to memorise his favourite colour.”
“Not that again!” Hermione frowned, clearly irritated.
“Oh, come on, mate, we’ve been through this,” Harry warned Ron, trying to head off another row.
“Yeah, no… no more talk about colours, please, uh… the weather is a better subject” Neville agreed, shooting Ron a pained look.
Ron shrugged, not missing the opportunity for a joke.
“All right, all right. But how about his favourite holiday in a leap year?” he offered as if striking a deal. “I could go on about that all day. It's something new, we've never talked about it.”
Hagrid let out a dry laugh. “Lockhart’s always been like that, even when he was a student.”
“You knew him when he was a student?” Hermione asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “I’ve read everything in Magical Me, his autobiography. So was he brave? How clever was he? He was in Ravenclaw, after all. He must have been a brilliant student, to say the least.”
“Nah, Lockhart was a right pain, truth be told,” Hagrid replied with his usual bluntness, making Hermione fall instantly silent and sulky.
That offhanded remark only made the boys laugh harder.
“What d’you mean?” Harry asked once he’d calmed down, raising an eyebrow, curious.
Hagrid gave a long sigh, as though watching old memories replay before him.
“Well, where ter start? Nobody could stand him, really. Lockhart always wanted attention—he was always fishin’ for it. If yeh’d known him back then, yeh’d understand. Everything he did was for show, far as I remember.”
“Well, nothing’s changed then,” Harry muttered to Ron, who just nodded with a wry smile.
“There were two times I remember standin’ out most—no offence, Hermione,” Hagrid said, finishing his tea and refilling his mug.
“It’s his story, I think she should hear it,” Ron shrugged, showing little concern.
“Ronald!”
“What? But it’s true! You’ve read his book, what’s the harm in hearing a personal experience from someone who actually knew him for seven years?” Ron retorted, as if it were perfectly logical.
“If you don’t stop teasing me, I swear I’ll hex you all the way back to the castle! And I won’t help you with your homework anymore!” Hermione threatened.
Even with her arm injured, she was far from helpless.
Hexing was never the problem, but when she threatened to withhold help with his lessons, Ron realised he’d gone too far and raised his hands in surrender.
“All right… I’m stopped,” he murmured.
“Hmph. Good,” Hermione replied, chin held high—the same gesture she always made when she won an argument.
Harry snorted a weak laugh while Neville watched silently. Those two were a study in contrast—like brothers poking each other. Not that it was always healthy, but Ron and Ginny teased each other all the time at the Burrow while Harry was there, it's a normal thing apparently.
Hagrid carried on, unfazed by the exchange of barbs.
“Well, the most memorable thing Lockhart did first was send himself over 800 Valentine’s Day letters using a copying charm,” he chuckled, remembering. “The Great Hall was so full of feathers and… well, owl droppings, that Filch spent the rest of the holiday cleaning, and everyone had to eat in their common rooms.”
Harry and Ron laughed like fools—the idea was too funny. Neville, on the other hand, glanced at Hermione, who stared back with challenging eyes, silently daring him to laugh too.
He merely took a sip of tea in silence.
“Then there was another time he carved his own signature into the Quidditch pitch. Must’ve been what, six or seven metres? Yeah… about that, if I remember rightly,” Hagrid pondered, a amused smile on his face. “That earned him a good few days’ detention. And they had to reschedule the match deciding the Quidditch Cup that year… The Cup your dad won, Harry, I think it was in his fifth or sixth year.”
Harry illuminated his face with a Lumos, a proud smile for his father.
“Yeah, he won one in fourth and another in sixth,” he answered automatically.
He snuggled into his own long scarf, hiding the smile for a moment. Hermione felt her heart warm watching him.
“Great chaser James was, truly,” Hagrid smiled with a distant look, as if recalling good times. “Made Gryffindor proper proud.”
There was a brief silence, broken by Hermione when Harry noticed she was staring at him.
Hermione felt the hut grow warmer than usual, without knowing why, and tried not to seem rude by steering the conversation back to the subject.
“So… after Lockhart graduated, he travelled the world?”
“Seems so… the rest I really don’t know,” Hagrid answered with a sigh. “His stories, if you ask me, are just about stroking his own ego, no offence,” he shrugged, as though it were a common opinion.
Hermione pursed her lips, clearly uncomfortable.
“I… I’m not sure that’s fair, Hagrid,” she said softly. “He did many impressive things! I mean, facing banshees, banishing wendigos… those aren’t easy feats.”
Hagrid grunted quietly and took a sip of tea before replying.
“I’m not saying he never did anything,” he said lightly. “But I know plenty of folks who talk more than they do. And, honestly, Lockhart seems to spend more time bragging than showing what he can do. Imagine if Dumbledore told all he’s done? We’d be well into autumn and he still wouldn’t be finished.”
Hermione opened her mouth to retort but stopped, seeming to reflect. Finally, she spoke hesitantly.
“Assuming you’re right… but would it be so terrible if he wanted recognition?” she argued. “If he did something good, shouldn’t it be appreciated?”
Ron gave Harry a silent, but clearly mocking look, with a grimace that clearly showed how tedious he found the discussion.
Hagrid chuckled low and shook his head.
“Sure, sure. But tell me one thing, Hermione: if what he did was really that impressive, why does he have to shout it from the rooftops?” Hagrid said, eating another rock cake. “Anyone good doesn’t have to brag—everyone just knows.”
“Finally, someone says it,” Ron muttered quietly to Harry. Neville didn’t hear but read their lips and sighed a laugh.
“Well, I won’t lie, when Dumbledore said he’d invite him for the DADA post I thought it was odd at first—like all the professors did—but then I kinda thought it made sense,” the half-giant said, trying to change the subject. “Every year they need a new professor.”
“The position’s cursed, isn’t it?” Ron asked. “Mum used to say it’d been like that since her school days.”
“Yeah, they say it’s cursed,” Hagrid agreed, nodding. “No professor lasts a full year without something going wrong at the end. That’s why it’s so hard to fill. It was a miracle Lockhart accepted, I reckon.”
Harry couldn’t help thinking of Quirrell, who died while in the role—and it made perfect sense.
“What do yeh think’ll happen to him then?” Neville asked, visibly curious but also worried.
“Oh, I dunno,” Hagrid replied with a vague gesture. “Sometimes it’s nothing serious, could be a trip, having to move countries or something… But sometimes it’s pretty bad too. Can’t tell,” he said, leaning back and scratching his beard. “But it must be hard for Professor Snape—he always wanted the DADA post. Losing to Lockhart must’ve been… well, awkward.”
“Don’t know which’d be worse,” Harry muttered, thoughtful.
Ron looked at him with a mischievous grin. “Yeah, Snape as Defence professor… just thinking about it gives me the shivers.”
“He doesn’t even have to be Defence professor to give me the shivers,” Neville murmured, staring into his empty cup.
Later that day, after dinner, the four of them finally settled into the common room to rest.
The atmosphere was cosy, with the fireplace crackling softly and casting dancing shadows on the walls.
“Want my notes?” Harry offered, recalling the conversation in the infirmary.
“No, thank you, Harry,” Hermione replied, shaking her head, the thick strands of hair swaying. “I can do my homework by myself.”
The common room was filled with students, all wearing tired, stressed, and downcast expressions due to the day’s events. The sound of the flames mingled with murmurs of voices and the soft popping of snaps, little boxes of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, and a small wooden dancing puppet Fred and George were testing, tapping its feet on the wooden floor.
Even the twins weren’t in the mood for pranks, otherwise that little doll might well have been putting tacks in someone’s seats.
Ron made his way across the common room, his eyes fixed on Ginny, who was curled up in a corner, bent over a small worn black-covered diary. The grey quill scratched the paper with an almost feverish urgency, and her face was so close to the pages that strands of her red hair nearly touched the still-wet ink.
“What’re you writing, Ginny?” Ron asked, leaning in to try and peek.
With a quick movement, she shut the diary with a loud thud, raising her eyes to her brother with an expression somewhere between irritated and frightened.
“Nothing you’re meant to see!” she replied, clutching the book to her chest as if she feared he might try to snatch it away.
It was then that Harry appeared behind Ron, curious about the commotion. As she spotted him, Ginny’s ears instantly turned bright red, and her chin trembled slightly.
“I—I’ve got to go!” she stammered, standing so quickly that the the chair scraped against the wooden floor.
Before either of them could say another word, she was already racing towards the girls’ staircase, disappearing upstairs with the muffled noise of hurried footsteps.
Harry and Ron exchanged a look.
“What was that about?” Harry frowned.
“No idea,” Ron murmured, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s been acting odd lately.”
“Odder than usual?” Harry tried to joke, but there was genuine concern in his voice.
“Yeah, I suppose so. She’s always been a bit odd, but it seems worse now,” Ron commented, frowning as he watched his sister vanish up the stairs. “More withdrawn... Think that’s normal?”
Harry shrugged, not having an answer.
“No idea, but one thing I’ve learned is you never, ever try reading a girl’s diary,” Harry said wisely. “What’s in there could be… disturbing.”
Ron cast a thoughtful glance at the table where she had been writing.
“Who knows what she’s writing about you,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than Harry.
“Hm?” Harry raised an eyebrow, looking at his friend curiously, having missed the remark.
“Nothing, nothing,” Ron quickly brushed it off, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking away. “Just thinking out loud.”
Later, when Percy came into the common room, Ron and the twins ignored him completely, not even saying good evening. The prefect didn’t seem bothered and retired early to bed. Harry heard Ron and the twins muttering about how Percy “preferred helping punish us rather than helping us, like a brother should.”
That particular night, probably to comfort themselves with the company of their family, it was common to see rats, toads and even owls wandering or flying above them while the others enjoyed the silence of the end of the night. Inspired by the atmosphere, Harry went to fetch Hedwig to spend some time with her by the fire. Ron did the same with Scabbers, and Neville returned clinging to Trevor.
“Hey, Nev, how about a rematch at Wizard’s Chess?” Ron suggested with a cheeky grin.
Neville readily accepted.
“I’m not letting you win so easily this time… I think.”
They soon settled on the floor facing the fire. Neville kept an eye on Trevor, who was trying to escape, while Scabbers limited himself to dozing beside Ron, emitting soft rhythmic snores.
Hermione was immersed in a pile of parchments at the furthest table in the common room.
Harry was stroking Hedwig, a habit he made sure to keep every night before doing the meditation exercise Professor McGonagall had recommended to improve his magical sensitivity. It was a task he hadn’t yet seen progress in and it frustrated him, but he followed her instructions seriously, especially as both the professor and Hermione had warned Sensitivity to Magic was simple, but not easy.
After a few minutes of attention to the owl, Hedwig finally fluttered her wings with a soft rustle and perched on the back of a nearby chair, settling with her usual dignity. Harry stood, took a Quidditch magazine Ron had lent him earlier, and walked towards the table where Hermione sat, absorbed in a pile of activity parchments, her arm still in that sling that made his chest tighten.
He pulled out a chair and sat opposite her, opening the magazine while glancing sideways at her, her eyes fixed on a particularly long Transfiguration essay.
“Did you know you can hand these essays in until next week?” Harry commented, leafing through the pages while watching her.
“Someone’s got to keep the grades up around here,” Hermione replied without looking up, though a small smile appeared on her lips. “Besides, I hate leaving homework unfinished.”
Harry scoffed. “Even so, I reckon you should take the night off to relax. After… after what happened today.”
“I’m fine, Harry,” she said practically, though he’d noticed the slight stiffness in her shoulders. “Besides, it’s not my writing arm or my eating arm.”
Harry didn’t answer straight away.
He just watched her, eyes fixed on the careful curve of her letters as the quill danced across the parchment. The image of her trying to act like everything was normal only made him feel more restless.
“I'm serious, Hermione,” he began, setting the magazine aside. “If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even get hurt, so... I just wanted to apologize for that.”
Hermione stopped writing, finally lifting her eyes.
“Harry, what are you talking about?”
“Your arm,” he said, pointing at the bandage hidden beneath the sleeve of her jumper. “If I hadn’t insisted we step out from behind the tree, Parkinson would never have hit you with that spell.”
Hermione looked at him, surprised.
“Harry, you protected me, you put yourself between me and those troglodytes,” she replied matter-of-factly, though her heart beat faster with the weight of the moment. “Besides, it’s not your fault.”
“Of course it is,” he insisted. “I should’ve thought it through better. They were waiting for a chance to get you, and I was an idiot!”
Hermione sighed and set her quill aside.
“You don’t have control over what other people do—or don’t do. No one does. They’re… arses? Yes—and some are cowards, to be perfectly honest. But the only reason she got me was because I had my back turned.”
“That doesn’t change the fact you got hurt!” He retorted, failing to see where he was not the cause of this hurt to her.
“I could’ve stayed behind the tree too, but I chose to step out,” Hermione said gently, leaning forward slightly across the table towards him. “You wanted to help the others, and you were right. You followed your heart—and like it or not, the two of us might have stopped someone else getting seriously hurt.”
Harry didn't answer, he just looked away at the Quidditch magazine.
“Besides,” Hermione added, returning to the parchment with a small smile, “I can take care of myself. I’m not some helpless damsel, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I know you’re not,” Harry replied, earnestly. “I saw you Petrify a sixth-year today.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, feigning a stern expression.
“Let that be a warning, Mr Potter, never to underestimate me.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh. Looking back at her, feeling less guilty.
“Not even in my worst nightmares would I do that, Miss Granger.”
Hermione shook her head, but couldn’t hide the amused gleam in her eyes before turning back to her parchment. The sound of her quill scratching against the paper filled the brief silence, while Harry returned to his magazine, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Without even realising, he’d chosen to stay beside her at the table rather than enjoy the comfort of the sofa or the armchairs.
Standing next to her was comfortable enough.
The days had passed grey and slow since the clash between the Houses.
The corridors still felt somewhat subdued, as though the spirit of Hogwarts had yet to fully recover.
The cancellation of the Quidditch Championship—before it had even begun—had been a hard blow to everyone, and losing the privilege of Hogsmeade visits had left many students frustrated and bitter.
As Neville hadn’t actually hit anyone with his spells—only himself—he hadn’t been given detention. Instead, he spent his time keeping Hermione company in the library or distracting himself in the greenhouses, tending to the plants.
Ron, meanwhile, had been busy every day with his detentions, just like Malfoy.
Harry thanked Merlin he didn’t have to do anything alongside the Slytherin; he knew that if he had detention with Malfoy, he’d probably be fighting the urge to jinx him at the first provocation—or at least stop himself from knocking one of his teeth out.
“People say Ron’s the one without patience,” Harry mused. “Especially after he told me Malfoy’s a nightmare during detentions. He's probably a machine gun talking shite out of his mouth.”
He probably didn’t have Ron’s willpower himself.
Ron’s tasks ranged from scrubbing the Trophy Room to pruning shrubs in the gardens, wiping down the corridors with water, and dusting portraits and suits of armour—all done the Muggle way, of course. Malfoy didn’t fare any better, and the two of them ended up spending so much time tidying every corner of the castle that soon enough, a joke made the rounds in the corridors:
“If you think something needs cleaning, don’t call Filch—just shout for a Weasley or a Malfoy and they’ll come running.”
Harry hadn’t been much luckier with his own detention.
Lockhart had insisted he needed Harry’s help answering his many fan letters.
And there he was, after dinner, under the flickering light of fixed and floating candles that cast a warm yellow glow around him, sitting in the DADA classroom. The room, once wrecked by those pixies, seemed to have returned to a semblance of order—though it was the unfortunate sort of order that involved staring at portraits of the professor himself on every wall.
“You know,” said Lockhart in a casual tone, setting aside a letter with an overly flamboyant flourish without even glancing at it, “I rather think two celebrities working together is far more impressive than just one, wouldn’t you agree, Potter?”
Harry, who had been focused on the letter in front of him, shrugged with little conviction.
“If you say so, professor.”
“And what better way to serve detention than by helping answer my fanmail? Just think of it, my boy. I’m sparing you something far more exhausting, I’m sure. You could be scrubbing dusty old trophies like Weasley and Malfoy, or cleaning cauldrons in the dungeons like Wood and Flint—but no. Here you are, enjoying this time with me, learning something truly valuable.”
Harry looked up for a moment, incredulous.
“Learning how to answer fanmail?” he asked, the sarcasm plain in his voice—though the professor didn’t catch it.
“Exactly!” Lockhart beamed, as though Harry had just said the cleverest thing imaginable. “It’s a terribly underrated skill. The art of handling admiration. It’s part of the responsibility of being—well, who we are, obviously.”
Harry tried not to roll his eyes.
“Right,” he said, placing the read letter on top of the growing pile of marriage proposals and picking up another from the unread stack.
“I consider it one of my little pleasures. Sitting here, cup of tea in hand, replying to these wonderful people who take the time to write to me. Oh, but you must know that already! I wrote about this routine in the book we’re studying this year.”
“Oh, yes,” Harry murmured, turning the page of the letter with a quiet sigh. “I read it all, not sure how I forgot that bit—there was just so much, you know? Really comprehensive content.”
His tone made it clear he hadn’t read a single page. But Lockhart was entirely oblivious.
Lockhart broke into a grin wide enough to split his face in two.
“I’m not surprised you’ve read it—it’s top-quality material, if I do say so myself. Took me two years to get it all written. There was always something else I’d remember later that had to be added.” He said this quite naturally. “And what was your favourite part?”
Harry stared at him with such a deadpan expression that even termites might’ve found him interesting—that’s how wooden his face was.
“Oh, hard to say, but definitely the bit about lilac was intense… a whole debate over the best colour, I’d say.”
He wasn’t talking about the book at all, but he was so sincere in his delivery that he couldn’t be caught out.
“My favourite colour, that’s a part I adore! What can I say? It’s the prettiest!” He chuckled lightly, as if he’d just told a brilliant joke. “I always say my younger fans are the most observant. I’ve no doubt this’ll be an experience you’ll look back on fondly.”
“Of course…” Harry said, though he couldn’t help thinking he’d much rather be polishing trophies than sitting here listening to the professor drone on about himself.
“Don’t you just love it? Being loved for who you are? For what you’ve done? It fills me with pride,” the professor beamed, looking every bit the actor on a stage. “Knowing there are people who truly care about you, who think enough of you to send a letter.”
Harry felt a chill of revulsion at the thought of receiving a flood of letters from strangers every day.
“If I get to choose,” he said, “I’d rather not receive anything at all.”
Lockhart raised an eyebrow, surprised.
“Really? Well, I must say, you’re far too young to understand certain things yet,” he said in the tone of a mentor. “But fame isn’t something one can just toss away, Potter. One day, when you’re older, you’ll realise there are plenty of perks to being famous. Invitations to important weddings, parties with other celebrities, gala balls—or perhaps even a fan club. You’ve got one already, haven’t you?”
“Fan club?” Harry repeated, puzzled.
The last time someone mentioned him having a fan club, it had been Ron—and Harry still held the opinion that he’d rather be shot.
“Of course!” Lockhart went on. “It’s the easiest way to draw your audience’s attention and keep all eyes on you. And I’ll tell you something else,” he added with a mischievous smile, “it’s a brilliant way to land yourself a few witches to date. At your age the queue might not be that long, but I doubt there aren’t a few after you already, eh?”
“Er… no, none actually,” Harry replied, setting aside yet another letter—this one full of love confessions.
He was now certain Lockhart had summoned him here just to have someone listen to his endless delusions.
“Really? None?”
“None,” Harry repeated, shrugging, picking up another letter.
Lockhart paused, thoughtful, as if a Lumos had gone off in his brain.
“Well, there’s Miss Granger close by, so that would make sense. I’ll tell you, she’s clever, by far the best in Defence class, always has the answers at her fingertips as if she’s memorised all the books—which I rather think she has—and the professors say she’s top in all her subjects too. A fine choice. Intellectual witches are always the most challenging; they’re not drawn to superficial charm, they’ve got strong personalities, and they’re like fire—you’ve got to be careful not to get burned.” He explained aloud.
Harry frowned, not following at all what on earth he was on about.
“Hermione? What’s she got to do with this?”
Lockhart looked at Harry as if he were joking, but seeing the seriousness on his face, decided to play vague.
“Well, one day… one day you’ll understand, lad.” He spoke with mystery and the air of someone wise in such matters.
“Right…” Harry replied, still entirely lost.
“You’re completely mental,” Harry thought.
“I’m planning something special for Hogwarts in February—Valentine’s Day. Something so lovely and symbolic that even this cold, colourless castle might finally celebrate it properly. It’s going to be a real transformation. You’ll see.”
“Well, sounds like a brilliant idea,” Harry said absently, his gaze now distant. He kept sorting through the letters, responding to Lockhart with vague, quick replies just to make the detention end faster.
At one point, not really paying attention, Lockhart remarked that Harry could use the holiday to grow closer to Miss Granger—that something might blossom between them, seeing as she clearly held a strong interest in him, being not only her closest friend but also a young prodigy.
Harry, however, didn’t give it much thought and replied mechanically, without even noticing that Lockhart was talking about Hermione.
The days at Hogwarts passed peacefully until the 19th of September—Hermione’s birthday.
Neither Harry nor Neville had forgotten the date, and both had woken early that Saturday to prepare something special.
Ron, on the other hand, had been dragged from bed by the pair and didn’t bother hiding his scowl at being woken on a weekend, still sore and knackered from the previous day’s detention—not to mention all the others combined.
Even so, once reminded of the reason, he softened his expression and agreed—grudgingly—to help with the plan, grumbling that it might be better to do something in the afternoon or perhaps the evening, which both of them promptly ignored.
The night before, Fred and George had, between exaggerated gestures and laughter, shared the secret to getting into the castle kitchens. They’d crept up like conspirators while Hermione, absorbed in one of her books, didn’t notice a thing.
“You know the Great Hall?” Fred began.
“The hall where we eat every day?” Ron raised an eyebrow, confused.
“No, Bilius, the one where you take ballet lessons,” Harry retorted, earning a light punch on the shoulder.
Fred carried on, grinning mischievously.
“The kitchen’s just underneath,” he explained, “near the Hufflepuff common room.”
“Ah, that’s why the Hufflepuff lot are what our mums would call sturdy and well-built,” George said with a wink.
“Just admit you think they’re fat,” Fred teased.
“Plump, I’d say. Like Nev here,” George gestured towards the boy. “No offence.”
“None taken,” Neville replied with a shrug. “My gran’s never called me sturdy or well-built, but over the holidays she did say I wasn’t quite as fat as last year. That’s something, I suppose.”
“I’d be sturdy and well-built too with a kitchen like that next to the common room…” Ron muttered thoughtfully.
Fred continued. “Right, so when you leave the Great Hall, take the stairs down on the left—before the statue of the poncey wizard poet. Then you go straight until you reach a big painting of a fruit bowl.”
“And you tickle the pear,” George added. “It’ll laugh, turn into a doorknob, and open right up. Easy as that.”
So, on the morning of Hermione’s birthday, Harry and Neville followed the instructions to the letter, hoping the twins hadn’t been playing one of their tricks.
At the painting, Neville used a quill to tickle the pear. It giggled, and the entrance swung open.
“We really ought to trust them more,” Neville murmured.
“Absolutely not, I lived with them at the Burrow for two months. I know exactly what they’re capable of,” Harry replied with a grin.
Once inside, both boys were stunned.
The kitchen was as vast as the Great Hall, with shelves crammed with utensils, tables piled high with ingredients, and dozens of house-elves bustling about in a sort of organised chaos. With some difficulty—and many apologetic smiles—they managed to gather a few treats and slip out before the elves threw them out for disrupting their rhythm, even though they’d been happy enough to help with the birthday surprise.
Meanwhile, Ron had drawn the short straw of keeping Hermione occupied in the common room when she woke. She was always infuriatingly punctual, and one of the first up—which was terribly inconvenient that day.
She wore a slight scowl that she quickly masked when he didn’t wish her happy birthday. Ron had done it on purpose, of course, but that didn’t make her any less miffed.
“Er… Harry and Neville are still asleep,” he lied, trying to sound casual.
“And you woke up early of your own accord?” Hermione frowned suspiciously. “That’s odd. Are you ill?”
“Don’t start, Hermione,” he said, trying not to sound nervous.
Hermione stared at him, sceptical.
“You forgot the Potions essay, didn’t you?” she arched an eyebrow. “You want my help? I knew you hadn’t finished it last night—”
“It’s got nothing to do with the Potions essay!” he interrupted, flustered. “Even if I might need your help later to give it a quick look… if it's not a problem” he added, scratching his head and looking away.
She placed both hands on her hips.
“If it’s not the essay, what is it? Out with it, Ron!”
Ron glanced out the window and spotted Harry—ant-sized with distance—leaping into the air and waving his arms wildly to get his attention. Neville was also attempting to jump but lacked the energy, likely due to his general lack of exercise.
“Finally,” Ron breathed with relief—he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take Hermione’s scrutiny.
“Finally what?” she demanded, impatient.
“Can you just follow me without asking questions?” he said, almost pleading. “I’m rubbish at this sort of thing, all right?—This way, please.”
Hermione huffed but followed him, still muttering about how much she hated being kept in the dark.
Outside the castle, near the edge of the Black Lake, Hermione suddenly stopped.
Her eyes widened as she took in the picnic blanket spread across the grass, heaped with treats and sweets well beyond the usual castle breakfast. Harry and Neville stood nearby, waving at her with broad smiles.
“Happy birthday!” the three of them shouted together, filling the morning air with contagious joy.
Hermione blinked several times, trying to take in what she was seeing.
She had never received a surprise like this—or celebrated her birthday—with anyone other than her parents and a handful of relatives.
It took her a few seconds to process.
“You… you did this for me?” she asked in disbelief, blinking.
“Of course!” said Harry, stepping forward with a package wrapped in plain but neatly folded paper.
“Couldn’t let the day go unmarked,” added Neville, shy but proud.
“Now do you see why I couldn’t tell you?” Ron chuckled lightly.
Hermione took the parcel with trembling hands, the roughly folded paper giving off a charm that matched the expectant air. As she unwrapped it, her eyes lit up with joy at the sight of a leather-bound book, elegantly embossed in gold lettering.
It was the new edition she’d been coveting for weeks—a detailed study on Magical Sensitivity. Ever since Professor McGonagall’s lessons had touched on the subject, Hermione had thrown herself into the theory, eager to better understand how witches and wizards could feel and interact with the magic around them.
Even so, she’d been battling constant frustration, often complaining about her “lack of progress.” Holding the book now, however, Hermione felt a renewed sense of determination.
“You thought of all this?” Hermione asked, still slightly dazed.
Harry and Neville nodded, but it was Ron who jumped in to explain.
“The professor’s still cross with me, and Nev said he didn’t know how to ask, so it was Harry here who convinced Professor McGonagall to sneak off to Hogsmeade and buy the book. Lucky for you, you didn’t get into any trouble with—well, all that mess. Otherwise, I doubt she’d have helped.”
“When I told her it was a gift for you, she gave in,” Harry added with a pleased smile, shrugging. “I don’t think even McGonagall can say no to you.”
“Oh, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, stepping forward to hug him tightly, wrapping her arms around him, with eyes shining with joyful tears.
She didn’t know why, but she loved hugging him—something inside her always stirred when she did, and it was a lovely feeling.
Hermione felt his body go stiff, which didn’t surprise her—Harry never seemed so comfortable with hugs. But she noticed, with quiet satisfaction, that he was beginning to get used to them, just a little more each time.
Harry caught the scent of her green apple shampoo, her hair still silky from that morning’s wash. It was a scent that made his heart give a sudden leap.
Hermione’s aura gave a joyful bounce, reaching out towards his like it wanted to snuggle in.
“But it was Nev’s idea to have breakfast out here,” Harry added quickly, trying to shift the focus as soon as she let go.
“I just thought… you like coming here to read sometimes,” Neville said shyly, staring at his feet. “I thought it might be nice to, erm, eat here too.”
“Oh, thank you as well, Neville!” Hermione hugged him too, and though visibly awkward, Neville returned the gesture.
“Right, can we eat now?” Ron interrupted with a freckled grin. “I’m starving! And Hermione’s been grilling me with questions I couldn’t answer. You’ve no idea the pressure she puts on when she wants answers!”
Hermione gave an indignant laugh, while Harry and Neville chuckled along.
The small group settled down on the blanket, tucking into their makeshift breakfast. The only sounds around them were the gentle laps of the Black Lake—until, suddenly, a giant tentacle rose from the water, stretching lazily and slapping the surface.
“Look at that,” Ron said, laughing with a mouthful of bread. “She wanted to wish you happy birthday too!”
They all burst into laughter again.
The rest of the day passed pleasantly.
Neville managed to persuade one of the house-elves to whip up a small cake for Hermione at lunch, which she accepted with a teary-eyed smile. If you ever needed someone to sort out food or offer sweets at just the right moment, it was definitely Neville.
That evening, Harry and Ron were still tangled in a long game of wizard chess, while Hermione had already retired to the dormitory—tired but content with her special day. Neville had gone up as well, yawning a soft “good night”, eyes half-shut as he slowly climbed the stairs.
Harry and Ron were alone now, still playing on the floor, the firelight flickering in the common room as their only illumination.
“You’ve ruined my whole strategy!” Ron groaned as one of his rooks was smashed to bits by one of Harry’s pawns. “This game should’ve been over by now!”
“Not my fault you’re predictable, mate,” Harry replied with a satisfied grin.
Ron opened his mouth to argue back, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the staircase. When they looked up, they saw Fred and George descending, their faces lit up by that familiar mischievous grin that always meant trouble.
“All right, lads—” began Fred.
“—how was the day?” George finished, as if they were one person.
“Good,” Harry replied, moving his queen. “Hermione loved the surprise. By the way, cheers for the tip about the kitchen—without you two, the picnic wouldn’t’ve happened.”
“She’s gone completely mad about the book,” Ron added. “Hasn’t put it down since she opened it!”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Harry corrected. “She spent the day with us too—only started reading properly this evening.”
“Well, I still don’t get how anyone can enjoy getting textbooks as a present,” said Ron, rolling his eyes.
“We know that, little brother,” said Fred with a smirk.
“You’ve never exactly been a scholar,” George added, “not even at home, when Mum tried teaching you to read.”
“Oi! I learnt to read faster than you two!” Ron protested, pointing an accusatory finger. “Dad said so himself!”
“True, but that was ‘cause Fred kept distracting me, poking me every three seconds,” George said with a shrug.
“Liar, you were the one poking me!” Fred shot back, offended.
“Imagine poking Hermione while she’s reading,” Harry said, laughing.
Ron shuddered at the very idea.
“She might be brilliant, but she’s terrifying when you interrupt her reading,” he muttered, with the look of someone speaking from bitter experience.
“Speaking of her,” Fred said, bringing the focus back, “we gave her our birthday wishes too. She looked properly chuffed.”
“Like she’d won the day,” George agreed. “A proper golden day.”
Ron narrowed his eyes, suspicious. He knew the twins far too well.
“Right. What are you two plotting?” he asked flatly.
“Ronnikins!” Fred clutched his chest in mock offence. “We haven’t said a word!”
“And do you need to say anything?”
Harry laughed as the twins exchanged glances and finally leaned in conspiratorially.
“Okay, look: we were thinking about that whole mess with those gits—”
“—and why not do something about it?”
“Oh, come off it,” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Quidditch’s been cancelled for the year, and we only just avoided being expelled because half of Hogwarts would've had to leave that day.”
“Not to mention you lot lost your Hogsmeade weekends,” Ron added.
“And Snape’s still taking the mickey over the dungbombs from last year,” said Harry. “He’s sure it was me, but he’s got no proof.”
“Exactly the point!” Fred exclaimed, bright-eyed. “Who’d expect anything now? No one thinks anyone’d be daft enough—daft in their eyes, anyway.”
“And Filch has been turning in early, thinking we’ve gone all quiet,” George added with a grin.
“And what’ve we got to lose? We’ve already lost Quidditch either way,” Fred reasoned.
“And our Hogsmeade privileges—”
“—Which doesn’t mean much to us, since we go anyway, but that’s not the point—”
“—The point is, we could get a bit of revenge for Hermione too. They were absolute tossers, calling her names—”
“—and she even got hurt without doing anything! They definitely deserve payback.”
Harry wasn’t entirely convinced they should be doing anything—clearly it was risky—but the mention of getting revenge on those gits for Hermione’s sake piqued his interest, and his aura gave a little jolt inside him. He chuckled inwardly. The twins knew exactly how to sell what their “client” wanted to hear.
“So, what’ve you got in mind?” Harry asked, curiosity winning out.
“Pixie Dust,” said Fred, his eyes gleaming.
“Pixie Dust?” Harry frowned. “Isn’t that the sparkly stuff they sprinkle on the breakfast cereal?”
“Exactly,” George answered. “But if you mix it with a splash of firewhisky, the effects get... interesting.”
“Hang on,” Ron interrupted. “You bought firewhisky? But we’re underage!”
“You sound just like Hermione,” Harry snorted.
“Too right—Merlin help us…” Ron recoiled like it was an insult.
“Ron, bought is a strong word,” said Fred, winking.
“We prefer found,” George explained. “Say, in the second locked drawer of Filch’s dresser beneath the window in his office.”
“And did you drink any?” Ron asked hopefully.
“You’re not drinking it,” the twins said in unison.
“Oh…”
Ron’s shoulders slumped, disappointed, while Harry laughed.
“Grab your Cloak, Harry,” Fred instructed. “We’ll go fetch the mixture.”
Once Harry had retrieved his Invisibility Cloak, the four of them snuck out in the middle of the night to set their plan in motion. The twins were buzzing with excitement, explaining in detail how the pixie dust-firewhisky blend worked.
“When you mix the two,” Fred began, “you get a smoke that burns really fast. And since it comes from Pixies—”
“—who are a right nuisance, as everyone knows,” George cut in, “combined with the alcohol, the smoke gives anyone who breathes it a cold almost instantly. And trust us—we tested it.”
“Also,” Fred continued, “you can’t clear it from the air easily. It’s thick stuff. Lingers for a whole day before it fades.”
“And since the Slytherins will have to come out of their common room eventually, they’ll all catch colds,” George added with a wicked grin.
“Better than chucking dung into their common room,” Harry commented.
“Ah, that—we’ll have to wait a good long while before trying that again,” said Fred. “Probably not till seventh year, if we want to avoid raising suspicions again.”
They crept silently through the corridors beneath the Cloak, Fred leading the way. When they reached the dungeons, they stopped—hearing a familiar, shrill giggle echoing from the end of the corridor.
“Oh no,” Ron muttered, instantly recognising the sound. “It can’t be…”
“Sounds like our good and old Peeves,” said George, half annoyed, half amused. “Wonder if he’s up for a midnight visit too?”
“Of course he is. His day wouldn’t be complete without a bit of chaos,” Fred said, grinning.
Suddenly, a small figure floated out of the darkness ahead.
It was Peeves, grinning mischievously as he hovered in front of them. He gave an elaborate bow, like a noble greeting honoured guests.
“Good evening, my dears! Or would it be better to say... good morning?” Peeves rasped, his giggle echoing shrilly. “Well, well, well… flaming heads, little flaming head, and the… four-eyes.”
He eyed Harry up and down warily, as though watching a danger that might pounce, but said nothing about.
“Hmm, four-eyes has lost his flair,” the Poltergeist muttered to himself, pondering aloud. “Aha! Potty! That’s better! Potty it is! Now then, what are you lot doing out of bed at this hour, eh? Potty and company?”
“Charming new nickname,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes.
“You're welcome, I just made it up, isn't it much better? I thought so. But don't change the subject! What are you doing here?”
The twins, never missing a beat, gave Peeves the honour he believed he deserved, offering a short bow.
“Ah, Peeves,” said Fred, “just making the most of the night with a little added cheer.”
“You know how it is,” George added, with a sweeping gesture. “Just doing a bit of late-night delivery.”
Peeves eyed them with a glitter of curiosity and mischief.
“Delivery, is it?” he asked, drifting closer. “Might I have a peek at what you’re carrying?”
“Nothing you need to see, mate,” Fred replied, trying to shield the box he was carrying.
But Peeves wasn’t one to take no for an answer. In a blink, he swooped in, and with a gleeful cackle, snatched the box right out of Fred’s hands.
“Bloody hell, you’re fast!” the twins cursed together.
“Ooh, this looks fun!” Peeves said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “A magical mix to liven up the night, hmm? Or maybe the day...”
Before anyone could stop him, he zoomed off down the corridor with the box, leaving a trail of echoing cackles behind. The twins stood frozen for a moment, stunned.
“He—he nicked the mix?” George asked, shock in his voice as he took off in the direction Peeves had gone.
“Course he did,” Fred answered, trying to stay calm, though his expression was full of growing panic. “Bugger… this is bad...”
They started running after him—but Peeves was far faster than any of them.
“Fantastic. We’ve just handed a chemical weapon to a madman,” Harry groaned.
“He’s going to release it all over the castle! And you two respect him?!” Ron yelled, nearly tripping on a step as he tried to keep up.
“Peeves always has the best ideas!” Fred defended. “But if he does what I think he’s going to do, we’re going down with him!”
“This is bad—really bad. Right, listen up,” said George, turning to Ron and Harry with urgency. “This was our idea. We’ll go after him. Fred, you’ve got the Map? Great. We’ll use it to track Peeves and try to talk him into giving it back—or at least not doing anything too mental.”
“But what about us? We can help!” Ron insisted, looking worried.
“We know you can,” Fred replied quickly, with a half-smile. “But the fewer people, the better. Peeves doesn’t exactly do well with crowds.”
“And also,” George added, “if you get caught, it’ll just make things worse for you, Ron. Head back to the common room, all right? Leave this to us.”
It was true—Ron and Harry especially had been under constant watch from the professors ever since their arrival by car at Hogwarts, and after getting involved in the fight, that attention hadn’t eased. Their reputation as troublemakers hadn’t improved one bit.
Before they could argue further, Fred and George dashed down the corridor, the glow from their wands lighting the way ahead.
“Lumos,” Harry murmured, igniting his wand as darkness closed in around them once more.
“Do you reckon they’ll manage to get the mix back?” Harry asked, peering down the corridor where the twins had vanished.
“No idea,” Ron replied with a sigh. “Peeves is a nightmare when he’s in the mood. And now he knows the stuff’s special... bloody hell, this is going to go wrong. Why couldn’t that git have been useful like he was last year? Stupid poltergeist...”
Before Harry could respond, a chill ran down his spine. A familiar, uncomfortable sensation crept over him, like the air had turned heavier. Then he heard it.
“Where are you?... Let me kill you... let me devour you...”
Harry stopped dead, his eyes wide as he scanned the empty corridor.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, voice low and tense.
Ron looked at him, puzzled. “Hear what?”
“The voice...” Harry murmured, swallowing hard. “It’s that voice.”
Ron turned ghostly pale, his eyes darting about as if something might leap from the shadows.
“I…I didn’t hear anything.”
“Your filthy blood... your rotting flesh...”
Harry’s heart began to race.
The voice echoed around him, seeming to come from every direction. He pressed his ear against one of the walls, trying to pinpoint the source.
“Harry? What are you doing?” Ron asked, visibly more anxious now.
“I need to find where it’s coming from!” Harry replied, urgency sharpening his tone. He began moving quickly, pressing his ear to the cold stone as he went.
“You’ll be mine... my final gift for my master’s joy...”
The voice was fading now, like it was moving further away.
“Hurry, Ron, this way!” Harry shouted, breaking into a run.
“Harry, wait!” Ron called after him, stumbling as he tried to keep up.
The two boys sprinted through the dark corridors, Harry chasing the sound as it slipped further and further from reach. He turned right, then left, until at last he stopped, panting.
The sound had vanished.
The only thing that caught his eye was a line of small spiders, moving in an orderly stream, scuttling quickly out of an open window.
“Harry! Will you stop running, for Merlin’s sake!” Ron gasped, bending double to catch his breath. “You’re faster than—Agh! Spiders!” He recoiled with a step backwards, paling as he pointed at the tiny creatures.
“The voice,” Harry said, still breathing heavily. “It’s stopped. I can’t hear it anymore, but it was here. I’m sure of it!”
“What did it say?” Ron asked, casting a wary glance around the nearby walls.
“Said it wanted to find me, kill me, devour me,” Harry answered, looking Ron dead in the eye. “That my blood was filthy, my flesh rotting... and that I’d be the final gift for its master’s happiness.”
Ron’s eyes widened. He swallowed hard.
“You—you think it’s, what? A message?” the redhead asked nervously.
“No idea. But it’s not good... if that wasn’t obvious,” Harry replied, running a hand through his messy hair.
The two of them stood still in the quiet night, a growing unease settling in as the silence crept back around them.
Chapter 23: Enemies of the Heir, Beware!
Chapter Text
The rest of September passed in a peculiar sort of chaos, marked by an inexplicable outbreak of colds that swept through the castle on the twentieth, right in the middle of breakfast.
The cause of the outbreak, as was soon discovered, was a mysterious substance that Peeves—ever eager to cause mischief—had likely found in some forgotten corner of Hogwarts and enthusiastically “tested” on the students, spreading it across the Great Hall with a malicious grin.
“Where did you get that stuff?” asked Hermione, sniffling with a red nose, frowning as she watched students sneezing in unison.
But Peeves, floating above the Gryffindor table with a triumphant air, merely laughed and declared:
“Secrets are secrets, my nosy little dear! If I told, I’d have fewer delicious surprises to spread in future, wouldn’t I?”
Hermione couldn’t help but notice that Harry, Ron, Fred and George didn’t look the slightest bit surprised by the poltergeist’s antics.
Worse still: not one of them complained.
And that, especially coming from Ron—who would usually grumble for hours if he caught a cold because of some prank—was more than suspicious.
Catching a cold or the flu, for them, was as bad as her having cramps… if they had any idea what cramps were like.
“Mate… nothing worse than waking up and not being able to breathe properly ‘cause your nose is blocked,” Ron muttered, breathing through his mouth and blowing his red nose with a tissue.
“Sore throat’s the worst,” Harry added hoarsely, pulling a face.
“And talking? Even water doesn’t help,” Neville finished, arms resting on the table, speaking in a low voice.
“Boys…” Hermione sighed to herself, until she looked at them—who were all suspiciously quiet.
“You knew this was going to happen… achoo!” she sneezed a cute little sneeze. “Didn’t you?” she accused, crossing her arms and fixing them with her most penetrating stare.
“Knew what?” said Ron, with an exaggeratedly innocent expression that only made it more obvious.
“Don’t do that with me, Ron!” she snapped impatiently. “Why are you all acting like this is perfectly normal?”
Harry tried to suppress a smile, while the twins exchanged quick glances, as though sharing an inside joke.
“Maybe we just… A-Achoo!” George sneezed, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “maybe we’re just used to Peeves’s tricks,” he suggested with a casual shrug.
“Or maybe you lot had something to do with it,” Hermione shot back, suspicious.
But no matter how hard she pressed, all she got were uncomfortable silences and evasive answers.
Frustrated, she decided to try Neville, hoping that—always terrible at lying—he might let something slip by accident.
“Neville, do you know anything about this?”
He blinked, confused, and choked on his pumpkin juice before replying:
“I— I don’t!” He sniffled, nose blocked. “I swear, Hermione, I’m just as lost as you are!”
It was true. Not only did Neville seem genuinely baffled, but he also blushed as he spoke—a surefire sign he wasn’t hiding anything.
Hermione sighed.
If even Neville was in the dark, there was only one option left: she’d have to find out what those four were plotting on her own.
Sneezes echoed through the corridors of Hogwarts like a tuneless symphony of blocked noses and poorly timed coughs.
Students held their wands in trembling hands, trying to cast spells while sniffling in a most undignified fashion, some with snot trickling down their noses like disgusting little waterfalls, and even a few professors had lost part of their usual majestic professionalism, with reddened noses and hoarse voices.
Terry Boot, during a particularly violent sneezing fit, accidentally triggered magic that turned Susan Bones’s hair a blinding shade of green—an effect that took hours to undo.
On another occasion, Seamus Finnigan, during a Potions lesson, tried to answer a question from Snape about dragon liver, only to be betrayed by a sudden sneeze. The involuntary movement knocked a glass jar of salamander blood off the shelf, which shattered loudly, costing precious points for Gryffindor and earning him a detention.
And to the great dismay of Harry, Ron and Neville, Snape was the only professor who hadn’t succumbed to the cold.
With his advanced knowledge of potions and access to rare ingredients from his personal stores, he had brewed an antidote for himself almost immediately.
“Of course he got away with it,” Ron grumbled, blowing his nose with a handkerchief that was already starting to get soggy.
“Either that or he’s got a secret stash of antidotes for everything,” Harry replied, his voice still hoarse and muffled. “You’ve seen his stock? Looks like he’s got a silver vial for every possible illness—even the random ones.”
Neville, who was sneezing every two minutes, merely murmured:
“I just wish he’d at least sneezed once before taking the potion…”
Not that the boys genuinely wanted Snape to fall ill—well, maybe a bit, seeing as they were all suffering so much. It just felt unfair that he, of all people, had escaped unscathed.
The cold, after all, wasn’t ordinary.
Caused by that magical substance from the twins, it resisted traditional remedies and could only be cured by a specific antidote—which took time to produce on a large scale.
In short?
Harry realised that even if it had been “by accident”, he, Ron and the twins had probably triggered the first chemically magical epidemic in Hogwarts… and with their less-than-sparkling track record, it really was for the best that no one found out that little detail.
Meanwhile, the hospital wing was in chaos.
Madam Pomfrey, sleeves rolled up and hair dishevelled from dashing from bed to bed, was handing out decongestant potions at a frantic pace. Her usual stern gaze now bore an extra expression of “I told you so”, as though every sniffling student were living proof that no one appreciated the hospital wing—until they were desperately in need of it.
“And I told you lot to take your Immunogoblins at the start of September!” she exclaimed, rubbing her temples as Neville tried—and failed—to suppress yet another sneeze. “But no one ever listens to old Pomfrey until they’re dripping all over my floor!”
Harry and Ron exchanged glances.
Neither of them could remember Madam Pomfrey ever recommending Immunogoblins, but given the circumstances, it didn’t seem the right moment to argue.
Peeves, naturally, found it all hilarious for as long as no one asked too many questions—not even Dumbledore had managed to get much out of him, despite the fact the Poltergeist respected him.
That lasted until he was confronted by the Bloody Baron.
The Slytherin ghost didn’t need to do more than cast one silent, menacing—almost psychopathic—look down a corridor for the poltergeist to let out a high-pitched squeal and vanish, shooting away through the walls.
After that, the castle settled into a relative calm—at least, where Peeves was concerned.
With the poltergeist out of sight, the main source of disruption returned to the usual tension between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Although the provocation had lessened in intensity since the incidents at the start of the year, small barbs, insults and jibes were still exchanged in the corridors, deadly glares were common, and even the prefects of both Houses kept a noticeably colder relationship than usual.
Still, day-to-day life began to stabilise once more, returning to its peculiarly normal rhythm within the walls of Hogwarts.
With the arrival of October, the landscape donned the warm and vibrant hues of autumn.
The trees turned into a spectacle of gold, orange and fiery red, spilling across the grounds as the cool, damp breeze sent the leaves dancing to the ground.
Hagrid had begun stacking his beloved pumpkins—now properly grown—in a large wheelbarrow to wheel them up to the castle when Halloween arrived.
Filch, wearing his eternally grumpy expression, spent his days sweeping up the heaps of dry leaves, muttering and huffing as he made crooked piles along the path. Mrs Norris stayed at his side, almost like an inspector, checking to see if her master was doing the job properly.
Autumn was, without a doubt, Hermione’s favourite season. Though she spent most of her free time among the dusty shelves of the library, surrounded by towers of books and unrolled scrolls, there was something irresistible about studying outdoors on those golden autumn days.
The fresh air carried a peaceful silence, interrupted only by birdsong and the soft whisper of leaves dancing in the breeze.
The Black Lake sparkled in the sunlight, and broomsticks cut across the sky in loops and dives, as though Hogwarts students themselves were part of the enchanted landscape.
“It’s all so… magical,” thought Hermione, with an involuntary smile.
No matter how hard she tried to maintain her usual rationality, there were still moments when she had to stop and marvel at the fact that, yes, magic was real. She might never fully get used to it—and in some ways, that was a good thing. It meant she’d never lose the wonder.
On one of those afternoons, after lessons, Hermione was sitting on the grass with an open book in her lap. The autumn sun warmed her skin and made her brown hair glint with golden highlights.
Meanwhile, Harry, Ron and Neville—as was typical—had decided to postpone their homework in favour of a carefree flying session.
“They only ever see it as ‘a complete waste of productive hours’,” she muttered, though without any real malice.
There they were, shouting and laughing as they invented increasingly ridiculous manoeuvres in the sky.
Neville nearly fell off his broom trying to imitate an inverted loop the twins had done once, while Ron, red in the face from laughing, was yelling completely useless instructions.
“Lean more to the left, Nev! No, LEFT!”
Harry, meanwhile, was flying in circles above them, watching everything with amused exasperation.
“You learnt what left and right were last month! And that’s right!” Neville snapped, frustrated.
“You know what I mean when I say it!” Ron shot back.
As the boys mucked about, Hermione was still trying—and failing—to concentrate on her studies.
Frustration had become her constant companion in the Magical Sensitivity classes.
No matter how much she studied or how many books she devoured on the subject, progress seemed unattainable. It was unbearable that something couldn’t be learnt through diligent study and properly applied theory.
“You need to learn to relax while meditating, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall had told her in one of her attempts to help.
Hermione remembered well how the professor had watched her with a raised eyebrow as she all but broke a sweat trying to feel magical auras.
“But how, Professor? There aren’t any clear instructions on this in the books!” Hermione had protested, clearly exasperated.
“Because it’s not something that can be taught with words. It’s something you must discover for yourself,” McGonagall had replied firmly, though not unkindly. “Let your mind rest. You think too much. Learn to let your thoughts flow.”
And that was the problem.
Hermione never turned her mind off. It was always full of ideas, theories and concerns, like a cauldron boiling endlessly.
She even tried to hold herself back when speaking to the boys in the corridors, but if she didn’t watch herself, she could easily spend the entire day talking without even scratching the surface of all the facts, curiosities and topics bubbling in her head.
“Idiots,” she muttered to herself, watching from afar as Harry and Ron dove headfirst towards the Black Lake in a reckless dive, only to yank their brooms up at the last second.
Harry threw his arms into the air—triumphant—clearly pleased to have pulled up last, while Neville applauded enthusiastically and Ron called for a rematch.
She shook her head, exasperated.
“Always some sort of risky stunt—then they end up in the hospital wing, soaking wet and unconscious from smacking their heads on the water, and haven’t the faintest idea why…” she grumbled to herself.
Hermione always worried when they decided to go flying, but her concerns were especially directed at Harry and Ron.
Neville seemed to prefer watching the group’s risky moves rather than getting directly involved, something she secretly appreciated.
It was already hard enough dealing with two reckless boys—the idea of a third would surely send her to the brink of a mental breakdown.
As she watched them, she thought back to what had happened in those lessons.
Ron had already given up on Magical Sensitivity classes.
He insisted it was “a waste of time” and that “wizard chess was much more useful for exercising the mind,” even though that wasn’t actually the point of the subject.
Hermione, after a few fruitless attempts to convince him otherwise, decided to leave him in peace with that barbaric game.
Neville, on the other hand, had surprised everyone.
With concentration and effort, he’d been the first—after Lavender Brown and Luna Lovegood—to sense the magical auras present in the classroom, which was just as rare, and his rapid progress was highly praised by Professor McGonagall.
“I did it… it’s strange, but I think I did it,” Neville had said in class, wearing a shy smile, although he didn’t want to go into details.
Unlike Lavender, who seemed to enjoy flaunting her newfound skill, describing other people’s magical auras as though she were one of those girls addicted to Muggle horoscopes—something Hermione considered absurd and unrealistic.
She had read that an aura was far harder to understand than a one-minute analysis with your eyes shut, grabbing someone’s palm.
And Harry, surprisingly, had managed to conceal part of his magical aura—a remarkable feat for someone who was still taking his first steps in the subject and who was undoubtedly following an unconventional learning path, given that the “correct” method was to begin by identifying auras before hiding your own.
Hermione noticed that instead of showing pride at his progress, Harry seemed more relieved, as though the result were a weight lifted from his shoulders. Like someone running—not a sports marathon, but from a hungry bear in the middle of a forest, giving it everything just to survive.
“Harry’s a powerful wizard… but he doesn’t even realise it. Always thinking he’s not as amazing as he truly is...” Hermione thought, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Hermione couldn’t help the slight pang in her chest at the thought that her friends had already made some progress in Magical Sensitivity, while she was still stuck in the same place, frustrated.
Every night, she tried to meditate before bed, but without fail, her mind insisted on wandering through incomplete to-do lists, unresolved Arithmancy equations she tried to solve on her own—even though she didn’t yet have the classes to teach her how.
Magical Sensitivity, as Hermione had discovered in her solitary research in the library, was a controversial subject.
Some witches and wizards claimed that certain lucky individuals were simply born with the gift—like an invisible muscle ready to be used—while others, the vast majority, had to work up a serious sweat to achieve the same results.
“Everyone can reach proficiency,” said A Practical Guide to Magical Sensitivity, “but some, for reasons still not fully understood, seem to have a natural predisposition.”
Other books, however, were far less diplomatic.
Pureblood and Sensitivity: The Hidden Truth hinted—with a pompous tone that made Hermione’s fingers tighten against the leather cover—that only witches and wizards of pure lineage possessed any real aptitude for the sensitive arts.
Every page seemed to drip with that same veiled prejudice she endured daily—through disdainful glances, complicit silences—as though a wizard’s worth could be measured by something as arbitrary as their pedigree.
“No sense,” she growled to herself, her brown eyes rolling so hard that the world went blurry for a moment. “As if magic needed a pompous surname to work properly.”
But what irritated her even more were the authors who simply shrugged and chalked everything up to luck.
Hermione let out a deep sigh, closing the book with a soft thud on her lap.
Maybe Professor McGonagall was right—maybe she really did need to stop trying so hard and just… empty her mind.
“Right, that’s about as likely to happen as Filch smiling or Snape wishing us a good morning before a lesson,” she thought, with a mix of sarcasm and resignation. But, as she always reminded herself, “it has to work eventually.”
In the midst of her thoughts, an irritating voice dragged her back to reality.
“Well, if it isn’t the library rat in the flesh,” said Pansy Parkinson, approaching with a smug smile. “Decided to leave your lair today?”
Pansy wasn’t alone.
Millicent Bulstrode, big and heavy as a wardrobe, stood beside her with her arms crossed in a threatening posture, her size at odds with her intellect. Behind them, almost hidden, Daphne Greengrass followed the group, her blonde hair and timid blue eyes casting a hesitant expression.
“Look who’s talking, Parkinson. You crawl out of a dungeon every morning for breakfast. Who’s the one living in a lair here?” Hermione shot back.
Pansy raised an eyebrow, pretending to be shocked.
“How rude, Granger! And here I was, trying to be nice,” she said with theatrical falseness. “Must be lonely spending all day with your nose stuck in books. You reek of ink from a mile off, you know?”
Millicent let out a deep laugh, like a muffled thunderclap, while Daphne looked away, examining the scattered leaves on the grass, visibly uncomfortable.
“I’d rather reek of ink, as you put it, than of sewage. Or have you already forgotten what happened last year?” Hermione retorted, her eyes blazing with determination.
Pansy’s smile froze for a moment, but it was Millicent who stepped forward, cracking her knuckles.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve for someone who knows she’s outnumbered,” the big girl growled, looming threateningly.
Hermione instinctively stepped back, heart pounding in her chest.
She wasn’t new to dealing with bullies, and she also knew she couldn’t simply turn her back on someone with a wand, capable of casting spells from a distance. Her mind, however, betrayed her—under pressure, she couldn’t quickly come up with an effective way out.
“No need, Millicent,” said Pansy, raising a hand to stop her with a fake magnanimity. “I’ve already dislocated her arm once when she deserved it. And I can do it again, if I must.”
Hermione's face grew hot, but she kept her head held high, her fists clenched at her sides.
Before she could retort, Daphne took a hesitant step forward, her cautious voice cutting through the tension.
“Perhaps we ought to go, Pansy. We still have that Potions essay to finish, remember?”
Pansy shot her a look of pure disgust.
“Shut it, Daphne,” she snapped.
“If you’ve come here just to rile me up,” said Hermione firmly, “you might as well leave. I’ve got more important things to do than put up with you lot.”
“Oh, of course you have, Granger,” Pansy sneered, a cold smile playing on her lips. “But here’s a bit of advice, just between us: maybe you ought to spend some of that time sorting out that hair, because Merlin help me, it makes you look like a battered old broomstick—or better yet, fix those teeth. Since the rest is rather hopeless.”
The cruel words lashed like a whip.
Hermione huffed, clutching her book to her chest as she shot Pansy an icy glare before turning on her heel, her footsteps firm and echoing across the lawn. She knew giving in to the taunts would only give Pansy exactly what she wanted, but the words had cut deeper than she cared to admit.
Sunlight filtered through the green domes of the greenhouses, casting a glow over the riot of colourful plant life as the students took their places in front of pots filled with roots and tubers with twisted green stalks.
It was a typical Herbology lesson, and Professor Sprout seemed particularly cheerful.
“All right, everyone!” she exclaimed, cheeks pink and a smile on her face. “Today we’ll be re-potting Mandrakes. They’ve grown nicely and are ready to be moved. Who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?”
As expected, Hermione was the first to raise her hand, arm shooting up with determination.
“Miss Granger,” said Sprout with a nod.
“Mandrake, or Mandragora,” began Hermione, straightening up as she spoke, “is a powerful magical root used to restore living beings who have been transfigured or cursed, returning them to their original state.”
“Excellent!” said Sprout, clapping lightly. “Five points to Gryffindor!—Mandrake is an essential ingredient in many antidotes. But… it can also be fatal. Does anyone know why?”
Once again, Hermione raised her hand, but this time Neville hesitated and slowly lifted his as well.
The gesture caught the attention of their classmates.
“Mr Longbottom,” said Professor Sprout, encouraging him with a smile.
Neville cleared his throat, visibly nervous.
“Er… the scream. The scream of the Mandrake, Professor. It’s a bit like a Banshee’s. It can kill a person, but only if the Mandrake is fully mature. Younger Mandrakes only cause fainting. That’s why we use earmuffs or soundproofing spells when pulling them out of their pots.”
“Perfect answer!” Sprout beamed. “Another ten points to Gryffindor. Although I should add that using cotton wool in the ears also works—it’s an old-fashioned method by today’s standards and rarely used anymore, but it’s still a viable solution in a pinch. Remember that for the test at the end of term!”
Hermione, all the Ravenclaws, and a few other studious pupils scribbled that down at once. The rest, as usual, ignored it, assuming it would be an easy thing to remember… out of the twenty things they were meant to learn every day.
Harry looked at the small greenish-purple tufts in front of him.
They didn’t seem particularly threatening. In fact, he wondered how dangerous they could really be, since the plants were utterly silent. He’d heard from Neville that they could scream, but that loudly?
“Now, attention!” Sprout called, her voice clear and firm. “Everyone got their earmuffs on?”
The students nodded in unison, adjusting the earmuffs over their ears.
“Excellent! You’re going to grip the Mandrake’s leaves firmly, like this,” she demonstrated, grasping the plant with firm hands, “and pull it out of the pot with force. Off you go—everyone together!”
The moment the Mandrakes were pulled from the soil, deafening screams rang out through the greenhouse, even with the earmuffs protecting their ears. The writhing roots flailed madly, emitting a sound that was part wail, part scream, and entirely disturbing.
They looked like hideously ugly, wrinkled babies, with roots where their hands and feet should have been.
Neville, unlike most of the students who were grimacing and working quickly, seemed completely at ease.
He held his Mandrake like it was a rare relic, examining it with almost academic interest—some discolourations might indicate a fungus or disease in the root.
“Now, re-pot them in the larger pot beside you,” Sprout instructed, demonstrating as she plunged her Mandrake into its new container and swiftly covered it with soil. “Like that! Don’t dawdle!”
The students followed her lead, eager to be rid of the screeching plants. Except for Draco and Goyle, who seemed more interested in mocking their Mandrakes than actually re-potting them.
“Look at this thing,” Draco sniggered, poking the Mandrake’s mouth with a finger. “Looks like Vincent’s face when he took that kick in the knackers.”
“Too right,” Goyle agreed, laughing as he did the same.
The response was immediate: the Mandrakes bit down savagely on their fingers, forcing both boys to yelp in pain and drop the plants.
The Mandrakes went flying, one of them hitting Crabbe squarely, knocking his earmuffs off one ear. The scream from the plant hit him full force, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance before bursting into laughter, along with the rest of the class. Hermione merely rolled her eyes at the Slytherins’ idiocy.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves some new Herbology experts!” Ron remarked between fits of laughter.
“Mr Malfoy! Mr Goyle!” Sprout’s voice rang out, loud and authoritative. “Take Mr Crabbe to the hospital wing at once! And for Merlin’s sake, do try to finish the work properly next time!”
Draco shot a look of disgust at Harry and Ron, who were still laughing, before helping Goyle drag Crabbe out of the greenhouse.
“Serves them right,” Harry chuckled, already imagining the telling-off they’d get in the hospital wing, as Sprout wrapped up the lesson.
A few hours later, after the last class of the day, it was time for Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Harry wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest, but this time, it wasn’t just for the usual reason—the fact that Lockhart was a terrible professor, but a first-rate narcissist.
No.
The annoyance now came from something even worse: Lockhart had developed the habit of using him as an example in nearly every lesson.
Whether it was re-enacting some fantastic beast he claimed to have defeated, or demonstrating a “practical exercise” to show how two wizards—or celebrities—should behave under pressure, Harry was dragged into the centre of attention.
It was embarrassing, unnecessary, and increasingly unbearable.
Even Hermione, who usually lit up at Lockhart’s ridiculous explanations, now gave Harry sympathetic looks whenever he was called to the front of the class, knowing full well how much he loathed being the focus.
When the lesson finally ended, Hermione went straight to the library to return a borrowed book—she didn’t want to risk losing the trust she’d methodically built with Madam Pince over a late return—and Harry left with a heavy sigh, Neville and Ron trailing just behind.
His arms still ached from being forced to act out a werewolf attack—with Lockhart personally demonstrating the “terrifying howl”, which, of course, had earned laughter and jeers from the Slytherins at the back of the classroom.
“You were brilliant, Potter! Did you see how I showed you to defend yourself against a werewolf? Of course, I’ve had loads of experience with them, but now you’ve got the theory first-hand. Let’s just hope you don’t need to practise it for real!” Lockhart laughed as the lesson ended, clapping Harry on the shoulder like an old friend.
Harry didn’t reply, choosing instead to grab his things and leave quickly—though not before catching the sniggers and mocking glances from several Hufflepuffs and Slytherins.
“All right, Harry?” Neville asked cautiously as they walked through the corridors together.
Harry let out a frustrated sigh.
“Oh, absolutely. I love being made to look like an idiot,” he said sarcastically. “Might even make a career out of it.”
“Yeah, I get it, mate,” said Neville. “I mean, not really—I’ve never been picked for that kind of thing…”
“Count yourself lucky,” Harry sniffed.
“I do. But I can imagine it’s not exactly comfortable, either.”
“You’ve been stuck on the ceiling, Nev,” Ron pointed out. “If it was bad getting you down from there, imagine how it was being up there in the first place! Pretty much the same thing, just more bad luck than a pompous git of a professor trying to humiliate you. It’s all uncomfortable, really—and let’s not forget Snape.”
Neville shuddered at the memory of the Potions Master, always breathing down his neck, piling on pressure and snapping bitter remarks at everything he did.
“And I’ve said before, DADA’s been a circus for ages now,” Ron went on, shrugging. “Only Hermione’s still as stubborn as a locked door when it comes to that preening peacock. Don’t let it get to you, Harry. Everyone knows you didn’t want to be up there.”
“Doesn’t stop them making jokes about it!” Harry snapped. “Even Zacharias Smith! Zacharias Smith, Ron! He made a joke today. That’s how low it’s gotten!”
“What joke are we talking about?” Ron raised an eyebrow, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “Was it the one where you looked like you were walking around like you’d shite yourself?”
“Think it was the one about the mating roar of a male Wendigo,” Neville sniffed a chuckle.
“Idiots,” Harry muttered, giving both of them a light punch on the shoulder.
“Honestly, mate, Smith’s a total pillock even when he’s just breathing,” said Ron, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “What did you expect?”
Harry huffed.
Ron was right, of course—but that didn’t make it any less infuriating. Deep down, Harry knew the real problem was that he was just tired of it all—and it was only October.
Without thinking much more, he decided he needed time alone.
“I’m going to grab my broom,” he said abruptly. “Might go for a fly over the pitch. The sun’s come out after all that rain.”
“Want company?” Neville offered, already looking keen to join him.
“We could have a quick race or just toss the Quaffle back and forth,” Ron suggested, cheering up at the thought.
Harry shook his head.
“No, thanks,” he said gently. “Just need to be on my own for a bit. Well… on my own with Hedwig, maybe.”
Ron and Neville respected his choice, and Harry made his way up to the Gryffindor tower, where he found Hedwig on her perch, watching him with amber eyes.
“Fancy some fresh air, girl?” Harry murmured, extending his arm to her.
The owl landed and gave a soft “hoot-hoot” in response, clearly in favour of the idea.
A few minutes later, Harry was out on the Quidditch pitch, the cool wind brushing against his face as Hedwig flew lazy circles above. At last, he felt his shoulders relax.
No infuriating narcissists, no sympathetic glances, no mocking laughter—just the open sky, the wind, and the quiet company of his owl.
Nearly an hour passed before he decided it was time to return. He went for one last manoeuvre before landing. But as he rounded a bend near the ground, he felt his broom jerk violently sideways.
“Oh fuck!” he gasped.
Harry tumbled towards one of the stands’ support beams.
With quick reflexes, he managed to veer away, but lost control and crashed into a huge puddle of cold mud, tumbling several times before coming to a stop. He lay there for a moment, feeling the muck and grime seep into every inch of him.
“Oh, come on!” he yelled, struggling to his feet.
His cloak, shirt, shoes—even his one trusty scarf—were completely filthy. He glanced around, heart pounding, scanning for any sign of who might have done it.
He knew that feeling—that violent tug on the broom. He’d felt it last year, with Quirrell and Snape.
Someone had interfered. But the pitch looked empty. He searched again, eyes sweeping every corner, but saw no one.
Probably some Slytherin prat, and Harry knew he’d never find out who—he’d only hear the jokes spreading like wildfire over dinner.
With a heavy sigh, Harry looked up at Hedwig, who was watching him.
“You can go hunt or head back to the dormitory if you want, Hedwig,” he said glumly. “I’ll manage from here.”
The owl gave a low hoot, as if disagreeing, but flew back towards the castle, scanning the area above, as though still searching for whoever had done it—but she found nothing.
Harry thought about cleaning up and changing clothes, but remembered only the Quidditch captain had access to the Gryffindor changing rooms. Using Alohomora to sneak in would be risky and would almost certainly land him in trouble with Professor McGonagall. The last thing he wanted was more grief—for himself or his house, which had been humiliated since September.
Still covered in mud and in a foul mood, Harry trudged off the pitch—just in time to spot Colin Creevey.
The boy was snapping photos of the castle in the distance, camera swinging from his neck.
As soon as he spotted Harry, he came running over, eyes shining.
“Harry! What luck, finding you here! What happened? Did you fall off your broom?” Colin asked, firing the words like a machine gun.
Harry felt his patience snap.
“Of course not, Colin, I decided to dive headfirst into the mud to hydrate my skin.” He bit his tongue swiftly.
“Yeah... happens sometimes,” he replied. “So you really play Quidditch? That’s brilliant! I’ve never seen a match myself—and I won’t this year either, which is rubbish. But I do know it was worth it, that thrashing you gave those Slytherins! They deserved it, didn’t they? I even took a few photos at the time—even though I wasn’t involved, I thought it might come in handy someday. ‘We need something for the war effort,’ Andrew said while we watched you duelling. ‘So there’s got to be propaganda to keep morale up! One day photos might be useful,’ I told him. Those Slytherins hassle us every year, so it’s good to remind them of the embarrassment. Want to see? I’ve already developed some.”
“No.” Harry answered curtly.
But Colin wasn’t fazed. He kept talking without pause, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s sharp tone.
“You’re the Seeker, right? Seeker! That’s a really important position—at least that’s what I’ve been told—it must be amazing! What’s that thing called again, the one you catch? Glowing Stitch? Golden Twitch? Snatch?”
“Golden Snitch...”
“That’s it! Golden Snitch! Gryffindor lost last year, didn’t they?... shame, but they also said you won every match you actually played in—the official ones, I mean—and they said you gave the Slytherins a proper thrashing when you caught the Snitch! …Can I take your picture?” he finished, trying to sound casual.
“No, Colin! Can’t you see I’m covered in mud?!” Harry snapped, exasperated.
“But that’s even better! Battle grime, you know? It’s the art of photography! Shows the reality of Quidditch! You fell—so what? Everyone falls!”
Harry rolled his eyes and sighed, staring at the long walk still ahead of him towards the castle.
“So, don’t you want to capture a moment like this?” Colin persisted, eyes shining, camera poised for any sign of agreement. “You might laugh about it one day.”
“You’re not taking a picture of me. End of discussion.”
Colin, however, kept chattering, seeming even more excited, as though he’d drunk several cups of coffee and swallowed a spoonful of sugar. He photographed anything he thought interesting and, even after a month at Hogwarts, still seemed dazzled by every detail of the castle.
“Merlin, Morgana and Circe, does this bloke have an off switch?!” Harry thought, sighing heavily.
By the time they reached the castle, Harry was trailing mud through the corridors, with Colin close behind, still nattering away.
Then a furious voice echoed behind them.
“Who’s the blithering idiot smearing the corridors with mud?! D’you think I’m paid to clean up after you lot?!”
Harry felt his heart sink. It was Filch.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Shut it, Colin!”
Colin held his breath.
“It’s Filch! He’s going to catch you—”
“And blame you too, just for being with me. Come on, this way!” Harry yanked him behind a tapestry bearing the crest of the four Houses.
“Do you think he’ll—” Colin began to whisper nervously.
“Shh!” Harry hissed.
The idea had been decent, but Harry’s muddy shoes had left a very clear trail.
Filch, accompanied—as always—by Mrs Norris, appeared right in front of the tapestry. Before Harry could react, the fabric was yanked aside and he was seized by his cloak. Colin went unnoticed.
“Aha! Got you, filthy little scoundrel!” Filch growled, gripping him tightly. “Of course it had to be you, Potter! Just like your father—always giving me extra work! Who would’ve guessed?”
“I can explain, sir—”
“Silence! You’re coming straight to my office!”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said, resigned.
As Filch began dragging him down the corridor, Colin stepped out from behind the tapestry.
“He didn’t do it on purpose, sir. It was an accident—on the Quidditch pitch!” Colin blurted out.
Harry shot him a look of pure exasperation that clearly said: “Colin, for the love of Merlin!”
“Well, well! An accomplice, is it? You’re coming too, boy! Let’s go!”
Colin hesitated, but lowered his head and followed Filch.
Harry gave him a scathing look, but Colin simply shrugged, apparently thinking he was helping.
When they arrived at Filch’s office, both were told to sit on the hard wooden benches facing the timeworn desk.
“Can’t give you a detention myself, which is a pity” Filch grumbled “mucking up the corridors just gets points taken, like pigs in mud, when they shite on the white ceramic tiles in the kitchen in the morning.”
Harry found this detail oddly specific, but decided not to question it.
“And all the professors are far too busy, as always,” He muttered, crossing his arms. “But no one’s told me you can’t write a five-foot essay on ‘Why One Mustn’t Enter the Castle With Muddy Feet.’ So you’d better get started, Potter!”
He turned his beady eyes on Colin.
“And you can write about why one shouldn’t be an accomplice to someone who soils the castle and leaves the mess for Mr Filch to clean. Got it?”
Harry and Colin nodded, both barely holding back groans of frustration.
“I’ll fetch parchment and quills for you. Now… where did I put that ink?” Filch muttered, rummaging through drawers and shelves while grumbling incoherently.
While the caretaker was distracted, Harry glanced around, noticing the details that always made him uneasy.
The smell of damp and mildew still hung in the air, the dark wooden cabinet and silver manacles dangling from the walls looked just as sinister as the last time he’d been there. In the corner, a filing cabinet with engraved nameplates displayed confiscated belongings from students. One drawer had an enormous, heavy padlock with a large name carved into the front.
WEASLEYS
Harry couldn’t help a wry smile.
It was obvious Fred and George kept Filch very busy.
“I hate this room,” a voice whispered in his ear.
“AH!” Harry yelled, jumping in fright.
Colin let out a higher-pitched squeal just after.
Nearly Headless Nick was hovering beside him, looking rather sheepish.
“Oh! A thousand pardons, Mr Potter and Mr Creevey. I didn’t mean to startle you!”
“Nick?! What are you doing here?” asked Filch, pausing his search.
“Oh, nothing to worry about, Mr Filch,” said Nick, quickly composing himself. “Just having a wander… gliding through the corridors, seeing if anything catches my attention, you know how it is.”
“But you don’t walk,” Filch replied, narrowing his eyes as Nick floated in place.
“Figure of speech, my dear fellow. Merely a figure of speech,” said Nick with an exaggerated smile.
“Is it now? Well, if you’ve finished your little ‘wander’, you can walk—or float—yourself out,” Filch snapped, gesturing impatiently at the door. “These two need to concentrate on writing their essays about responsibility and respect.”
“Of course, of course, quite understandable!” Nick replied, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “But you know, I always say Hogwarts forges its pupils like iron into blades… Mr Filch, you're doing a marvellous job. Truly exemplary!”
Filch blinked, surprised. Praise for his work was rare.
“Erm… thank you, Nick.”
“Don’t mention it!” Nick beamed, but made no move to leave, and an awkward silence settled in the room.
Colin coughed, breaking the tension.
“Anything else?” Filch asked, irritated.
Nick cleared his throat, glancing around as if waiting for something to happen.
“Well, I suppose I’ve said all I needed to, Mr Filch… but, if I may, now would be a terrible time for someone to come barging into your office—just out of the blue—because, you see, I’d have to say goodbye to them in a very rude manner. That wouldn’t be right! It would give the impression I didn’t want to be in their company, which, of course, could hurt their feelings terribly. And nobody wants that, do they?”
Filch stared at him, clearly losing patience.
“Yeah… right, out with you now, Nick,” he said, sounding more exasperated than ever.
“Oh, yes, yes, I’m going… through the door!” Nick began floating slowly away, still speaking rapidly. “Would be an awful shame if the BLOODY BARON happened to turn up to haunt someone, wouldn’t it? Dreadful when AGREEMENTS are made, and a broken agreement can lead to such… tragic consequences. A proper catastrophe, I’d say!”
Before Filch could respond, Peeves burst through the wall with a dramatically exaggerated look of horror.
“You promised not to mention the Bloody Baron!” Peeves cried, pointing accusingly at Nick.
“And you had one job to do, Peeves! Just one job!” Nick shot back, sounding deeply offended. “And now you’ve left me in an utterly disgraceful situation!”
“What the devil is going on in here?!” Filch snarled, his face reddening. “Get out of my office, all of you!”
“I’ll never leave you, my dearest caretaker!” sang Peeves, soaring in circles around the room.
“You’ve been missing since last month and I thanked Merlin for it!” bellowed Filch. “Crawl back into whatever hole you came from and leave me in peace!”
Peeves blew out his cheeks in an exaggerated huff.
“Back in your hole, blah blah blah. Look at me! I’m the grumpy old caretaker who loves bossing everyone about!—not even a cheerful grin for your old pal? No? What a pity!” he mocked, zooming over to the large dark wooden cabinet.
Filch went pale.
“No… not the cabinet! Peeves, do whatever you like, but don’t touch the cabinet!”
“What cabinet? This one?” Peeves tapped the furniture lightly with one spectral finger—
CRAACK!
—just enough to send it toppling to the floor with a crash, splintering the wood.
There was a short moment of silence...
Before Filch exploded.
“GET OUT! ALL OF YOU, NOW!” Filch bellowed, his face red and twisted with rage. “I DON’T WANT TO SEE ANY OF YOU IN HERE!”
Seizing the moment, Harry grabbed Colin by the arm and bolted out of the office, Nearly Headless Nick following close behind.
As they passed through the door, they heard Filch shouting and swearing at Peeves, while the sounds of things falling over and the poltergeist’s cackling laughter continued, muffled behind the door.
Harry sighed in relief.
“Thank you, Sir Nicholas. We were about to get into serious trouble in there.”
“No need to thank me, Mr Potter. Peeves owes me a few favours, and I promised him the Baron would stop hunting him down over that little cold prank, if he helped me out—I and the Baron are quite good friends in these matters. And frankly, I didn’t want our dear Gryffindor House to land in any more trouble, and you’re a good lad. There’s no reason Mr Filch should want to punish you, especially as I believe you didn’t exactly want to be in that situation, did you?” He gestured at Harry’s filthy robes.
“Well, not really, sir, it was… an accident.” Harry replied evasively, not quite knowing how to explain what had actually happened.
“I thought as much. Was Mr Creevey with you?”
Colin shook his head.
“I ran into Harry afterwards.” he explained quickly “I wanted to help, but Filch thought I was in on his scheme to mess up the castle even more.”
“Ah, Mr Filch always finds trouble where there isn’t any.” Nick commented with his hands on his spectral waist “He has a rather serious issue with being a Squib in a school full of wizards. But that’s a matter for another time, perhaps.”
That made sense. Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a bit sorry for Filch.
Being born without magic and having to clean a castle the size of Hogwarts, surrounded by witches and wizards, must be at least frustrating. Perhaps that was what made him so grumpy.
But he didn’t do it all on his own—Hermione had said that the house-elves, without anyone noticing, did most of the cleaning where the caretaker couldn’t manage.
Harry sighed, exhausted. He’d already been through more than enough for one day. He really did deserve a rest… and clean clothes.
“Well, thanks for the help, Sir Nicholas.” Harry nodded in gratitude. “But if you’ll excuse me, I think I need a bath.”
“Just a moment, Mr Potter.” Nick called him back hesitantly. “Might I ask a favour of you? Only if it’s not too much trouble…”
“Well, he did help me with Filch” He thought “it’d be daft and rotten to refuse.”
“Sure, what is it?”
Nick cleared his throat.
“Well, Halloween is approaching, and with it come all those festivities.” He explained calmly, “I’m throwing a party in the dungeons, along with other ghosts, and I’d need some food for… certain special individuals, if you catch my meaning.”
“Right, no problem,” Harry agreed—that didn’t sound hard. “But I don’t quite get the ‘special individuals’ bit, sir.”
“Allow me to explain briefly, then. Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore is the leader of the Headless Hunt—you see, it’s a club for decapitated ghosts, as the name suggests.” He described this macabre club as casually as if discussing the weather. “I’ve been trying to join for years, but because of a mere half-inch of skin, they deny me entry! But this year, I feel it’ll be different! I’ll be marking 500 years since my death, and I’m certain Sir Patrick will have to reconsider, especially with a splendid feast I’m arranging.”
“But you lot don’t… eat,” Harry said slowly, not wanting to offend, as certain matters of the afterlife were delicate to discuss with ghosts.
“Indeed, we can’t eat.” Nick sighed, visibly mournful over this lost pleasure of the living. “But I do so love to look at food. When I was very much alive, feasts required the finest dishes! So I’ve ordered something special from the kitchens. If you could fetch it for me on the day, I’d be most grateful. I’d do it myself, if I were alive, and things didn’t keep slipping through my hands, you understand?”
He demonstrated by passing his translucent hand through a suit of armour’s helmet—the gauntlets flailed at their own visor in irritation, only to swipe straight through.
“And the rest of the guests are, in summary, ghosts too… with a few exceptions like spectres and poltergeists.”
“All right, I’ll do it. Happy to help, sir.” Harry replied.
“Splendid!” Nick exclaimed. “Ah, before I forget—you’re invited to the party too, of course! It’d be dreadfully rude not to extend the invitation. Do bring your friends! Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, and Miss Granger—I’m sure they’d be delighted by the company!”
“Er… yeah, sounds great.” Harry smiled uncomfortably. Halloween was already a day he disliked, and spending it with ghosts was, well… peak gloom.
“Can I come too?” Colin asked eagerly.
“Certainly, Mr Creevey! I shall expect you all there. Cheerio!”
With that, Nick vanished through the wall.
Harry, meanwhile, started heading towards the bathroom, with Colin—yet again—trailing after him.
Harry forced himself not to roll his eyes at the boy.
“Colin, I really need a bath and then some studying. It’s, er… Transfiguration stuff. Really complicated, you know?” Harry lied.
“Oh, alright then, Harry. See you at dinner?” Colin asked hopefully.
“Huhum, yeah…” Harry replied, still uneasy about the idea of the ghostly gathering.
Watching Colin scamper off down the corridor, Harry finally relaxed his shoulders.
Now he just had to figure out how to tell Ron, Neville, and Hermione they had a very… dead party to attend.
Harry, Ron, Neville and Hermione were making their way down the stairs towards the kitchens to collect Sir Nicholas’s special order.
It was already evening, and the castle had once again been decked out for Hallowe’en, with decorative streamers Transfigured into cobwebs hanging in the corners, floating pumpkins carved with terrifying faces lighting the corridors, and illusions of bats swooping across the ceiling.
Peeves seemed to be at the height of his excitement, appearing out of nowhere to frighten unsuspecting students, while the twins were letting off fireworks outside the castle, unnoticed by any of the professors.
In the corridors, groups of students were chatting animatedly while sharing enchanted lollipops, cracking caramels and chocolates that exploded in the mouth like tiny fireworks.
“At least we’re off to fetch food, so we won’t be going hungry,” said Ron, shrugging.
“Yeah, but I hope we don’t have to stay too long. Honestly, the Hallowe’en feast in the Great Hall sounds a lot more interesting than a party with the dead,” Neville replied, frowning.
“Not that I’m complaining or anything, but why’d you ask us to come along?” Ron asked, glancing at Harry.
Hermione slowly shook her head.
“Honestly, Ron, your emotional sensitivity outdoes itself daily,” she said critically. “Besides, it’s a ghost party—how many living people can say they’ve attended one? It’s bound to be at least fascinating.”
“I won’t promise fascinating, but we don’t have to stay long,” said Harry. “We can do what we’ve got to do, have a bit of a chat, then say we want to hear Dumbledore’s holiday speech or something.”
“So long as we don’t have to stay near the Bloody Baron, I’ll count it as a win,” Neville muttered, visibly shuddering. “Those chains of his give me the creeps.”
The Bloody Baron, in addition to having robes permanently stained with blood, wore heavy chains wrapped around his body like a macabre suit of armour. The metallic clinking sound he made when he moved was enough to send anyone scurrying.
“If he comes near us, we’ll make up an excuse, Nev,” Harry assured him.
They finally arrived at the portrait of the fruit bowl.
With a swift motion, Harry tickled the pear, which gave a giggle and transformed into a doorknob. The door swung open to reveal the Hogwarts kitchens—a space as bustling as the Great Hall itself.
House-elves bustled to and fro, balancing stacks of pumpkin pies, trays of themed cakes, and baskets of decorated biscuits for the Hallowe’en feast. The smell was so delicious that Ron and Neville’s stomachs gave simultaneous growls.
Hermione’s eyes widened, entranced.
“Oh my God!—I mean, Merlin!” she corrected herself quickly—she always minded when Muggle expressions slipped out unbidden. “It’s exactly as it’s described in Hogwarts—”
“—A History,” the boys chorused in unison, in a monotone.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hide a smile as they all laughed.
Soon, the group approached a table piled with sausage rolls shaped like fingers, complete with a little sign reading:
Muggle Fingers
“‘Muggle Fingers’? Shouldn’t it be ‘Witch Fingers’?” Hermione asked, frowning.
Ron shrugged.
“You’re a witch. Would you eat your own fingers?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“No...”
“There you go, then. Sorted.” He grinned, satisfied.
Hermione shook her head.
“Well, I wouldn’t eat Muggle fingers either,” she argued. “And this is a sweet decorated with jam and almonds, not sausage.”
“There you go, mystery solved,” Ron shrugged. “Completely different thing.”
“The sweet version sounds interesting…” Neville murmured, eyeing the selection of Hallowe’en sweets dreamily, clearly wondering if he could sneak a nibble.
They stepped aside to avoid some hurried house-elves until one elf with particularly large, pointed ears approached them. She wore a spotless uniform and seemed to be someone in charge of the kitchens.
“Hello, I is Macy,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “How is I helping the young masters?”
“Hi, Macy,” said Harry, stepping forward. “We’re here to pick up Sir Nicholas’s order. Is it ready?”
“Oh yes, young master! One little moment, please!” Macy chirped before darting off to the back.
While they waited, the four of them chatted idly about the latest gossip—particularly Percy and Penelope Clearwater, who were apparently spending a lot of time together on their prefect rounds.
“I feel sorry for her.” Ron muttered. “Percy probably just talks about job titles and Ministry exams,”
When Macy returned, she brought with her several other elves carrying covered trays. As the lids were lifted, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville were left gaping—and it wasn’t in admiration.
The putrid smell hit them before the sight did.
The trays were piled high with rotting meat, wilted, blackened leaves and cakes teeming with maggots. Flies buzzed around the dishes, and everything looked as though it had come straight out of a nightmare.
“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed, aghast. “That’s the food?!”
“This is Sir Nicholas’s special order, young master,” Macy explained cheerily. “They’s from the castle bins. Ghosts can’t eat, and they is not liking waste from the living!”
Ron clutched his stomach like he was trying to hold in disaster.
“Merlin’s beard, this is what they serve them? Thank Merlin I didn’t eat anything before I came—I’d have wasted it all on the floor!”
“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, scandalised. “Don’t be rude! Macy’s not to blame for Nicholas’s choices.”
Neville, meanwhile, had gone visibly pale.
“I think... I think I’m going to be sick…” he clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to suppress a gag.
“Let’s just take it and go,” Harry suggested, pinching his nose and grimacing. “The dungeons aren’t that far. Thanks anyway, Macy.”
“You is welcome, young masters! Happy Hallowe’en!” she called brightly, trotting back to her duties.
After covering the revolting food with lids, the four of them headed for the dungeons. Some Slytherins they passed gave them suspicious looks as they descended to the lower levels, but paid them little mind.
As they entered the party room, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville were immediately engulfed by a scene that looked as though it had stepped straight out of a macabre tale.
The atmosphere was steeped in a supernatural chill, and the air shimmered beneath the ghostly light of blue flames that danced spectrally along the walls. The floor, veiled in a silver mist that curled in spirals, gave the impression they were walking upon cold clouds.
Among the ghosts floating about the room were many familiar faces—such as the jovial Fat Friar, who never missed a chance for a celebration, and the Grey Lady, whose very presence carried an air of melancholy. But there were others, less familiar visitors, whose billowing robes and pallid faces suggested they had come straight from the graveyard in Hogsmeade, drawn by the occasion.
At the centre of the room, a ghostly band played an ethereal tune, and several spectral couples danced together, their translucent bodies twirling weightlessly. Others clustered in shadowy corners, murmuring among themselves about the pleasures and misfortunes of life after death.
“Let’s drop this lot off and get out of here,” Ron whispered, grimacing as he lifted the lid from one of the trays.
The stench that wafted out was so vile Hermione clamped her nose shut at once, and Neville turned a shade paler.
Harry, however, was distracted by a snippet of conversation between the Fat Friar and Helena Ravenclaw—the true name of the Grey Lady.
“It’s the same every year, have you noticed?” the Friar was saying, shaking his head in disapproval. “Severus gets even more insufferable than usual—that icy stare, the cutting voice… The Baron told me even the Slytherins steer clear of him around this time.”
Helena sighed, her translucent face seeming to carry centuries of sorrow.
“I know that look too well… it’s the weight of regret, self-loathing. The Potions Master would never admit it, he’s far too proud. But if he spoke of it, perhaps he might lift some of the darkness he carries. And who knows—perhaps avoid ending up like us… trapped between two worlds, never resolving what binds us here.”
“What do you mean by that, Helena?” the Friar asked, leaning in with interest.
“Nothing that matters now,” she replied, casting a look heavy with pain and anger towards the Bloody Baron, who stood motionless in a darkened corner, his forbidding presence keeping others at bay.
Hermione had already told Harry the tragic tale of Helena Ravenclaw and the Baron.
Helena, consumed by envy for her mother Rowena Ravenclaw’s intellect, had fled Hogwarts with the founder’s diadem—a legendary artefact said to grant unrivalled wisdom to its wearer. She hid herself deep in the forests of Albania, far from everyone’s reach.
When Rowena, on her deathbed, begged the Baron—once her student and a loyal Slytherin—to retrieve her daughter, he departed at once. The Baron had always been obsessed with Helena, declaring her his soulmate, though no one but he believed it—she had never returned his feelings.
Upon finding her, Helena refused to return.
Blinded by rage and jealousy of her romantic freedom, the Baron stabbed her. Overcome with remorse, he took his own life. Thus, both returned as ghosts—she, the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw; he, Slytherin’s bloodstained spectre.
As for the diadem, no one truly knew what became of it. It was accepted that it had simply vanished with time, as Helena had never spoken of where she had hidden it after her death.
Harry wasn’t entirely sure what troubled Snape, but knowing him, he had no doubt it was something deep and grim—something that had shaped him into the bitter man he was, burdened with a secret he would never share.
Helena drifted away to join Luna Lovegood, who was also present, gazing serenely at two dancing ghosts with her usual dreamy expression.
“But what’s he got to regret?” Harry murmured, thoughtful.
“What was that, Harry?” Hermione asked, noticing he’d spoken aloud.
Before Harry could answer, a voice called out.
“Ah, here come a few more of the night’s distinguished living!” Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington exclaimed, floating over with another rather stern-looking ghost at his side. “What an honour to have you with us! A pity Mr Creevey has already departed—he was most disappointed not to find you anywhere, Mr Potter. Though he did manage to snap a few photos of the party—hopefully they turned out all right, at least.”
Harry let out a sigh of relief. Not having to worry about Colin during that grim gathering was one less burden.
“Good to see you again, Sir Nicholas. Er… congratulations on your… uh… death?” Harry offered, unsure if the comment was in poor taste.
“Oh, thank you! One doesn’t often mark the five-hundredth anniversary of one’s death!” Nick replied, bowing to Hermione, Ron and Neville as well. “Now, allow me to introduce you to the illustrious Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, president of the Headless Hunt!”
“A pleasure,” said Patrick in a voice of utmost courtesy, befitting a ghost of great age.
Nick leaned closer to Harry with a conspiratorial glint.
“You brought the dinner, didn’t you?” he whispered.
“Just what Macy gave us,” Harry replied with a shrug. “Are you sure that’s it over there?”
Nick glanced at the table loaded with rotten food, and his spectral features lit up.
“That’s it! Perfect! Sir Patrick, I have an irresistible proposal for you. If you would accompany me to the buffet—I arranged for a few delicacies that might appeal to your tastes!”
“If you’re thinking of asking to join the Headless Hunt again, I’ll refuse as I have for the past four hundred and eighty-eight years, Sir Nicholas!” the ghost warned stiffly.
“Oh, no need to get worked up! I’ve only the best intentions and a proposal you won’t be able to resist. Come along, come along!” Nick replied, gesturing cheerfully to Harry, Ron, Neville and Hermione. “Enjoy the festivities!”
“I’d rather be dead than enjoy a party like this,” Ron muttered, winking dramatically at his friends.
Harry, Neville and Hermione laughed at the pun.
“Lovegood was invited too?” Hermione asked, casting a curious glance toward the blonde-haired girl, who was chatting with Helena Ravenclaw near the window.
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second,” said Ron, eyes wide. “The fact she’s here voluntarily is enough to give me the creeps.”
“Don’t say that, she’s nice,” Neville leaned forward, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret.
Ron raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised.
“You talked to her? When was this?”
Neville nodded, his eyes glinting faintly under the glow of the floating candles.
“It was after I got back from the greenhouses a few days ago. Professor Sprout needed help isolating the stench from the Stinksap, and I ended up losing my Remembrall… again.”
He wrinkled his nose as Harry and Ron stifled laughs.
“Oi! I’m serious! Stop laughing, the both of you!” He jabbed them in the shoulder, blushing. “Luna just popped up out of nowhere in the corridor and said I had Wrackspurts round my head. I was like, ‘What do you mean? There’s nothing round my head!’ but she insisted they were invisible. She explained how to get rid of them and, well…”
Ron let out a stifled snort, leaning in as if about to share a wicked plan.
“She once told me to burn basil in the Burrow’s garden because, according to her, the Ministry had hired creatures to nick Mum’s pumpkins. Said the smell would scare them off.”
Neville opened and closed his mouth, looking like a fish out of water.
“But that… well… I mean… she didn’t… uh…” He tried to defend her, but the words escaped him.
“Mate, don’t tell me you actually did what she told you,” Ron said, eyes streaming with laughter.
Neville turned as red as a beetroot, which was enough to set Harry and Ron off into loud guffaws. Even Hermione let out a chuckle.
“Oh, come on! It’s not what you think!” Neville protested, exasperated, as though fighting not to be lumped in with Luna’s eccentricities.
Hermione crossed her arms, assuming that air of superiority she always adopted when logic squared off against superstition.
“Neville, those things don’t exist!” she said flatly. “She talks about invisible creatures, but not a single one’s ever been verified or documented anywhere.”
“But I remembered where my Remembrall was three minutes later!” Neville countered stubbornly.
“That’s a fallacy,” Hermione retorted, lifting her chin. “Just because you found your Remembrall doesn’t mean it was because of her advice.”
Neville pressed his lips together, clearly disagreeing, but choosing not to prolong the argument.
“Either way, she helped me. I’m not going to mock her.” He said frankly. “She just… told me to retrace my steps in the greenhouse, that’s all. No basil or… or… any of those things you lot are thinking of.”
“Well, that actually makes sense,” Harry remarked with a shrug. “I do that sometimes too.”
Ron gave a snort.
“Mate, the two of you are as barmy as she is sometimes.”
“You ought to give her more credit!” Neville insisted, pointing an accusatory finger. “By the way she talked, it sounded like she really cares about the Burrow.”
Ron’s eyes widened, his ears flushing almost as red as his hair.
“Wh—what? What did she say?” he spluttered, sounding like a toad with a blocked throat.
“She said she always used to go to you to talk about things happening near your place. That it was easier because you were always playing in the woods near her house,” Neville explained. “She said she mostly did it when she felt something was wrong… that her mum would pass by the Burrow and sense more tension in the auras.”
That tension…
Ron knew exactly what it could have been. But thank Merlin, Luna hadn’t said it out loud.
The first thing that sprang to mind was when he and his brothers were up to mischief, driving Mum to the brink of a meltdown. That happened often, of course—but it never lasted long, and never made them truly unwell.
If she’d mentioned that, it wouldn’t have been such a revelation. Harry and Neville knew well how his family worked, Hermione had heard the stories.
But the other possibility…
That was something he’d never say aloud. Ever. To anyone.
Unlike some other old wizarding families, the Weasleys had never swum in Galleons. They’d never been wealthy, never had luxuries. And sometimes… sometimes things got tighter than Dad could manage alone with his Ministry wages. Especially with seven kids under one roof.
Ron remembered suddenly, without knowing where the memory came from—with a clarity that stung—those months when the money barely stretched to the essentials. Of his mother, already overwhelmed with the house and children, rising before dawn to bake bread, make sweets, pick vegetables from the garden and sell whatever she could to keep the bills from piling up.
He remembered being no more than six or seven, waking far too early—something he never did, being the type to sleep until the gnomes started singing.
But that night, the ghoul in the attic had woken him.
He’d crept downstairs in his patched pyjamas, clutching Charlie’s old stuffed dragon, its fabric scales fraying from so many nights protecting him and his brothers, following the faint sounds to the kitchen.
There he’d found his mother, hands red and rough from kneading dough, flour dusting her apron like the first snow. Not everything could be solved with spells, food was often one of them. Only professional chefs knew the tricks and secrets.
“Mum? You’re still here?” he remembered asking, puzzled.
The forced smile she’d given him—bright as a Lumos Charm, but not quite steady—still haunted him years later.
“Back to bed, my little knight, it’s much too early to be down here,” she had whispered, abandoning her work to scoop him into her arms.
Even then, he’d noticed how her arms trembled slightly from exhaustion as she carried him back up the winding stairs.
The goodnight kiss she’d planted on his forehead had tasted of salt and yeast, lingering just long enough for him to pretend he hadn’t noticed she’d been crying.
Before his head had even hit the pillow, she was already on her way back to the mounds of dough waiting downstairs.
Now, frozen in that dungeon, Ron could still hear that roughened voice in the difficult months, when the Gringotts ledger turned red like a warning. The way her laughter turned thin, like overstretched treacle, when she and Dad spoke in hushed tones about school supplies by the embers’ glow…
Where did all this come from?
Luckily, none of his friends had managed to read the look on his face—or so he hoped.
To Harry, his relatives might’ve been right dragons, but the cupboards at Privet Drive had never been bare—not that he’d ever said so, at least not to Ron.
But Neville… Well, the Longbottoms were one of the oldest and wealthiest wizarding families. Ron knew Neville’s gran could probably buy out half of Diagon Alley if she fancied, and still have enough Galleons left over for a full set of racing brooms. She just managed it all very wisely, and seemed to be teaching Neville how to do the same.
And Hermione… That was more complicated, though not all that different.
Ron remembered the day Harry had casually remarked that “dentists in the Muggle world make a fortune.”
Two dentist parents meant Hermione had never had to count out Knuts and Sickles before buying her pile of books, had never seen her mum turn old socks into scarves or wear hand-me-down uniforms so threadbare they were nearly see-through from over-washing.
That whole story—his whole life—flashed through Ron’s mind in about five seconds. He blinked a few times, but no words crossed his lips.
“Hello.” A gentle voice sounded behind them.
They all jumped, and, turning around, realised it was Luna who had spoken.
“Erm… hi,” Ron replied weakly.
He cleared his throat, trying to return to “normal,” and hoped she hadn’t heard the conversation—or worse, his thoughts, if she could read minds.
Luna smiled at him, humming softly, then stopped in front of Neville.
“Did you find your Remembrall, Neville?”
“Yes! Found it right after, thank you so much,” he said sincerely, a genuine smile on his face. “You really helped me!”
Hermione rolled her eyes, clearly sceptical.
“That’s good,” said Luna, her gaze faraway. “Some people don’t believe in the power of Wrackspurts.” She looked into the distance, behind them, as though watching something invisible. “They really can blind a person in rather devious ways. Sceptics are always the ones who suffer the most from them.”
“Yeah,” Neville agreed. “What was it you said about those Nargles? Could they have taken my Remembrall too?”
“Certainly,” Luna replied serenely. “A Nargle is a mischievous thief, far more efficient at stealing important things than a Niffler is with shiny objects. And, of course, they infest mistletoe, which means they multiply during their breeding season at Christmas, when there’s loads of it about.”
“Those things don’t exist, Luna,” Hermione said, plainly incredulous. “There’s no scientific basis for them. How could a creature steal my things without anyone ever seeing them at all?”
The three boys exchanged glances, and Harry felt a small twist in his stomach.
Hermione had a habit of being brutally honest, and it often made things uncomfortable.
“That’s what everyone says,” Luna sighed, looking at Hermione with a surprisingly understanding expression. “That Nargles and Wrackspurts don’t exist… until they suffer from them. Like you, the other day.”
“Me? Suffer from… When?” Hermione looked stunned.
“You were affected by several Wrackspurts, two days ago. I was counting butterflies in the sky when I saw you storming away from a conversation with Pansy Parkinson and two other girls—I don’t know the names of. You were surrounded by Wrackspurts, all crowding round your head. It was Parkinson who placed them on you, and it took a while for them to leave… one’s still circling near your ears, actually. I’d advise positive thinking, or you’ll keep suffering.”
The four of them blinked and fell silent, utterly speechless.
Hermione was a citizen of the “straight-to-the-point” kingdom, while Luna seemed to be its empress. One was incredibly sceptical, the other a full-blown dreamer and conspiracy theorist.
Harry remembered how his Aunt Marge, with her relentless opinions, used to rile up the Dursleys and make dinner even more tense. It seemed both girls had that same unfortunate knack—even if they were on opposite ends of the spectrum.
When they came back to themselves, Harry was the first to look at Hermione, clear concern etched in his green eyes.
“Parkinson spoke to you?” Harry asked, his jaw tight as he imagined the worst.
“What did she say?” Ron murmured lowly, his blue eyes already steaming with fury.
They hated seeing Hermione upset, and knew she had the terrible habit of hiding what really bothered her.
Hermione shook her head disdainfully.
“Nothing important, just the usual idiocy.” She looked away.
“Why are they always like that? So… so horrid?” Neville sighed, sounding lost.
“Because they’re gits, that’s why!” Ron muttered angrily. “That idiot was bald for barely a minute, by the looks of it. I should talk to George again!”
“No,” Hermione said firmly. “It’s my problem, whatever she said. No need to worry. And anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.”
She crossed her arms, and an awkward silence fell.
“Ah… well, I hope you feel better,” said Luna. “Talking about it is the first step to getting the Wrackspurts out.”
Hermione clearly bristled at that, but before she could say anything else, Ron cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck.
“Erm… right,” Ron said, looking a bit lost. “The party’s really great and all, but I think I’m going to head to the Great Hall, even if it’s a lot less Halloween, since... well, ghosts, you know? Haunted places and all that.” He added, half-laughing, “Also, I’m not a huge fan of rotten food—send my thanks to Nick.”
“I brought some food from dinner, Ronald” Luna said kindly, her large blue eyes shining. “There’s plenty—I could share with you, if you like.”
“No need, thanks,” Ron replied quickly, already taking a few steps away. “Think I’d better get some air.”
Before they could say anything, Ron had already gone, head down, deep in thought.
“Do you think it runs in the family—refusing food?” Luna asked, watching the door he’d gone through.
“Definitely not,” Harry laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “Ron’s the greatest fork duellist I’ve ever known. Only Nev beats him when it comes to sweets.”
“Oi!” Neville blushed furiously, swatting Harry on the arm.
“How odd,” Luna murmured, her eyes distant. “I saw Ginny Weasley leave dinner early too, without eating anything. She had that diary with her—she even takes it to lessons. And she seemed to be surrounded by Wrackspurts as well… but hers looked darker, like the kind that never really leave your head.”
Hermione made a tremendous effort not to roll her eyes and sigh heavily.
Their conversation carried on for a while, until the topic shifted to Moaning Myrtle, who was curled up in a corner of the party, emitting dramatic sobs.
“See? It’s like that all the time,” Hermione sighed, shaking her head. “She spends her days crying, and no one uses her bathroom because of it—it’s simply unbearable.”
Unfortunately for Hermione, Peeves was nearby, and having caught her complaint, a mischievous grin spread across his face.
Wasting no time, he floated over to Myrtle, eager to stir up some chaos.
“Granger over there says she’s fed up with all your blubbering! Says you’re just as unbearable!” he declared cheerfully. “Gotta admit, it is annoying… but so am I, so I’d say we’re even!” He cackled gleefully.
Myrtle lifted her face, eyes wide with indignation, and spun in the air, darting straight at Hermione.
“YOU’RE CRUEL!” she shrieked, furious. “Do you think I CRY because I WANT TO?”
Hermione frowned, taken aback. “I didn’t say—”
“LIES! You’re just like all the others!” Myrtle pointed a spectral finger at her. “Always talking behind my back!”
And with that, she burst into fresh sobs and flew out of the party, diving into the haunted decorations and vanishing from sight.
“Well, that ended worse than I expected,” said Luna, breaking the silence with her usual peculiar calm.
Luckily, none of the other ghosts seemed to take much notice of the scene, as a ghostly couple’s argument had broken out in the middle of the room—which was far more entertaining, with the furious phantom woman chasing her husband after he’d eyed another lovely ghost with delicately translucent curves. The Bloody Baron, as ever, remained isolated; no one dared approach him.
Not long after, Luna said her goodbyes and stayed behind at the party, chatting with other ghosts. Harry, Hermione and Neville made their way up to the Great Hall, trying to forget the bizarre events they’d just witnessed in the strange dungeon.
Upon entering the Great Hall, Harry felt the immediate contrast between the cold chill of Nearly Headless Nick’s party and the warm, comforting air of the Halloween feast.
The place was filled with laughter and animated chatter, as students swapped jokes and stories between bites of pumpkin pasties and gulps of pumpkin juice. Dumbledore was stroking his long silver beard, eyes fixed on the Hufflepuff table for no apparent reason, lost in thought. McGonagall and Flitwick were deep in a lively discussion about gemstone transfiguration—whether it would be possible to create perfect copies.
At the far end of the staff table, Lockhart, dressed in a garish, bright orange set of robes, was gesticulating wildly as he recounted how he’d saved the Minister for Magic in Indonesia from being devoured by a Kelpie. Septima Vector, the Arithmancy professor, was leaning slightly forward, wearing a curious yet plainly sceptical expression.
Harry noticed Snape had already left the feast, attracting no attention as usual.
They approached the Gryffindor table, where Ron was eating silently beside Fred and George. Pies, pastries, meats, fruit, lollipops and small cauldrons of chocolate adorned the tables, forming a feast that seemed endless. Neville, fascinated by the array of sweets, piled more desserts onto his plate than actual food.
Colin Creevey appeared, as excited as ever, and headed straight for Harry.
“Hi, Harry! Didn’t see you at the party. I thought it was all a bit odd down there, so I came up here. But I took some photos! Want to see?” He proudly held up the images, but to his surprise, not a single ghost showed up in them—just dim corners of the dungeon.
“Maybe ghosts don’t appear in magical photographs,” Hermione remarked when Colin finally returned to his seat, disappointed not to have captured anything.
Harry relaxed, happy to regain a bit of peace as he resumed his dinner.
“Have you seen Ginny?” Ron asked suddenly, mouth full of pie.
Hermione grimaced.
“Ron! For Merlin’s sake, swallow before you speak!” she protested with a nose wrinkled in disgust.
He ignored her scolding and looked at Harry and Neville.
Neville shook his head.
“Luna said she saw Ginny leaving dinner early… and she didn’t eat anything,” he said, before biting into a slice of chocolate cake.
Ron frowned.
“She’s been acting weird lately—I’ve said so. Percy even came to ask me if I knew what was going on with her, but… I don’t. Ever since she got here, she’s been quiet, practically avoiding everyone. That’s not like Ginny.”
Harry found that at the very least… curious.
Ginny had always struck him as incredibly shy, especially around him. That summer at the Burrow, she could barely speak without stumbling over her words or blushing violently. He figured it was because of all the stories everyone told about him.
But according to Ron and even Neville—when he spent a few days at the Burrow, without Harry around—she was usually quite outgoing and spoke easily, always cracking jokes and fooling around.
“And that diary?” Ron went on, still chewing, much to Hermione’s dismay. “She never puts it down. It’s like it’s glued to her hand. I’ve tried to read what she writes, but she hides it every time. Makes me wonder what she’s keeping in there.”
“That’s a complete invasion of privacy!” Hermione exclaimed, outraged. “Diaries are personal! She has every right to write whatever she wants without anyone snooping.”
Ron raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, really? You’ve got a diary too, Hermione?” he asked suspiciously.
“That’s none of your business,” she replied sharply, chin lifted.
“Aha!” Ron grinned. “So you do! Now I’m scared of what might be in there.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.
“And why’s that?”
“Because it probably has loads of stuff about Lockhart. Bet you’ve filled entire pages about him.” Ron gave an exaggerated shudder.
Hermione huffed and began to argue back, her face flushing with anger. Harry and Neville exchanged a weary glance. This row seemed never-ending.
But all of a sudden, every sound around Harry—the laughter, the clatter of cutlery, even the echoes of Hermione and Ron’s quarrel—was muffled.
He heard that voice again—low, sibilant, and terrifyingly cold.
“Blood… I smell blood… come… come to me…”
Harry’s eyes widened, his stomach turning over.
That voice—he’d heard it before, but nothing had ever come of it, beyond its bizarre and chilling words. He’d even begun to suspect it was some cruel joke being played on him.
But this time, something felt wrong—more than the whispering, more than the sense of something slithering just out of sight.
He looked around, but no one else seemed to have noticed. Everyone carried on eating and chatting as though nothing had happened. He stood up so suddenly that the others fell silent and turned to stare.
“What’s wrong, Harry?” Neville asked, looking worried.
“The voice…” Harry swallowed hard. “I heard the voice again.”
Neville went pale and Ron swallowed thickly.
“Oh no,” Hermione whispered, her eyes wide.
“Bloody hell. That’s bad, really bad,” said Ron, and, surprisingly, Hermione didn’t correct his language.
“I’m going after it,” Harry said quickly, already starting to move away.
Before anyone could stop him, he dashed off, a sense of urgency propelling him out of the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall watched him go, suspicion etched across her face.
As the doors swung shut behind him, Harry sprinted down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the cold stone. Neville, Hermione and Ron followed at pace, trying to keep up.
“Harry, wait!” Hermione called, but he ignored her.
His mind was locked on the voice he’d just heard.
“I’ll rip you… I’ll kill you when the time comes…”
The sibilant phrase echoed in his skull, and Harry quickened his pace, hands brushing the walls as though he could feel where the voice was coming from, eyes darting around. It was almost as if the voice was inside the walls, moving. Or perhaps it only felt that way.
Suddenly, he halted sharply as he rounded a corner.
There was a puddle on the floor, reflecting their pale, terrified expressions.
But what truly stopped them cold was what lay beyond it.
Hanging from a torch holder by her tail...
It was Mrs. Norris.
Her fur was on end, her expression frozen in pure terror, as if she’d been scalded with boiling water. Even more disturbing, though, was the message scrawled in large, blood-red letters across the wall beside her:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE!
A line of spiders was fleeing into the cracks in the ceiling above.
Harry felt the blood drain from his face. Before he could properly take it in, rapid footsteps echoed behind him.
“Mrs Norris!”
Filch appeared in the corridor, his usual scowl now replaced with alarm and horror.
He stopped dead at the sight, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. His eyes widened, and then fixed at once on the still form of his beloved cat.
“It was you!” he snarled, jabbing a trembling finger at Harry. “I know it was you, you little bastard!”
“I didn’t do anything!” Harry replied, still shaken.
How could he explain that he’d only just arrived?
It looked… it felt like he was involved.
Just then, Neville, Ron and Hermione reached the corridor, the sound of their footsteps breaking the suffocating silence.
“Oh my God!” Hermione whispered, hands flying to her mouth.
“Is she… dead?” Neville asked, voice trembling.
Filch ignored the three entirely, taking a step closer to Harry, fury burning in his eyes as he jabbed a bony finger.
“I’ll get you for this! You’ll pay!” he shouted, his voice cracking with rage.
Instinctively, Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm, gripping it tightly as if to shield him. Neville stepped in front of him, trying to form a protective barrier, while Ron moved forward, fists clenched, ready to intervene.
“What is going on here?”
Professor McGonagall’s firm, authoritative voice rang down the corridor, freezing everyone in place.
She arrived quickly, eyes widening at the scene before her.
“Potter killed Mrs Norris!” bellowed Filch, jabbing a finger at Harry with such vehemence it looked like he meant to stab him.
“Harry was with us!” Ron burst out, his face red with fury. “He didn’t do anything!”
“Lies! You little troublemakers always lie to cover for each other!”
Before McGonagall could respond, footsteps and voices began echoing from the Great Hall. A group of students and professors was approaching, drawn by the commotion.
Malfoy was the first to step forward. He read the blood-red message aloud, his cruel laughter slicing through the silence.
“Enemies of the Heir, beware!” he said mockingly. “You lot’ll be next, Mudbloods!”
He looked almost instantly at Hermione, the nearest Muggle-born.
Harry felt his blood boil. Hermione, still holding his arm, visibly flinched—but before Harry could react, McGonagall rounded on Malfoy with a glare that could cut steel.
“Mr Malfoy!” she snapped, her voice like a whip. “Thirty points from Slytherin! That is not something to joke about!”
The crowd parted as Dumbledore arrived, accompanied by Snape, Professor Sprout, Flitwick and Lockhart.
His blue eyes looked more tired than usual as he surveyed the scene, approaching Mrs Norris.
“Argus,” Dumbledore began, his voice calm but firm. “Mrs Norris is not dead. She has been petrified.”
Lockhart surged to the front, peering at Mrs Norris with a self-important air.
“What a shame I wasn’t here earlier,” he said, as if mourning a missed opportunity to shine. “I know just the counter-curse that would’ve spared her.”
The other professors exchanged passive looks, offering no comment. There was no such counter-curse for this kind of Petrification.
“Will she… be all right?” Filch asked anxiously, his voice shaking.
“Yes, it’s reversible,” said Snape in his low, deliberate voice. “But we’ll need fully matured mandrakes to brew the antidote. How are yours coming along, Pomona?”
“Barely reached adolescence,” said Sprout with a sigh. “They need to mature fully, and that’ll take a few more months. Any attempt to use them now would be too risky.”
“Can’t you buy the stuff?” Filch asked desperately.
“Impossible,” explained Professor Sprout. “They're extremely sensitive to transport and could easily die, which would ruin the whole process. And it's rare to find a supplier at this time of year. Besides, when summer approaches, mandrakes are usually replaced in most cases, so there's no stock of mature ones by Halloween—finding anything in autumn is completely unworkable.”
Dumbledore gave a solemn nod, placing a gentle hand on Filch’s shoulder.
“She’ll recover, Argus. I’ll see to it personally. But now, we need to investigate. From what I can tell, the blood on the wall isn’t hers.”
He turned to the crowd.
“Return to the Great Hall at once to finish your dinner. Filius, Pomona, would you be so kind?”
Both nodded.
“Excellent. When it’s time to head back to your dormitories, you’ll go with your House prefects. Now off you go!”
“Come on, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, with me!” said Professor Sprout, already moving off as Flitwick led the Slytherins and Ravenclaws.
The students began to disperse, whispering amongst themselves, while Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall remained at the scene.
Harry exchanged a look with Hermione and Ron, both still visibly shaken as they spoke in hushed tones.
“That voice…” Harry murmured. “It was the voice. It did this.”
Hermione crossed her arms, frowning deeply, as if trying to apply logic to something that defied every rational explanation.
“As if a troll in the castle last year wasn’t enough…” she sighed, casting a worried glance at Harry. The image of him lying bloody and unconscious flashed in her mind, and she forced it away.
Neville kept glancing nervously around as if expecting something to leap out of the shadows.
“Who… who d’you reckon the Heir is?” he asked fearfully. “And how did they do that to Mrs Norris?”
“I dunno… haven’t the faintest,” Harry replied, still in shock.
Ron, however, raised his eyebrows at Hermione.
“Well, at least it’s not a giant monster smashing things this time… right?”
“Not helping,” Hermione shot back—but her voice trembled more than she’d have liked.
Whatever it was, Hogwarts would not be sleeping soundly tonight—not this time.
And Harry remained silent for the rest of the evening. This time, there was proof—the voices he’d been hearing were capable of this.
He only hoped that Mrs Norris would be the first and last victim.
But deep down—his sharp intuition whispered—they were in trouble.
A lot of trouble.
Chapter 24: The Plan That Could Break 50 Rules
Chapter Text
Since Mrs Norris had been found Petrified, Argus Filch had turned into an even more sinister and cantankerous figure than usual.
Now, the caretaker prowled ceaselessly up and down the corridor where his beloved cat had been attacked, as though waiting for the culprit to be foolish enough to return to the scene of the crime.
His gnarled fingers gripped the handle of an old mop tightly, which swayed menacingly in his hands, while iron chains clinked at his belt, ready to bind any wrongdoer.
He had even gone so far as to set up a rickety chair in the middle of the corridor, where he would sit for hours on end, muttering broken, hate-filled phrases to himself.
“When I catch the scoundrel,” he would growl, bloodshot eyes scanning the students passing by, “I’ll hang ’im from the ceiling by his ankles and scrub the floor with his face until it bleeds!”
Needless to say, upon hearing such things, students kept their heads down and walked faster to get out of his sight, terrified he might start suspecting their innocence.
Filch had always been, by nature, a man who relished punishing others, handing out detentions for the most trivial of offences and pursuing students with the fervour of a ravenous hawk. But now, with his cat lying motionless in the hospital wing, his fury had reached alarming heights.
He reprimanded students for “breathing with too much enthusiasm” or “smiling too cheerfully”, as though happiness itself were a personal insult.
Not even the mysterious message on the wall escaped his wrath.
Armed with a bucket soaked in Mrs Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, he scrubbed frantically at the red lettering, sweating and swearing as the mop squeaked across the stone. But no matter how hard he tried, the words remained stubbornly in place, gleaming under the torchlight like a sinister warning:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE!
While pondering these bizarre events, Harry found himself in yet another Potions lesson, as uncomfortable as ever, as though Snape’s mere silent presence—watching them with that expressionless stare—made the atmosphere all the more unbearable.
The sound of knives striking chopping boards echoed around the dungeon, breaking the oppressive silence as the students sliced bat spleens.
Yet Harry’s mind was far away.
He barely noticed the automatic movements of his hands; his thoughts were trapped in the macabre voice he’d heard the night before.
The Chamber of Secrets had been opened.
Who was the Heir of Slytherin? And who were their enemies?
The whole school seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the next attack. Harry had his suspicions, but no certainties—only a gnawing knot of unease in his stomach.
He hoped with all his might that he, Ron, Neville, and Hermione weren’t in the Heir’s sights... but a grim sense of foreboding whispered otherwise.
His eyes landed on Malfoy in the corner of the classroom, who had spoken of Mudbloods with that arrogant smirk, as though they were nothing more than rubbish to be swept from the castle.
Muggle-borns.
The target of the danger.
Hermione.
Harry swallowed hard, watching her from a distance, at another table.
She was working efficiently, dividing the bat spleens into even portions before slicing them neatly into tiny pieces, stacking them precisely at the edge of the board. If she was worried, she wasn’t showing it—her expression was one of focus, not fear.
She’s good at hiding what she feels, Harry thought, turning back to his own work with the knife, careful not to slice his finger.
But that voice wouldn’t leave his head. It still echoed in his ears, hoarse and laced with malice, like a promise of violence.
Was that voice the Heir himself? And if so… who was behind it?
It was hard to know what any of it meant.
The story of the Chamber felt more like a half-told legend, with scraps of information scattered among the students.
In the common room the day before that Potions class, it had been clear that everyone was just as alert as he was.
While Harry tried—and failed—to finish his History of Magic homework, Hermione sat with a thick book in her lap, but hadn’t turned a single page in half an hour. Ron and Neville, playing chess, were taking forever to make their moves, clearly listening in on the conversations around them.
“I heard that the Chamber is full of hidden treasure,” Katie Bell had said. “And maybe the Heir’s trying to protect something that was stolen.”
“What if it’s a torture chamber?!” Dean Thomas exclaimed from another table, eyes wide. “And the Heir’s just a code name for a murderer who goes after anyone who stands in their way?”
“If it were a murderer, he wouldn’t’ve just Petrified Mrs Norris,” argued Seamus Finnigan. “Maybe he just doesn’t like cats… like my neighbour who poisoned ours back home, the nasty old bat.”
The theories were as vague as they were absurd, but the professors, on the other hand, seemed to know more than they were letting on. Their worried glances and hushed conversations didn’t go unnoticed by the students’ watchful eyes.
But if Harry had hoped to pick up any clues during that lesson with Snape, he was sorely mistaken.
“How many rat tails are required for the Hair-Raising Potion, Longbottom?” Snape asked suddenly, his voice slicing through the dungeon’s silence like a blade.
Neville gave a start, knocking the knife from his hand onto the floor, backing away from it as though it had come alive.
“I… I think it’s three, sir,” he said, picking the knife back up.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek for Neville’s sake.
He knew the answer was wrong; it was six. Even so, he could do nothing but watch as Snape leaned forward, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
He was a sadist and took real delight in mocking and humiliating Neville—sometimes even more than Harry.
“You think?” Snape repeated, savouring each word. “Much as I think your end-of-term results will be just as dreadful as this potion.”
Neville swallowed hard.
“Yes, sir...” he murmured weakly.
Hermione, who had been fidgeting, finally raised her hand.
“Yes, Granger?” said Snape, bored.
“Six rat tails, Professor,” she replied promptly, her voice clear. “Seven, if you’re using only one chopped bat spleen instead of two. However, that reduces the potion’s effects by half, even though it prolongs its duration by a quarter, due to the combined properties of the rat tails and half a puffer-fish eye. You also need to stir the cauldron five extra times clockwise before bottling it.”
Snape narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling into a cold smile.
“Impressive. It’s remarkable how insufferable you manage to be even when you’re correct.”
He turned, staring at Neville, who shrank back instinctively.
“See, Longbottom? Your classmate won’t always be there to save you in lessons. Do make a note of that, for when you can no longer lean on your crutches.”
“Y-yes, sir,” he repeated quietly, pulling out a scrap of parchment and scribbling the information down with trembling fingers.
The sneering smiles of the Slytherins spread across the room as they muttered to one another, laughing under their breath, and Harry felt his blood boil.
He gripped the knife in his hand far too tightly, slicing the limp, gelatinous bat spleen with a sudden, loud chop that drew the professor’s attention.
“Having trouble cutting spleens, Mr Potter?” said Snape.
“No, sir,” Harry replied, eyes fixed on the workbench.
“Then do the task properly,” Snape snapped. “Horizontal cuts, not vertical. We are slicing bat spleens, Potter, not butchering rabbits with a cleaver. One more stroke like that and you’ll be wasting the school’s ingredients. If you’re incapable of valuing the delicate materials we use, perhaps you’d rather help Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail again.”
The muffled laughter of the Slytherins rippled through the dungeon once more, and Harry had to muster every bit of self-control not to fling the bat spleens at someone’s backside or roll his eyes.
He went back to work, promising himself he’d cut the spleens so perfectly Snape wouldn’t have anything left to criticise—but of course, he still found fault with a few apparently uneven slices once the lesson was over.
Shortly afterwards came History of Magic.
By halfway through, Harry was already bored beyond endurance.
The monotonous drone of Professor Binns was like a soundtrack for exhaustion, and he found himself checking the clock on the wall every two minutes, in the vain hope that time might move faster. Eventually, he rested his head on his book, eyelids growing heavy once again.
Across the room, Binns was drifting back and forth, hands clasped behind his back.
“So, now that we’ve concluded the details of the Medieval Assembly of European Wizards,” the professor was saying in his slow, monotonous voice, “we shall proceed to the reign of Arthur Pendragon. He was the son of Uther Pendragon and became world-famous under his title: King Arthur. He is equally well known in the Muggle world through various fanciful tales, and in the wizarding world, though we possess far more information than Muggles do and can be certain that he did indeed exist.”
That caught Harry’s attention.
He’d heard of King Arthur in Muggle stories.
There was even a Disney cartoon he remembered watching on television when he’d found a VHS tape his aunt and uncle had rented—one Vernon had hated and would’ve binned, had he not needed to return it—when they’d left him home alone. He thought, perhaps, this might be the first time something interesting came out of that ghostly professor’s mouth.
Maybe time will pass more quickly now, he thought, a little more cheerful at the prospect.
“Well, starting at the beginning,” Binns went on, not even glancing at the students, “very little is known about King Arthur’s reign, as most records from the time have mysteriously vanished.”
His glazed eyes seemed to fix on a distant point, as though gazing back across the centuries.
“There are theories, of course—some suggest sabotage, others mere accidents of time—but no definitive conclusion has been reached. What we know, with absolute certainty, is that Arthur was indeed a wizard, and the founder of the legendary Order of the Knights of the Round Table.”
Some students were yawning openly, their heads drooping dangerously close to their desks, until—
“He did not attend Hogwarts, of course,” Binns continued, “as, being a monarch, he could not leave his realm for an entire year, especially under the constant threat of rival kingdoms. However,” and here his voice gained the faintest trace of importance, “he was personally tutored by Merlin in his youth, shortly after proving himself worthy of the Muggle throne at the age of thirteen.”
The effect was immediate.
Several heads that had been nodding with sleep jerked upright, and even Harry—who usually found History of Magic an open invitation to unconsciousness—felt a tremor of interest.
Merlin.
That was a name even the most inattentive wizard would recognise.
“Arthur ruled the only mixed monarchy in British history,” Binns went on, “reigning over Muggles and wizards simultaneously—though for a regrettably short time with both thrones united. Naturally, this led to considerable conflict, particularly with the Catholic Church, which already held sway over the island at the time. They considered all magic an abominable heresy, which, as you can imagine, did not ease matters.”
Binns adjusted his pockmarked spectacles, which kept sliding down his ghostly nose.
“The true motives that led Arthur to rule over wizards, or even to attempt such a venture, are the subject of countless theories,” the professor continued, his voice echoing like a whisper of wind through old parchment.
“However, all of them agree on one crucial point: Arthur was said to be chosen or worthy to wield the legendary sword Excalibur, and it was this blade that legitimised his monarchical rule in the wizarding world.”
Harry was now fully alert, his eyes fixed on the professor as though afraid to miss a single word.
“They say,” Binns went on, floating slightly above his desk, “that anyone who was not the true chosen one would be unable to lift the sword. To the unworthy, it would weigh as though the entire world pressed down upon its blade, making it utterly impossible to raise. No Strengthening Solution, spell, or any other creative method would work—it simply wouldn’t budge a single millimetre.”
Harry exchanged a quick glance with Ron and Neville, who looked just as surprised that Binns was, at long last, saying something worth listening to.
Hermione raised her hand with purpose, her clear voice cutting through the dusty silence of the classroom.
“Professor, may I ask a question?”
Binns paused mid-float. He looked genuinely taken aback—after all, interruptions in his lessons were as rare as a tame dragon.
“P–proceed Miss Granger,” he replied, his voice as slow as an old scroll unravelling.
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with that insatiable thirst for knowledge.
“Is it true that the Ministry of Magic’s legal codes still include an article stating that whoever wields Excalibur shall be recognised as the rightful king or queen of magical Britain?”
Binns blinked slowly, as though he needed a moment to process that someone had actually been paying attention to his words.
“Precisely,” he confirmed. “Although the Ministry of Magic was founded in 1707—more than six centuries after the end of Arthur’s reign—many of the old consensus laws from the scattered wizarding communities across Britain were preserved, particularly those that were broadly accepted, like the one concerning the sword.” His voice took on a more solemn tone.
“The original parchment of that law remains archived at the Ministry as a historical record. So, to answer your implied question: yes, technically, anyone who were to find Excalibur and prove themselves worthy to wield it could, in fact, claim the abandoned throne of the wizarding world in Britain.”
Hermione could barely contain her excitement.
“And is there any clue as to where the sword might be today?” she asked, her fingers tightening slightly around her quill, as if already poised to jot down every detail.
Before Binns could reply, a slow, drawling voice sliced through the air.
“Planning to be queen now, Granger?” Draco Malfoy wore a razor-sharp smirk, his pale eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. “They don’t let your kind near the throne. You wouldn’t come close to being worthy.”
The Slytherins laughed, the harsh sound echoing through the room like the clink of chains.
Hermione frowned furiously, but her wounded eyes betrayed her—not from embarrassment, but from the sting of meaning behind the words, like a quick, clean blow.
Harry, watching her expression, felt a familiar rage ignite in his chest. He could almost sense his aura wanting to punch Draco into the floor for spouting such rubbish again.
“And why would your kind be any more worthy, Malfoy?” Harry hurled the words like a spell, his voice loaded with a challenge that made the air in the room grow suddenly heavier.
The laughter died instantly.
All the students turned, eyes flicking between Harry and Draco as though witnessing a duel before wands had even been drawn.
Malfoy lifted his chin, his pale face blotched with a flush of anger.
“I’m a pure-blood, Potter!” he spat, the words as sharp as venom. “Of course I’d be worthy.”
“Merlin help us,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes in a tone that left no doubt how ridiculous he found the whole thing. “Daddy’s little princess on the royal throne. Honestly, the wizarding world wouldn’t survive your noble leadership.”
This time, it was the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables that burst out laughing.
Malfoy wrinkled his nose as though he’d just swallowed a spoonful of Bubotuber pus, his face twisting into a sour grimace that even Peeves would envy.
“Shut it, Weasley,” he snapped—but the effect was ruined by the fact that his voice cracked into a high-pitched squeak.
“Come shut me up then, squeaky!” Ron shot back from his desk, making an exaggerated open-armed gesture.
“Silence, all of you!” Binns interjected, his voice echoing through the room.
The laughter faded gradually until it stopped entirely, though the students still exchanged grins and whispered remarks with their neighbours.
“This is a classroom, not a circus, and certainly not a duelling arena!” Binns continued. “Miss Granger’s question is valid, and there’s nothing wrong with asking it. Now pay attention. As for Excalibur—it has vanished completely from history. There are no reliable records of where it might be, only that it did exist and was used to legitimise the wizarding throne. So, don’t worry yourself, Miss Granger. The chances of it being found are about as likely as a wizard striking up a conversation with a dragon.” He chuckled to himself.
As soon as Binns mentioned dragons, Harry, Neville, Hermione and Ron exchanged curious looks.
Harry raised his hand before the ghostly professor could carry on.
Binns stopped laughing at once. He scratched his forehead, still unaccustomed to so much interaction in a single lesson.
“Yes, Potter?”
“Professor, has any wizard ever spoken to dragons before?” Harry asked.
“Well... er... yes, well...” Binns began, clearly puzzled that this had become the subject of the question. “What I said was merely an expression, nothing serious, but some say that Merlin had that ability. He was known to speak over thirty languages—ten of them being ancient goblin dialects, which in themselves took years of study just to grasp the basics. These days—fortunately—goblin languages have been standardised. However, I believe that tale to be an exaggeration, just another popular myth. No wizard has ever been truly documented speaking with dragons; it’s more likely that the idea arose from Merlin’s reputation as a great polyglot.”
Harry was thoughtful for a moment.
He knew he’d spoken to a dragon.
He’d understood Norbert the year before.
Looking at his friends, he saw their expressions were just as thoughtful.
Hermione was chewing her lower lip, absently flicking her quill from side to side, while Ron scratched his head in confusion and Neville frowned in concentration.
“But as I was saying,” Binns continued, “this period of British wizarding history is marked by profound mysteries—including the inexplicable disappearance of Excalibur, as we’ve already discussed.”
He was noting the information on the board with painstaking slowness. The chalk—also translucent—gripped in his hand.
“Ten whole years were completely… erased, so to speak, from collective memory,” Binns explained, his tone suggesting he might just as well have been talking about the autumn weather. “An event known as ‘The Veil of Memory’.”
Harry jotted down another name and date on his parchment mechanically, already sure he’d forget it all the moment the class ended.
The chalk continued its journey across the board as Binns carried on explaining.
“Before this event, we have fragmented reports indicating that two significant occurrences took place: first, the expulsion of Salazar Slytherin from Hogwarts by Godric Gryffindor; second, the birth of a child between King Arthur and his half-sister, Morgana Le Fay—described as the rightful heir to the throne.”
Everyone also knew that Morgana was as much of a character as Merlin. She was an expert in many dark arts, even if she wasn't considered a dark witch.
Harry wrinkled his nose at the mention of Arthur and Morgana.
Half-siblings having a child together? That was disturbing, to say the least.
His discomfort deepened as Binns wrote on the board, in his perfect handwriting, that this heir never ascended the throne and that his true name remained unknown—though historians suspected it was Mordred, based on scattered accounts.
“As for the expulsion of Salazar Slytherin...” Binns continued, “some sources claim that Godric Gryffindor carried out the act while wielding his legendary silver sword, following a heated debate about the future of Muggle-borns at Hogwarts.”
The professor paused for dramatic effect.
“After these events, over a decade passed without any historical records, making up the ‘Veil of Memory’ I mentioned.”
Binns looked out over the class with an unusually solemn air.
“Pay close attention for the exam before the Christmas holidays,” he warned. “During this period, all records—written or oral, books, scrolls, maps—any form of historical preservation was completely obliterated in a way that historians still do not fully understand.”
Ron, sitting beside Harry, leaned in with a mischievous grin on his face.
“Would be brilliant to take a dump on Snape’s desk and he wouldn’t remember a thing,” he muttered, making Harry stifle a laugh.
“Some testimonies describe the sensation as if they went to sleep one night and woke up the next day with no memory of prior historical events,” Binns went on. “What’s interesting, however, is that memories of day-to-day problems and personally significant events—like work, weddings, birthdays, and parties—remained completely intact, as though nothing had changed. But any attempt to recall historical events, such as wars, epidemics, laws, or the like resulted in… nothing. There were even a few cases of people who had died, where everyone remembered they had died, but no one could say what they died of exactly.”
The students exchanged perplexed glances. What kind of power could do something so extraordinary?
“And when historical records finally resumed,” Binns concluded with a ghostly sigh, “figures like Merlin, Salazar Slytherin, Morgana Le Fay, and King Arthur himself had simply… vanished, never mentioned again in the historical annals, as the legends now tell us.”
Daphne Greengrass raised her hand timidly and hesitantly.
“Yes, Miss Greengrass?”
“This disagreement between Godric and Salazar—does it have anything to do with the Chamber of Secrets?”
“There is such a theory, but I reject it completely,” admitted Binns, with a dismissive gesture. “The Chamber of Secrets is nothing more than a legend. I have no interest in legends of this sort.”
“But how can it not exist, professor?” asked Terry Boot. “Just yesterday, Mrs Norris was petrified, and there was a message on the wall saying the Chamber had been opened!”
“That’s nothing but a tasteless prank, pulled by some ill-intentioned student,” Binns replied firmly. “Someone wanted to frighten you with an old and outdated tale. The Chamber doesn’t exist.”
“But can you tell the legend, then?” Susan Bones ventured. “After all, it’s part of this historical period, isn’t it?”
Binns sighed, casting a weary glance across the room, but noted that everyone was paying attention with an unusually intense interest.
“Very well,” he relented. “I’ll tell the story once, and then we will return to the lesson.”
He paused dramatically before continuing. No one dared interrupt with side conversations.
“To understand the legend of the Chamber of Secrets,” he began, his voice taking on a graver tone, “we must go back to the very founding of Hogwarts. When the four founders united to create our school, they agreed to admit students from all backgrounds.” His translucent finger rose in a professorial gesture. “However, over time, Muggle persecution intensified. Witches and wizards were hunted, tortured, burned alive in public squares…”
A collective shiver passed through the room.
“Salazar Slytherin travelled the world in search of ways to protect our kind,” Binns continued, unfazed. “The fires consumed mostly women—deemed weaker in spirit at the time—but men and children also perished. Entire families of wizards were wiped out.” His tone grew even darker. “The Muggles turned these executions into public spectacles. There were food and drink sellers, musicians and preachers, as though it were… a festive day. Divine justice and cleansing, they claimed.”
“Barbarians…” murmured Mandy Brocklehurst, her face pale with horror.
“Scumbags,” growled the Hufflepuff Roger Malone, clenching his fists.
“Despicable,” spat Goyle, though Harry noticed Draco Malfoy seemed more intrigued than appalled.
Harry felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
He tried to imagine what it would be like to see his own family dragged to the stake, and a wave of heat washed through him as though the imagined flames were already licking at his skin.
Binns, sensing the general discomfort, hastened to add:
“But those dark times are long gone. Muggles today are civilised—nothing like their cruel ancestors. I’m merely providing context for what likely led Salazar to… wish to take extreme measures.”
The mood in the room remained heavy, but the ghostly professor went on, floating slightly as he spoke:
“When Salazar returned to Hogwarts after his travels, he brought with him radical ideas. He began claiming that Muggle-borns were the real threat—that they posed danger to our world. This stance placed him in direct conflict with Godric.”
Most of the Slytherins wore smug expressions, as if in agreement with their founder’s extremist views; the rest of the class was split between remaining silent and puffing out their chests in pride at Godric’s stance.
Binns cleared his throat.
“The arguments grew increasingly heated, particularly between the two,” the professor went on, “until, during a feast in the Great Hall, the rupture became inevitable. Salazar was expelled.” His tone dropped dramatically. “But before he left, he made a sinister revelation: he claimed to have built a hidden Chamber deep within the castle, and left there a creature destined to ‘purify’ Hogwarts of Muggle-borns when his true heir returned.”
The students glanced at one another, as if wondering whether someone among them might be the heir.
Binns, however, waved his hand as though swatting away an invisible fly.
“Pure fantasy, of course,” he declared wearily. “No entrance has ever been found, and even if it did exist, any creature locked inside would have perished centuries ago. Nothing survives a thousand years hidden in a bustling castle.” His eyes swept the room with disdain. “As for those who claim to be heirs of Slytherin... well, they’re either mad or attention-seekers.”
“But Professor,” Ernie Macmillan called out, “my grandfather once said they reckoned the Chamber was opened—more than fifty years ago—it was!”
Binns frowned impatiently.
“That’s to do with a murder that occurred at the school more than fifty years ago,” he said knowledgeably. “Everyone believed the Chamber had been opened at the time and that the creature from it did the killing, but I’ve said already—those are mere fables! And it wouldn’t be remotely possible. The matter was resolved at the time, and no evidence of any Chamber was found. Therefore, I shall not speak on it any further.”
Having said that, Binns resumed his rigid posture, eyes on his book, and began reading once again in his monotone voice.
“Now, back to the lesson. Page two hundred and twenty-two, chapter twenty-two, The Middle Ages and the Seventh Goblin Rebellion led by Tekirak the Third…” he cleared his throat before beginning to read.
As Binns resumed his monologue, the whole class let out a collective sigh.
Harry glanced at the clock once again, wishing time would move faster.
Some time later, Harry ended up dozing off, and Neville nudged his shoulder, signalling that the lesson was over.
They gathered their things and began to make their way through the crowded corridors.
They passed Madam Pomfrey, muttering about low stocks of pain-relief potions from all the students falling off brooms and breaking bones. Harry noticed that Hermione, oddly, wasn’t leading the way as she usually did, nor was she in the midst of one of her usual monologues about something she’d read and found fascinating.
She was normally the most eager of the lot to get to the next class, unlike the rest of them, who would have delayed it forever if they could.
“What are you thinking about, Hermione?” Neville asked, casting her a curious glance.
He’d noticed the distant and focused look on her face, as though she were solving a particularly difficult equation in her head.
Hermione hesitated. Her eyes swept their surroundings quickly to make sure no one was listening, and then she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Harry…” she began, clearly reluctant.
“Yes?” he replied, frowning.
“Have you ever considered the possibility that… what if you’re the heir of Merlin? Or something like that?”
Harry stumbled over his own feet, the suggestion so absurd it took him off guard.
Of all the extraordinary things Hermione had ever said to him, this one stood out by a mile.
“What? Of course not! That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. “How would I be?”
“This I’ve got to hear,” said Ron, a mocking grin spreading across his face.
Hermione wet her lips, appearing to weigh each word as though they were ingredients in a complicated potion.
“Look… the writings say that Merlin had a wild aura, and now we know he could speak to dragons.”
“People say a lot of things, Hermione. Talking’s easy. Proving it—less so,” Harry retorted, more impatiently than he meant. “And even then, it’s all speculation. We don’t even know if he really spoke to dragons.”
“But you do!” she insisted, her eyes blazing with enthusiasm. “And we’re talking about Merlin! He spoke thirty languages, remember? Professor Binns is only sceptical because no one else has been documented with that ability—but you have it!”
“I only spoke to Norbert… one dragon. That’s it.”
“And Merlin didn’t even have kids,” Ron interrupted, rolling his eyes. “These things are hereditary, aren’t they?”
“Who said he didn’t have children?” Hermione shot back, folding her arms firmly. “He vanished! No one knows what happened to him after the Veil of Memory. It’s perfectly possible he left descendants behind.”
Neville watched her with that hesitant look of someone who wanted to believe but was on the verge of saying, “this is barmy.”
However, it was Ron who pressed on.
“So you’re saying that Merlin, who must’ve been, I dunno, a hundred years old or more, had kids, and now, centuries later, Harry’s his heir?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.
“Why not? He might’ve had children when he was twenty and no one knows!” said Hermione, with a defiant note in her voice. “The wizarding world is small. What are the chances he wouldn’t have descendants floating around?”
“Higher than the chances he would!” Ron replied, shooting her a sceptical look. “You’re off on one with this theory.”
“Why would that be a problem, anyway?” she asked, now standing up straighter, chin lifted and eyes narrowed.
Ron scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and shrugged. His ears were already beginning to turn pink.
“I dunno… just think Harry didn’t really like the idea,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulders, walking a bit clumsily as usual.
“Oh no, of course I loved it,” Harry shot back sarcastically, arms folded. “As if it’s not enough that the whole world already looks at me sideways, now you want me to be descended from the most famous wizard who ever lived—the same one people use instead of God or Jesus Christ? Amazing. Maybe I’ll start walking on water and turning it into wine too.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“For your information,” she said, in that condescending voice she reserved for tolerating other people’s ignorance, “it’s perfectly possible to walk on water with the right spell. And I know you read in that Transfiguration book you lent me that turning water into wine is viable too. Jesus was probably a wizard, you know.”
Harry let out a sigh and ran a hand over his face.
“I was being rhetorical,” he muttered, wearily.
Hermione blinked.
“Oh... well, in that case, maybe it’s not so interesting for you. But it’s still fascinating.”
“When did I go from ‘Harry’ to ‘case study’ without realising?” he asked sarcastically.
“I didn’t say you’re a case study!” Hermione retorted, shaking her head in exasperation, her curls bouncing. “I’m just saying what could be possible, even if the odds are minimal.”
"About that whole case study thing," Ron added with a cheeky grin, "that was, oh, about three minutes ago."
Harry let out a tired sigh.
They fell silent as a group of Hufflepuff classmates—Ernie Macmillan, Roger Malone, Wayne Hopkins and Justin Finch-Fletchley—walked past, their yellow-and-black ties swaying with their quick steps. They moved faster, laughing and nudging one another, clearly sharing some private joke.
Once they’d turned the corner, Neville cleared his throat.
“Look...” he began, hesitating as he fidgeted with the sleeve of his uniform, “Harry’s got an aura... different—but not in a bad way!” he added quickly, raising his hands as if to fend off protests. “But you can feel it in Magical Sensitivity lessons. I used to feel it more, I mean stronger... even when I meditate in bed, I can sense it.”
Harry sighed and folded his arms.
“And here I thought I was getting better at hiding it.” he said, resigned.
In truth, he knew he’d learned to focus enough to contain part of his aura. If he kept his emotions calm, he could go almost unnoticed now. But controlling it was trickier than it seemed, and the idea of being observed—especially by something he barely understood himself—made him uneasy.
Learning to partially hide his aura—after a great deal of effort and persistence on his part, spending more than an hour or two meditating before bed—had already been hard. Hiding it completely felt nearly impossible.
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Neville added quickly, concern etched on his face. “It’s just that... maybe there’s something in it, you know? I dunno...” He shrugged, clearly worried he’d offended Harry.
Harry studied Neville’s face for a moment, then relaxed. He offered his friend a reassuring smile.
“I know, Nev,” he said, his voice lower than he’d intended. “I’m not upset, I just think it’s all still speculation. We’ve got no way to prove any of it.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, but Hermione looked like her head was brimming with thoughts. She suddenly stopped in the middle of the corridor, checking again to make sure no one was nearby.
“What now?” Ron asked, sounding a bit stressed.
“What if Malfoy’s the Heir of Slytherin?” she whispered.
“Heir of Slytherin?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s what they’re calling it now?”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“Well, when I went to the loo before Binns’s class, I heard two Slytherin girls talking about it,” she said, leaning in to check the corridors again. “Apparently it’s a famous legend in their house, because of Salazar.”
They waited for a pair of older Ravenclaws to pass before continuing.
“So you think that prat’s the Heir?” Ron asked sceptically. “Not to knock your theory, Hermione, but he’s nowhere near qualified for that—and I mean, you just have to look at him to see he’s useless. Doesn’t even need to open his mouth.”
“He doesn’t need to be qualified,” Hermione replied. “He just needs to be Salazar’s heir to open the Chamber and unleash whatever caused what happened yesterday—you heard the legend the professor told.”
“Yeah, I doubt he’d be able to paint the wall in blood and petrify Mrs Norris,” Harry said, sceptical.
“That was a kind of advanced petrification,” Hermione explained. “An antidote like that must cost a fortune per dose, and it clearly takes someone very experienced to brew it... unless the petrification was the fourth-level filinissimus type, but then I’d be getting into technical terms and—”
“You’ll start speaking in Goblin again,” Ron cut in, finishing her sentence mockingly. “Stick to English, please—I want to know what you’re on about.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Making that potion isn’t the problem,” Harry said. “If Snape stops being a git and doesn’t turn up his nose at it, he’d brew the antidote.”
“Whether he wants to or not, he’ll have to,” Hermione said firmly. “He’s Hogwarts’ Potions Master for a reason, after all. But about this petrification—just so you understand—even known spells can’t do that directly, not for long anyway, not unless it’s an enchantment, and those are much more complex to cast. It would take a lot of time and preparation. So clearly it was some kind of creature.”
“Okay, but... uh... let’s say this,” Neville began hesitantly, thinking aloud, “why do you reckon Malfoy’s the Heir and not... I dunno, Michael Corner, for example?”
“Corner’s got a brain,” Harry quipped, making Ron snort with laughter.
“I’m serious!” Hermione insisted. “He’s a Malfoy, for starters, and that’s already a strong clue.”
“Unless his mum’s best friends with their gardener, then yeah,” Harry added, provoking more laughter.
“Stop joking around, Harry! Pay attention!” Hermione snapped, impatient. “I looked into the oldest wizarding families. The Malfoys came from France and helped William the Conqueror when he invaded Britain with the Normans—using questionable magical methods in the Muggle world.”
“‘Questionable methods’ and ‘Malfoy’ in the same sentence? Shocking,” Ron mocked.
“Since then, they’ve amassed wealth and power without lifting a finger, simply by influencing politicians and key figures to do what they want. On top of that, it’s tradition for members of the family to be Slytherins, and they’re obsessed with blood purity.”
“Yeah, we’ve noticed,” Ron muttered, curling his lip in disgust.
“Not to mention the cases of siblings and close relatives marrying to ‘keep the bloodline pure,’” Hermione added, pulling a face.
“Now that…that’s really disgusting,” Neville murmured.
“Add to that the fact they’re rich and influential, and you’ve got all the ingredients for him to be Salazar’s heir,” Hermione concluded.
“And they’re in the Sacred Twenty-Eight as well,” Neville said, breaking the silence that followed.
“Sacred Twenty-Eight?” Harry and Hermione said at once, perplexed.
Ron murmured in agreement.
“It’s a list of pure-blood families who think they’re special just because they’re... well, pure-bloods,” he explained, gesturing broadly.
“And to make matters worse, we’re on that list,” Neville said quietly, staring down at his shoes, clearly embarrassed. “It’s not like we asked to be there, but we are, because of our ancestry.”
Ron nodded.
“Us, the Weasleys, Longbottoms, Malfoys, Goyles, Crabbes, and loads more. Dad once listed them all—I couldn’t remember them if I tried. That’s asking a bit much from me.” He smothered a laugh. “But it’s a stupid thing anyway, and thank Merlin we’ve distanced ourselves from it ages ago.”
“So in that case,” Hermione said, her expression more serious now, “add that list to the theory about the Malfoys.”
“If he is the Heir…” Harry hesitated, the weight of it dawning on him. “Malfoy said yesterday that Muggle-borns would be next. They’re the enemies of the Heir!”
He shuddered as he said it, glancing worriedly at Hermione.
The four of them fell silent for a moment, until Hermione finally gave a small nod.
“I suspected that might be the case,” she said, her expression troubled, though clearly trying to keep it from showing as she clutched the book to her chest.
“We’ve got to do something!” Ron exclaimed, his blue eyes blazing with determination. “We can’t just let some nutter do whatever he wants!”
“But what can we do?” Harry asked. “We’ve got no proof he’s the Heir. Remember when we told McGonagall last year that Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone? What happened then?”
“Well... a door in the face,” Ron answered, “but still!”
“I think if we were going to do something...” Neville said thoughtfully, “we just need to find a way to... prove it—that’s basically it—if we prove it, someone else can take over after that.”
Hermione stopped walking, letting out a sudden sigh that made the boys jump, until they realised it was just another one of her sudden flashes of brilliance.
“I know what we can do!” she said suddenly, her brown eyes alight as the plan began forming in her head.
“Enlighten us,” Harry said.
“Polyjuice Potion, of course!” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, obviously it would be extremely dangerous, and break about fifty rules. But we could sneak into the Slytherin common room disguised as Malfoy’s friends, and trick him into telling us everything—without him realising it’s us.”
She gave a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with her logic, though the boys exchanged looks of total confusion.
“Hermione, I think you’ve been reading too many wizard spy comics,” Ron joked.
“I’m serious!” she protested. “It could work perfectly!”
“But... Polyjuice Potion?” Neville asked, puzzled.
“Polyjuice Potion—if brewed correctly—lets you turn into someone else, as long as you’ve got a hair from them,” Hermione explained.
Harry had a vague memory of the potion Hermione was talking about.
He’d stumbled across something about it in a book once, purely out of curiosity. He remembered wondering if his mum had read the same books, and what she might have thought about it all.
“Polyjuice Potion?” Harry repeated, frowning. “Seriously? We only learn about that in sixth year! And it’s a really advanced potion!”
Hermione rolled her eyes, impatient.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she replied quickly. “But it’s our best option. It’s not that difficult, just... complicated. There are some hard-to-find ingredients, so we’ll have to work around that. And the book we need—Moste Potente Potions—is in the Restricted Section. Not to mention the potion takes a month to brew, and if we mess up even one step, we’ll have to start all over again.”
“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed. “Want Circe and Morgana to come brew it for you as well? I’ll start digging up their graves!”
“Language!” Hermione snapped, chin raised in confidence. “And I am perfectly capable of brewing it myself, I’ll have you know!”
Ron shrugged, and Harry just watched her with that look she always had when she set her mind on something. If he had to guess, Hermione in her second year was already more brilliant and competent than most sixth or seventh-years at Hogwarts.
“Yeah... sounds pretty… complicated,” Neville said, looking a bit thrown. “But assuming we do go through with it... how are we going to get the ingredients and the book?”
“You really want to do this?” Harry asked, surprised.
He hadn’t expected Neville to sign up for a mad plan or wild adventure so quickly—he usually hesitated before getting involved. With the Philosopher’s Stone, Neville hadn’t agreed with what they were doing—he’d only stood in their way because he thought letting them go alone would make him a terrible friend.
“It’s about keeping people safe,” Neville answered, with an unexpected firmness. “And... I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Like I said, if we can get some information and hand it over for someone else to deal with, that’s the best thing we can do.”
“I’m with Nev on this,” Ron said, giving his shoulder a friendly pat.
“Any ideas, Hermione?” Harry asked, looking at her expectantly.
“About the library book, we could ask a professor for a signed request to borrow it,” she replied, adjusting the hefty tome in her arms. “We could get a professor to sign for us—there are hundreds of potions in there we could use as an excuse without saying exactly what we’re planning.”
Harry let out a low chuckle.
“Or we could just go with the old midnight tactic and the Invisibility Cloak.”
“We are not stealing!” Hermione said loudly, her voice sharp with a mix of exasperation and resolve.
“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” Ron warned, spotting a few fifth-year girls giving them odd looks.
But they passed by, continuing to gossip about the latest romantic pairings to crop up that week.
“We are not stealing! And that’s final!” she repeated in a fierce whisper. “Want more trouble? We don’t need another late-night escapade where we risk being caught! We’re going through the front door with a signed professor’s note like civilised, ordinary witches and wizards, simple as that. I’m not stealing from the library, and neither are you!” She gave her friends a firm look.
When it came to books and the library, Hermione defended them with tooth and nail in a way that left no room for debate.
Harry was tempted to argue, just for a second—they were already breaking dozens of rules just by wanting to brew that potion, so why would making it a bit easier be considered heresy?
“Is there a problem, Miss Granger?”
Snape’s cold, penetrating voice sliced through the air, freezing all four of them on the spot.
They turned at once, trying to appear casual, silently praying the professor hadn’t heard too much of their conversation.
Hermione opened her mouth, but the words refused to come. Her mind stalled in silent panic.
“Erm... n-no, professor, we were just... talking...” She began gesturing, desperately trying to find a plausible explanation. “About... about—”
“Transfiguring rats into goblets with Vera Verto,” Harry cut in, his voice slightly louder than necessary.
Snape raised an eyebrow with intense scepticism.
“Really? How fascinating...” He fixed each of them with a long, piercing stare. “It’s wise to be careful what one says,” Snape drawled, voice low and threatening. “People might start to think you’re…”
As the professor narrowed his eyes and locked gazes with him, Harry felt his throat tighten, swallowing hard. It felt as though Snape could read straight through to his soul.
Snape furrowed his brow, still watching him closely.
“...plotting something,” he finished.
With one final sharp look, he turned and swept away, his black robes billowing as he disappeared down the corridor.
The moment his footsteps faded, Neville let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The others relaxed, shoulders easing at last.
“How does he manage to be so... so... like that?” Neville murmured, gesturing vaguely towards where Snape had vanished.
“No idea,” Hermione replied, shaking her head in distaste. “But we are not stealing anything from the library!”
“All right, all right, no nicking from the library, we get it,” Ron said flatly.
“That leaves us with one more problem,” Hermione continued. “The ingredients... well, Snape has exactly what we need for the Polyjuice Potion. Being Hogwarts’ Potions Master, it’s all in his office.”
“Absolutely brilliant,” Harry muttered, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“So that we can steal?!” Ron asked incredulously.
“Want to ask him if he’ll lend us some?” Hermione retorted with a firm look. “Maybe Neville could ask—what do you think?”
“I-I-I’m not doing it!” Neville’s eyes widened.
“Okay, message received.” Harry sighed, turning to Hermione. “We’ll get the book by the rules. The ingredients we can’t. If we’re going to do this, let’s take the easy wins and avoid getting caught over things we can solve ‘ethically’,” he added, making air quotes.
Hermione sighed, nodding in relief that they finally understood.
“Exactly,” she said at last, before stepping into the Charms classroom for their next lesson.
“And what exactly do you want with Moste Potente Potions?” Professor McGonagall asked, her perceptive gaze landing squarely on each of them.
The four exchanged quick glances, as if searching for a last-minute backup plan. Hermione, always prepared, stepped forward.
“We’d like to study the effects of Felix Felicis, Professor,” she replied, with a calm that had clearly been rehearsed.
Harry held his breath, remembering the excuse they’d practised.
Liquid Luck seemed a plausible reason to request the book, and Hermione had even prepared a detailed explanation.
They’d waited until the end of Transfiguration, after all the other students had filed out, to ask the professor about the book from the Restricted Section.
Luckily for them, McGonagall appeared to be in good spirits—thanks to Harry’s impressive practical performance and Hermione’s excellence both in theory and practice, as always.
Even so, the professor’s stern demeanour left no room for missteps.
“Study the effects of Felix Felicis?” McGonagall repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Interesting. And how exactly do you intend to go about that?”
“Well,” Hermione began, trying to sound confident, “we read in another book that there’s a link between rue powder—which is used in household remedies like the French Method for the Bite of a Mad Dog—and we wanted to understand the connection with Felix Felicis, since it’s not a healing potion, exactly…”
McGonagall continued to stare at her, unconvinced, then turned her attention to the other three.
“And I presume you’re all involved in this… study?”
“Yeah, Professor. Always good to learn something new,” said Ron, giving a nervous smile.
Hermione resisted the urge to stamp on his foot.
Ron’s thoroughly unfortunate track record in Potions wasn’t helping their credibility at the moment.
“Is that so, Mr Weasley?” asked McGonagall, arching an eyebrow. “How curious. Might I ask where this sudden passion for Potions has come from?”
Ron swallowed hard, his ears turning scarlet.
“Ah… well… you know, don’t you?” he said, in a tone that clearly told her she didn’t. “It’s always good to be prepared for… erm… the years ahead, right?”
“Indeed,” the professor replied, pursing her lips. She then turned to Neville and Harry. “And you two? Why do you want the book?”
Neville was quick to volunteer.
“I’m not doing the studying, Professor.” He looked a little pale, but his response was convincing, given his history with Potions.
“I see. And you, Mr Potter?”
Harry had a prepared excuse, but something inside made him hesitate. He swallowed, looking away. On second thought, there was a real good reason he wanted the book. He… might learn something from—
“Mr Potter?”
“I want to study it because… because of my mum,” Harry said, his voice quiet and hesitant. “I found out she was good at Potions, and… I wanted to learn more about it. Understand why she liked it.”
The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to fill the entire room.
Ron raised his eyebrows in surprise, Hermione’s mouth opened but no words came, and even McGonagall seemed thrown for a moment. Her eyes drifted to some distant spot, as though old memories were flashing before them.
Neville was the only one not surprised by the confession—on the contrary, he gave Harry a small, knowing smile.
At last, the professor sighed, reached for a quill and dipped it in the inkwell. She scribbled something quickly on a piece of parchment and handed it to Hermione.
“Very well,” said McGonagall, her voice laced with seriousness. “Make good use of the book—but let me be absolutely clear: it is extremely dangerous. None of the potions in it are to be attempted without supervision or prior approval. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Professor,” Hermione replied at once, accepting the parchment as if it were something precious.
They thanked her and left the room, their footsteps echoing along the stone corridor. The group stayed silent until Ron cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.
“So… I had no idea you were actually into Potions, mate,” Ron said, casting a curious glance at Harry. “I mean, I noticed you’ve been studying more, but I didn’t think that was why, you know.”
Harry shrugged, falling quiet for a moment.
“I’ve started to like the subject,” he admitted with a half-smile. “I reckon there’ll be something useful in that book besides the Polyjuice Potion—I just wanted to have a look.”
Hermione, who’d been watching Harry closely, felt a slight tightness in her chest.
She’d noticed Harry had taken more interest in Potions that year, but assumed it was just maturity or wanting to improve his grades.
“You two already knew about this?” she asked, frowning at Neville and Ron.
“It was during a chat at the Burrow, over the holidays,” Harry answered quickly, before either of them could say a word. “I asked Dumbledore about my mum last year, and he told me she liked Potions and I… I wanted to understand why.” He shrugged, as though it weren’t a big deal, but the spark in his eyes told a different story.
Hermione tried to ignore the sting of jealousy that pierced her chest.
She knew the boys had conversations without her sometimes, but this felt like something Harry could have shared with her. Still, Hermione understood that Harry was incredibly private when it came to the more personal parts of his life—especially those involving the years he spent with his relatives.
He avoided talking about that time whenever possible, and on the rare occasions she’d tried to ask, he’d changed the subject swiftly, as though the words were locked away somewhere he refused to reach.
Harry had always been peculiar with physical contact, something Hermione couldn’t help but notice.
Every time she hugged him, he reacted with surprise or even a slight flinch, as if the gesture were something completely foreign. He never hugged back properly either—not in a usual way—as if he were always hesitant to touch whoever was embracing him, and whenever someone did touch him, his immediate reaction was almost always to recoil, as though bracing for an attack.
Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with living with the Dursleys. If he could hardly stand being around them, it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d never had anyone to talk to about the thoughts that haunted him.
And your parents... Well, Hermione was almost certain that was one of those things Harry kept to himself, and perhaps speaking to the boys about it had been a rare occurrence.
She sighed, clutching the book she carried tighter against her chest.
It was frustrating, but not surprising.
Harry had his barriers, and Hermione knew pushing him would only drive him further away. So, for now, she decided to let the matter drop, even though she desperately wanted to be more involved in his life, to know him better.
She was his friend and... she wished she could know more, could help him when he needed it.
"All right," Hermione said finally, softening her expression. "At least now you'll be able to read the book. Who knows what else we might discover in there?"
Harry gave a small smile but said nothing.
The group continued walking through the corridors, each lost in their own thoughts.
The rest of the day was rather hectic at Hogwarts. The professors seemed determined to overwhelm the students with more assignments and homework than usual.
Even so, Hermione managed to collect the book from the Restricted Section under the strict supervision of Madam Pince. The boys had decided not to accompany her, so as not to arouse suspicion—after all, the librarian was known for deeply mistrusting anyone who dared touch her precious books, except perhaps Hermione, who had earned her approval through a near-religious reverence for the library's volumes.
While Hermione read the forbidden book intently, Harry, Ron, and Neville were struggling to finish a Charms essay due the next morning.
From the far side of the common room, Hermione kept casting them looks that clearly said “I told you so”, referring to her earlier insistence that they not leave the assignment until the last minute.
And to their misfortune, later that night, Hermione closed her book, bid them goodnight, and went up to the girls’ dormitory to sleep early—without correcting or offering any guidance on how to finish the mess of technical terms spread across their bits of parchment, likely as a way to teach them a lesson about deadlines and responsibility.
“We're paying the price for laziness, that’s what,” Neville murmured with a resigned sigh.
“Always the way,” agreed Harry, shrugging. “Still don't regret it. It was a great day for flying.”
“And a good night for sleeping,” Ron grumbled, sniffling. “Honestly, why didn’t she leave her essay down here?”
“Ask her,” Harry suggested, not looking up from his parchment.
“Be brave enough to ask her, more like,” added Neville with a small grin.
Ron huffed, growing nervous at how little he’d written.
“Well, if I could climb those bloody stairs to the girls’ dormitories, I would!” he said, louder than he meant to.
The awkward silence that followed was broken only by several accusatory glances from girls around the common room, none of whom looked particularly amused.
Ron’s ears went scarlet as he tried to shrink into his chair.
“Bad idea, Ronnikins! Those girls’d hex your ears off!” George called out, seated at the table fiddling with a curious object that resembled a horn.
“The fourth-years are the worst,” added Fred. “Mental and hot-headed!”
He received a punch in the shoulder from Angelina, who was sitting next to him.
“I’ll show you mental!” she muttered.
“See? Told you,” Fred said, grinning.
The tension broke, and laughter rippled through the common room.
Harry and Neville couldn’t help but burst into giggles, laughing until tears formed in their eyes, while Ron muttered something unintelligible.
Deep down, all he really wanted was to ask Hermione what the difference was between Finite and Finite Incantatem, anyway.
The next morning, having handed in their essay just in time, they returned to working with Hermione’s book.
Neither Ron nor Neville showed much interest in the contents, preferring Exploding Snap and wizard chess, while Harry and Hermione worked together at a table.
When Hermione finally finished writing out the long list of ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion, she began sorting them into categories—those they could obtain easily, and those that would need to be “borrowed” from Snape’s stores.
That gave Harry the chance to flip through the book and explore the pages packed with recipes for advanced potions.
Among them, besides Liquid Luck and Polyjuice, were formulas for laxatives, corrosives, explosives, toxins, and even slow-acting deadly poisons. But what truly caught his eye were the grotesque illustrations depicting the effects of the potions.
In Harry’s opinion, the illustrator had an unusually dark sense of humour and a rather disturbing imagination.
And he wondered if he’d ever be able to brew anything so advanced. He knew the current project was the Polyjuice Potion, but doubted Hermione would let him get near the cauldron. Still, the idea of trying was quietly exciting.
Trying a potion without Snape with that hooked nose, sucking all the oxygen out of the room while criticizing him with every glance? It seemed like a dream.
The book was one of a kind, which meant that Harry and Hermione had to sit side by side—so close that her brown curls nearly covered half the pages—if they wanted to use the book at the same time. Whenever that happened, Hermione would brush the strands back with a swift motion, hooking them behind her ear so they wouldn’t get in the way.
Leaning over the volume, so close they could hear each other breathing, neither of them seemed bothered by the proximity. On the contrary—there was something comforting in the shared silence, broken only by the gentle turning of pages.
Harry couldn’t explain why he found the soft sound of her breathing so… sweet. Especially when she was focused, her eyes avidly scanning every line.
Every so often, Hermione would murmur passages under her breath, a habit Harry had come to recognise by now, after spending so much time studying with her.
And Harry was starting to suspect he was finding far too many things about Hermione cute—but didn’t quite understand what on earth was happening to him.
“I’ve been listening to Angelina, Alicia, and Katie chatting in the changing room too much...” he thought, recalling their overly sweet conversations, analysing things only girls seemed to analyse about one another.
Even though Quidditch matches had been cancelled, he still practised now and again with the team to keep from getting too rusty before next year’s season.
“It’ll take time,” Hermione sighed.
“Uh?” Harry murmured, dragged from his thoughts.
“I said I’m going to have to study this potion more than I thought,” Hermione whispered, her fingers tracing the meticulous notes and intricate diagrams filling the book’s margins.
Harry adjusted his glasses, turning to her with a half-smile.
“I thought you already knew everything about Polyjuice,” he said lightly.
“Not quite,” Hermione replied, shaking her head slowly.
When she looked up from the pages, however, she seemed surprised by how close their faces were. Harry’s bright green eyes met the warm brown of hers, and for a moment that seemed to stretch in time, neither of them moved.
Hermione blinked rapidly, as if she’d lost her train of thought, before glancing back down at the book, her cheeks slightly more flushed than before, trying to understand why her aura had felt momentarily entranced.
“I’d only read a reference in another book,” she explained. “It recommended this volume for anyone wanting the details. But it didn’t mention the ingredients or the method. It only spoke about the difficulty and the effects. All I knew was that if we get anything wrong, we’ll have to start over, and I really don’t want to waste ingredients or time.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, beginning to wonder whether the plan wasn’t a bit too ambitious. But he kept pushing the concern to the back of his mind.
“Right, but what’s the tricky part? Apart from what you already knew?”
“There are loads of variables that could affect the outcome—see here? For example, if we pick fluxweed that wasn’t harvested during a full moon, we’ll have problems,” Hermione continued, pointing to the instructions. “The good thing is most of the ingredients for the initial stages are easy to find. We can leave the rarer ones for later.”
“If you need help, you know you can count on me,” said Harry.
Hermione smiled, her eyes shining with gratitude.
“I know,” she replied softly. “But don’t worry. Leave it to me, all right?”
“All right, but don’t take it all on your shoulders, yeah? I might not be a Potions master, but at least I know which end of the knife to use for chopping... I think,” Harry joked, making her laugh.
“All right then, Mr Assistant,” Hermione said, giggling. “If I need your services, I’ll be sure to call you.”
Harry smiled again and returned to his reading, while Hermione watched him for a moment longer, then dove back into the details of the potion.
In silence, he also began planning how they might get hold of the ingredients locked away in Snape’s stores.
The idea that had come to him after reading a book on spells for altering the visibility of physical matter—Hermione’s recommendation—was bold, possibly even reckless, but with any luck, it might just work.
That same week, already edging towards mid-November, Harry, Ron and Neville came tearing down the stairs from the boys’ dormitory, completely unprepared for the day.
They were late for breakfast and, after a long and exhausting Hero Path session run by Neville the night before, hadn’t had the time—or energy—to get ready properly.
Hermione had retreated to the girls’ dormitory hours earlier, but the boys had kept the adventure going well past midnight, and now they were paying the price.
“We’ve only got ten minutes to get to the Great Hall and grab something to eat!” Neville warned, panting, as the three of them dashed through the stone corridors, their footsteps echoing off the walls.
“Why did you have to throw in a bloody dragon?” Ron grumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Took us thirty rounds just to knacker it! Why not a Dragon Shark?!”
Neville stared at him, incredulous.
“How was I supposed to put a Dragon Shark in the middle of a desert tomb? That wouldn’t even make sense!”
“Then you should’ve gone with a mummy! Or a cursed pharaoh!” Ron insisted, breathless.
“Those monsters aren’t even in the rulebook!” Neville huffed, trying to pick up speed. “And you lot were the ones who asked for more dragons!”
Harry, distracted by the argument, walked straight through Nearly Headless Nick, the sensation like passing through a curtain of icy air. A sudden chill surged through his body—as if he’d been ripped from a blazing summer and hurled into a Siberian wind in less than a second.
“Oi! Watch where you’re going, boys!” Sir Nicholas barked, spinning in the air to glare at them, his head wobbling dangerously on his ruffled collar.
“Sorry, Sir Nicholas!” Harry shouted over his shoulder, not slowing down.
Turning the corner, the trio nearly collided with a statue of a fat, bearded wizard that creaked back against the wall, sucking in its stone belly to avoid the impact, looking as startled as they were.
“The problem wasn’t the dragon,” Harry went on, panting. “If your barbarian wasn’t such a thickhead, I could’ve kept my attacks going!”
Ron let out a noise halfway between a grunt and a disbelieving laugh.
“You’ve got to pray just to swing your sword and my barbarian’s the thick one?!” he retorted.
“That’s what my class does!” Harry protested.
“And that’s my fault?” Ron shot back. “Pray faster! I wasn’t about to sit around while that great lizard torched us! At least you’ve got armour—my class makes me fight nearly starkers!”
“Steel! Steel armour, Ron—melts in fire!” Harry shouted.
“And your shield—where do you stick that, then uh? Up your arse?!”
“Should’ve stuck it up yours!”
Neville sighed, running a weary hand over his face.
Later, when updating his Game Master notes, he’d write in massive capital letters, underlined and with at least three exclamation marks:
NEVER PUT RON AND HARRY AGAINST A DRAGON AGAIN.
At least not without Hermione as the elven priestess and party support. Those two were unbearable without her—she was the only one who could actually lead them in the group. Once she went to bed, Harry and Ron were like two cockroaches banging their heads against the walls with no clue what to do.
Still arguing heatedly over the dragon battle, they thundered down the final flights of stairs and burst into the Great Hall.
Breathless, flushed, and with their hair sticking up wildly from the run, they threw themselves onto the Gryffindor bench like shipwreck survivors facing a banquet.
Hermione had been there for ages already, seated with Moste Potente Potions open in front of her and the dregs of tea in her cup. She finished the last sip calmly, looked up, and fixed them with a stare that could have melted ice.
“How late were you up?” she asked, frowning. “You’re completely behind schedule! Lesson starts in seven minutes!”
“Very observant. Good morning to you too,” Ron muttered, already piling sausages, eggs, and toast onto his plate like he was building a fortress out of food.
“We had a minor setback, that’s all,” Harry replied through hurried bites, nearly choking on a piece of bacon he barely chewed.
Hermione sighed and pointed at Neville with her spoon.
“Neville, your collar’s crooked. And Harry, you’ve buttoned your shirt wrong.”
“Eating takes priority. I’ll fix it later,” Harry said, as Neville tried to sort his collar with one hand without spilling his juice with the other.
Hermione rolled her eyes in clear disapproval and, with a precise movement, pulled a crumpled letter from the inner pocket of her cloak.
“For you,” she said, handing it to Harry.
“For me?” He took the envelope but, instead of opening it, set it aside while he wolfed down a slice of toast with honey.
“It’s from Hagrid,” Hermione explained tersely. “He’s invited us for tea this afternoon after class.”
Ron, his mouth stuffed with food, raised his eyebrows.
“You read his letter?” he teased, spraying crumbs. “You’re not supposed to do that, you know.”
Hermione looked at him as though he were something particularly repulsive.
“Swallow before you speak to me,” she said, rising with dignity. “I’m off to class. I’ve no intention of arriving sweating like a runaway troll. See you later.”
The boys grumbled in reply, chewing furiously as most of the students were already leaving the Hall.
As Hermione marched off, dragging her satchel with determination, they didn’t even bother talking—just shoved down what they could before charging off towards Transfiguration, toast still between their teeth and books barely wedged into their bags.
Between lessons, they discussed Hagrid’s invitation.
Remembering what Professor Binns had said about the murder connected to the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, they figured that Hagrid, who had been at school back then, might know something useful for their investigation into the identity of the Heir, If there could be other suspects besides Malfoy—and planned to ask him as soon as they had the chance.
But in the meantime, the school day unfolded as usual, with its customary fluctuations between discomfort and curiosity.
Potions was bitter and tense, as always when Snape was involved.
Astronomy—thankfully scheduled at a normal time that day—focused on constellations and the importance of being able to navigate by them.
Professor Flitwick had them learning the Engorgement Charm, a spell that made objects grow.
Neville, after several failed attempts, finally managed to cast the spell, but—as expected—something went wrong. He aimed his patched-up wand downward, but the spell ricocheted and struck the chandelier on the ceiling, which expanded uncontrollably and became so heavy it nearly crashed down on a group of Ravenclaws.
Luckily, Professor Flitwick was able to cast a Levitation Charm just in time, preventing disaster. Even so, Neville became the target of furious glares and irritated mutterings from the Ravenclaw students.
The last class of the day—and, astonishingly, the most interesting—was Defence Against the Dark Arts.
To everyone’s surprise, Professor Lockhart appeared to have had a rare moment of inspiration—or perhaps a lapse into good sense—and decided to teach something actually useful, instead of wasting the lesson boasting about his exploits, which some had begun to doubt entirely due to his increasingly undeniable lack of aptitude.
Only Hermione and a few other witches still seemed completely enchanted by that dazzling white smile, that heartthrob face which radiated a charm bordering on hypnotic. It was as if Lockhart had cast a temporary blindness charm over them—a spell that, apparently, only affected certain female minds.
He had used his wand to push all the desks to the edges of the classroom, clearing a wide corridor down the middle for a practical lesson, the students lined up and watching curiously.
“Today, dear students, we shall learn an essential spell for any competent witch or wizard,” he announced, adjusting his sleeves with an unnecessary flourish. “Petrificus Totalus! A spell that has saved me countless times, as you may recall from my chapter ‘How I Faced the Vampires of Vazlavia’.”
Harry noticed Ron rolling his eyes while Neville struggled not to laugh at the redhead’s expression of disdain. Hermione, however, looked genuinely thrilled.
“Fortunately, Professor Flitwick taught Finite last week,” Lockhart continued, with a theatrical grin. “You’ll be able to reverse the spell should you wish to release your target from its effects—or in case you accidentally strike a friend. Though of course, I myself have never made such a mistake!”
He raised his wand as though expecting applause and demonstrated the wand movement, a subtle horizontal hook.
Hermione was the first to cast the spell correctly, her technique practised and precise, as she pointed at a dummy conjured by Lockhart.
The rigid mannequin toppled to the floor with a dull thud.
“Excellent, Granger! Brilliant, truly brilliant!” exclaimed Lockhart, with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Ten points to Gryffindor!”
Hermione flushed with pride but tried to hide her smile as she returned to her place.
“Of course,” Lockhart went on, casting a meaningful look at the class, “I’m not surprised. Miss Granger displays extraordinary intellect. It’s almost like looking in a mirror, you know? I too was top of my class in my day...”
As he rambled on, Hermione—to the dismay of Harry, Ron and Neville—made the mistake of mentioning that she remembered at least three occasions where Lockhart had referred to Petrificus Totalus in his books, even citing the titles.
“Ah, yes! Pranks in Peking, where I paralysed that infestation of naughty pixies, and of course Escaping the Sphinxes! What a sharp memory! Another ten points to Gryffindor for your perceptiveness!”
Harry, Ron and Neville exchanged weary looks as Lockhart went on praising Hermione as a model student for the entire class.
“Brightest student...” Ron muttered under his breath to Harry. “If he keeps this up, she’ll be carried out of here on a stretcher.”
Harry stifled a laugh—just in time to be called up for his go at Lockhart’s dummy.
With lessons finally done for the day, Harry, Ron, Neville and Hermione headed out of the castle towards Hagrid’s hut.
The conversation turned to Quidditch, and this time Ron was utterly scandalised to discover that Neville had secretly been a Montrose Magpies supporter for months—the mortal rivals of the Chudley Cannons.
“And I encouraged you to start playing! Traitor...” Ron grumbled when he found out.
“Sorry, the Cannons’ orange jersey didn’t suit me,” Neville offered with a sheepish grin.
The boys bickered in good humour as they walked, while Hermione remained completely uninterested—Quidditch had never captured her attention.
The wind outside was more cutting than brisk, sharp enough to make the four of them huddle deeper into their coats. Harry adjusted the long scarf he always wore, the fabric flapping in rhythm with the wind as they walked.
Hermione, beside him, glanced at the scarf and couldn’t help a smile, which she quickly masked by ducking her head.
She still remembered the moment she had idly scribbled in her diary that Harry looked adorable in that scarf—a thought she had then hurriedly scratched out, as if someone might see it.
When they arrived, they were welcomed in typical fashion: enthusiastic slobbering from Fang, rock-hard scones fresh from the oven, and steaming tea served in chipped saucers. They gathered round the table and began to chat.
They told Hagrid what they’d been learning in lessons, and it didn’t take long before the complaints began—especially about Snape’s sour attitude, which somehow seemed to worsen each week.
Hermione proudly mentioned that Lockhart had finally taught something useful, while Ron scoffed.
“About time he did something useful,” Ron said.
“You can’t say he doesn’t teach anything now!” Hermione nearly sang, triumphant. “Petrificus Totalus is more useful than any duelling spell we’ve learned so far!”
“Rare occurrence, really—if you can even call it that,” Ron scoffed. “He didn’t teach us how to use it, just strutted about like a painted pigeon, left you to demonstrate it properly and Harry to actually learn something. So, in short, he’s still utterly useless ninety-nine percent of the time.”
Hermione shot him a look that could have set the room ablaze and began preparing a counter-argument, shifting more energetically in her seat.
Harry and Neville both sighed, shaking their heads as they took a sip of hot tea.
Before the two could launch into yet another row, Hagrid began telling a story about the time he found an injured baby Augurey in the forest.
He’d had to carry it all the way back to his hut, while the poor thing let out shrill cries that made his ears ring for days.
“It was on account o’ the rain what was comin’,” he explained, eyes gleaming. “Augureys can sense when it’s about ter pour, tha’s why they shriek like that. Took good care o’ him, course I did, but my ears didn’t stop ringin’ for a week! Still, he got better. Fascinatin’ creatures, Augureys—even with all that racket.”
Harry, Hermione, Neville and Ron chuckled at Hagrid’s stories, but it was clear that something heavier lingered in their minds.
As expected, the conversation soon drifted to the topic that had been haunting the castle corridors.
“Hagrid, can I ask you something?” Harry began, a little hesitant.
The giant let out a warm laugh.
“Course yeh can, Harry! Yeh don’ need ter ask, jus’ say it!”
“You went to Hogwarts, didn’t you?”
“Aye, o’ course I did!” Hagrid replied with a nostalgic smile. “But tha’ was a long time ago. Why’re yeh askin’?”
Harry paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
“Well... you must’ve heard what happened a few days ago. The writing on the wall, saying the Chamber of Secrets had been opened... Mrs Norris being petrified...”
He stopped, watching Hagrid.
The giant’s smile was already beginning to falter, but Harry pressed on.
“Professor Binns told us there was a murder more than fifty years ago, and that it was linked to the Chamber and the monster inside it. He says it’s all legend, but we know he’s just too sceptical. Do you remember anything about it?”
Hagrid’s smile vanished completely, replaced by a shadowed expression.
He looked away from the four young faces seated in front of him, his gaze suddenly burdened by a weight that seemed to span decades.
“Ah, Harry... remember it? I remember it all right.” Hagrid’s voice had dropped, rough and laced with deep sadness. “More than I’d like to.”
The four exchanged glances, feeling the heavy discomfort settle in the cabin.
Hagrid’s visible pain was almost tangible, and each of them silently wondered if they’d made a mistake in bringing the subject up.
“If yeh don’ mind...” Hagrid went on, now staring into the fire crackling in the hearth. “I’d rather not talk about tha’ Chamber. Nor what’s said ter be inside it.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, the fire’s crackle the only sound in the room.
Hermione was the first to try and lighten the mood.
“I’m sorry, Hagrid. We didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she said, a note of regret in her voice.
Hagrid shook his head, still gazing into the flames.
“I know, Hermione. Yeh’re just tryin’ ter make sense o’ it all. But there’re some things best left alone... things from the past that ought ter stay there. Leave it ter Dumbledore—he knows what he’s doin’.”
Harry leaned forward, choosing his words carefully.
“We just want to help, Hagrid,” he said gently. “It’s not fair that people are scared and don’t know what’s behind it all.”
Hagrid sighed, finally lifting his gaze to meet theirs.
“Yeh’re good lads—and lass—Harry. Brave, all of yeh. But there’re things that’re too dangerous, even fer you lot... and I remember last year, mind, not goin’ over that again, when I told yeh ter stay safe and yeh didn’t listen.”
Neville, who had been quiet until then, let out an audible sigh.
“But the Stone was in danger and no one believed us,” he muttered. “And what if someone gets hurt again? Or worse? What if no one does anything again?”
Hagrid’s expression tightened, and he ran a large, calloused hand down his face. For a moment, it looked like he was wrestling with something deep within.
“Look, I’m not talkin’ about it. No... I can’t.” He looked directly at Harry, his dark eyes solemn. “But, Harry, yeh’ve got ter promise me—don’t go pokin’ about in trouble. What happened back then... it was awful. And I don’t want anything bad happenin’ ter yeh. Always listen ter Professor Dumbledore—he knows what he’s doin’ and he’s more than capable o’ protectin’ yeh from anythin’ dark. Got it?”
Harry hesitated, but eventually nodded.
“All right. Got it.”
Hagrid let out a breath of relief and, as if to draw a line under the topic, stood up abruptly.
“Well, tha’s enough o’ that!” he said with a grin. “How about more tea? I baked some biscuits earlier—fancy a try? Fresh out o’ the oven!”
The four of them exchanged looks, clearly wary of the quality of Hagrid’s baking.
“These ones are softer than the rock cakes,” Hagrid added, noticing their doubtful expressions. “I still prefer ‘em, but tea an’ biscuits’s a hard combo ter beat.”
“I’ll have a biscuit,” Neville said, not sounding entirely sure, and Harry joined him—if only so Neville wouldn’t suffer alone if they were dreadful.
Hermione politely declined and asked for more tea.
Ron perked up the moment he heard the word biscuits—he was a fan of them, especially with a proper tea.
“Pass me about five, I’m starvin’!” he said, eyes gleaming.
“You’re always starving,” Hermione remarked, rolling her eyes but smiling playfully.
As Hagrid began pouring more tea and prising open a nearly impossible biscuit tin, Harry caught the eyes of his friends.
He knew Hagrid was hiding something.
And even though he’d promised not to go looking for trouble... he knew that promise would be nearly impossible to keep.
After all, they had a stockroom to... borrow things from.
And the owner of that stockroom was far from friendly.
Chapter 25: Neville, the Bravest Gryffindor Alive
Chapter Text
It was the start of a dazzling November morning when Harry, Hermione, Ron and Neville were making their way down the slope towards the Great Lake.
The sun, gentle and warm, lit their faces as a cool autumn breeze played with their hair and carried with it the scent of fallen leaves.
Harry was carrying Hedwig on his arm, stroking her snow‑white feathers softly. He was smiling at her—his very first true friend, a bond that always brought him comfort.
Hedwig, for her part, hooted softly, clearly content with the attention. After a few moments, she spread her wings with elegance and took flight, hovering gracefully above them and watching from on high.
The soft sound of their steps on the damp grass and the rustling of dry leaves underfoot mingled with the occasional birdsong from the creatures living nearby.
Harry looked around, drinking in the peaceful beauty of the scene.
The lake reflected the sunlight like liquid glass, glinting in shades of silver and blue, while the castle of Hogwarts, in the distance, looked even more majestic under the golden autumn light. The towers rose proudly, and creepers tinted with hues of orange and red climbed the stone walls, as though the castle itself were dressed for the season.
He breathed deeply and felt the fresh, earthy air, and it soothed him.
Ron and Neville looked just as content as they walked, chatting and laughing at nothing in particular.
Hermione, however, was the only one who didn’t look the least bit pleased.
Her tight‑set expression showed precisely what she thought of what they were about to do—or rather, what the boys were about to do. She herself had only decided to go along to make sure none of them did anything foolish enough to get expelled.
“This is going to be awesome! Finally something different to do,” said Ron, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Imagine if we win?”
“This is not awesome, Ron,” Hermione shot back, cutting. “It’s against the rules, and the three of you could end up in serious trouble. If being the ‘winner’ of this ridiculous thing means an expulsion letter—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Ron rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated.
“You’ve done nothing but moan since this started,” he muttered, staring out at the lake.
“I’m not moaning, I’m stating a fact!” she said quickly. “The three of you might try exercising a bit of sense—wasn’t it enough you nearly got sent home before term even began because of a car? What d’you want with this competition? Glory?”
Harry raised a pacifying hand and instantly regretted it.
“Calm down, Hermione,” he said.
“I am calm!”
Her furious look, like that of a lioness when she meant business, made Harry shrink his shoulders. Sometimes he felt like she was a fiery hurricane, and telling her to calm down only fanned the flames even more.
“If you’re calm, I’m Merlin!” said Ron, throwing up his arms.
Hermione drew breath to launch into what Harry knew would be another long lecture on why the whole idea was idiotic, so he jumped in first.
“We’re not going to do anything extreme,” Harry assured her, trying to keep his tone peaceful. “If it looks dodgy, we’ll head back to the castle. Besides, Nev’s staying with you, aren’t you, Nev?”
Neville nodded quickly.
“’Course, I wasn’t even asked to join in, anyway,” he said, with a note of disappointment.
He knew perfectly well why: though he’d improved a great deal at flying over the past months—considering how he used to fly—he still had the reputation of being a disaster on a broom.
“See? Nothing to worry about,” said Harry, giving Hermione an encouraging smile.
She arched a sceptical eyebrow at him.
“Oh, nothing to worry about?” Hermione repeated, her voice rising in indignation. “It’s amazing how you can’t see it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Doesn’t the very idea sound completely wrong to you?”
Much as the boys wanted to argue, Hermione had more than enough reason for her irritation.
Ever since Dumbledore had cancelled the Quidditch matches at the start of the year, the castle had sunk into a stifling monotony. Everyone had been eagerly awaiting the November match between Gryffindor and Slytherin—one of the fiercest of the season.
But with the cancellation, a group of students had decided to take matters into their own hands to entertain themselves.
That was how the secret broomstick races began, which had quickly become Hogwarts’ newest distraction.
The events varied: races with multiple competitors, one‑on‑one duels, or even timed challenges through set courses—this time, it was to be an open race with several competitors.
The winner would receive a small brass medal, transfigured with the victor’s name by the organisers themselves, each race having its own.
Who exactly were the organisers?
That was a closely guarded secret—no one knew for certain, so the culprits wouldn’t get caught.
The brooms, all “borrowed” from Madame Hooch’s flying lesson stores, ensured everyone competed on equal terms.
For wizards like Harry, that was frustrating—his Nimbus 2000 could have won the race easily. For wizards like Ron, who barely had a decent broom to call his own, it was the only chance of competing fairly.
What would give advantages and disadvantages would be the skill of the wizard, not the quality of the material.
The venues shifted constantly—the shore of the Great Lake, the fields near the Forbidden Forest, even the valley behind the greenhouses—all to keep the professors away. That day, the tournament would be held on the lake’s northern shore, where a cluster of trees and the famous Chimera Stone—with its rough carvings that supposedly depicted the creature—offered the perfect cover for their activities.
When Harry and Ron had received the invitations—delivered by none other than Fred and George—Neville and Hermione had been with them. Neville had been asked along as a spectator, while Hermione, of course, had been protesting from the start, just as she was now.
But despite her protests, there they were.
When they arrived at the spot, the place was already alive with movement.
Students from all four Houses were scattered across the grass, adjusting their brooms and laughing together. Cedric Diggory, tall and smiling, was leaning against a tree, polishing his broom with an easy air as he joked with other Hufflepuffs.
“Look at this beauty,” he said, raising the school broom with an ironic smile. “Who needs a Cleansweep when you’ve got a relic like this?”
Cho Chang, the newest Seeker—and visibly one of the most beautiful players—in Ravenclaw, was sitting on the grass, running her fingers through the broom’s twigs as she hummed softly to herself, distracted. Her dark eyes gleamed in the sunlight.
Harry felt the adrenaline surge. After weeks without Quidditch, at last there would be something to pull him out of that dull routine—and he could hardly wait to begin.
But, as though someone had poured lime juice over a chocolate pudding, Harry and Ron’s excitement curdled the instant they spotted an unwelcome group near the competitors’ meeting point.
Draco Malfoy was there, wearing his usual look of disdain, openly complaining about the state of the broom to an older Slytherin. Beside him stood Goyle, Crabbe and Pansy Parkinson, all wearing sneering smiles.
Ron frowned as he caught sight of them.
“What’re those gits doing here?” he asked aloud.
“This is rubbish!” Draco was complaining, holding a broom with a worn look and twigs dry and sticking out at all angles. “Honestly, is this the best you could find? There’s not even varnish on it—probably give you a splinter!”
Lucian Bole, a Slytherin in fifth year, folded his arms with an impatient look.
Hermione, upon spotting him, flinched as she remembered the incident in the clock‑tower. If she hadn’t been quick with that Petrificus Totalus, she dreaded to think what sort of curse he’d have hurled at her when he’d seen her.
“I said no, Draco!” Lucian exclaimed, visibly irritated. “If you don’t want to compete, hand over the ruddy broom. You know the rules and everyone agreed to them.”
Draco pushed the broom away with a scowl.
“Piss off, Lucian!”
“Then stop bothering me!” Lucian shot back. “It’s what I managed to get for everyone. All the brooms are the same.”
Draco gave a scornful snort.
“Yeah, whatever. My family funds the school and we get this rubbish.” He muttered resentfully.
Lucian snorted and moved off, but not before casting a glance at Harry and his friends nearby.
He exchanged a brief look with them that made it clear he didn’t approve of them being there, but he didn’t approach. Malfoy, however, wasn’t about to miss a chance to cause trouble. With Goyle, Crabbe and Pansy at his heels, he began to march towards Harry’s group.
“Somebody get me a bucket, I think I’m going to be sick,” Harry muttered, folding his arms.
“Make that two,” Neville muttered back.
“Three,” Ron added. “Hermione, you can share yours with Nev.”
“Absolutely not,” Hermione replied with a look of disgust.
Malfoy stopped before them with a cruel smile on his face.
“Who invited this lot of idiots?” he asked sharply.
“Looks like someone’s staring in a mirror—Or d’you want my opinion my opinion on your lipstick and make‑up too?” Harry replied dryly.
“Very funny, Scarface,” Malfoy sneered. “I suppose you make some sense being here, but the Weasel, the Squib and the Mudblood? I don’t think so…”
Harry felt his blood boil. He clenched his fists, struggling to control the aura already itching to lash out at the slightest provocation.
“Call her a Mudblood again, Malfoy,” Harry said in a low, dangerous voice, “and I’ll make sure your face is covered in boils again.”
Malfoy’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of fury.
“Say that again and my father will hear of it,” he shot back, his voice low but lethal. “You’ll be out of Hogwarts by tomorrow.”
“Let him try,” Harry growled.
“Watch your mouth, Potter,” Pansy cut in, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Oh, we know exactly,” Ron shot back with a mocking grin. “Cowards who hex from behind. We’re not scared of your daddy, Parkinson.”
“You ought to be,” Malfoy snarled back.
Neville, uneasy, stepped forward.
“Come on, let’s just go,” he said quietly. “You need to get ready for the race, don’t you?”
“Yeah, leave it, Harry,” Hermione said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “They’re not worth it.”
“Who said you could speak, Granger?” Pansy said icily. “Keep your mouth shut when wizards are talking.”
Hermione’s face hardened in anger as the Slytherins laughed, but before anyone could say anything else, an authoritative voice rang out.
“Oi, you lot!” bellowed a tall, broad‑shouldered Hufflepuff—Stebbins, a friend of Cedric’s—his firm voice echoing through the area catching the attention of some students. “Enough fighting or you’re out of the race! Haven’t you caused enough trouble this year?! Each of you to your own corner till the start!”
The two groups exchanged blazing glares, as though actual sparks might fly between them. The air seemed to hum with tension, but no one dared defy the warning.
“See you up there, Potter,” Malfoy spat, his face twisted with contempt, before turning on his heel and stalking off, followed by Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy.
“What a prat,” Ron muttered, still glaring at the retreating Slytherins.
“Let’s grab our brooms,” Harry suggested, trying to shake off the rising anger. He pointed to a group of students handing out brooms to the competitors. “Best make sure we get ours before all that’s left is what Malfoy’s turned his nose up at.”
They settled in a corner, greeting other Gryffindors passing by to watch. A few offered Harry and Ron words of support, even though they were backing other competitors.
The number of spectators kept growing, forming a lively crowd eager for the start. The vibrant atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the quiet nerves of those about to compete. After a while, Harry and Ron were called to take off and get into position.
The course of the race was fairly simple, yet challenging: it would start on the shore of the Great Lake, stretch across its entire length to the Hogwarts jetty, then head straight to Hagrid’s cabin, passing right over it, following the route along the edge of the Forbidden Forest and finishing with a loop through the inside of the Quidditch pitch until finally reaching the white line of the finish beside the grass.
Meanwhile, a good part of the crowd—including Hermione and Neville—were already heading towards the pitch, cutting across to save time, eager to watch the final.
Harry mounted his broom and hovered at the same height as the other competitors, about ten of them, many of whom he didn’t know. They flew low so as not to attract too much attention, but high enough to avoid trees and buildings.
Before the start, Cedric drew closer to Harry’s broom, with a confident smile.
“Good luck, Harry,” said Cedric.
“Thanks. Good luck to you too, Cedric.”
“Shame I can’t get my rematch this year—reckon I’ll have to settle for a win in this race,” Cedric remarked, with a touch of humour.
“If I were you, I’d make sure not to be too far behind me,” said Harry, with a challenging smile.
“We’ll see. Same rule—no holding back? Like last year?” Cedric asked.
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” said Harry, shaking his hand. “May the best win.”
Cedric nodded and went back to his position.
In front of the racers stood the Ravenclaw girl, Penelope Clearwater, sixth year. The prefect, with her long curly brown hair billowing in the wind, seemed to draw attention naturally and Harry understood why Percy seemed to have had some interest in her.
Even so, he suspected Percy didn’t know this more… rebellious, rule‑breaking side of his fellow prefect, being the one to give the starting signal for a clandestine race.
“Irony of things…” Harry thought to himself.
Penelope’s voice was clear and her gaze firm.
“Right then, all the racers ready? Good. You know the course, but there are a few important points to remember.” She paused, giving them a serious look. “If any of you get caught by professors, get hurt, or draw attention for any reason, you are strictly forbidden from mentioning these races. Make up an excuse, but don’t give away what’s really happening. Otherwise, you’re permanently disqualified from taking part or even watching future races. Understood?”
The racers nodded silently, understanding the weight of the warning.
“Perfect,” she went on. “We’ll count you down and you’ll fly on three. So get ready!”
Harry tightened his grip on the broom handle, feeling the weight of expectation in the air.
He looked to either side, seeing the other racers readying themselves.
“One…”
Ron looked more nervous than ever, his hands gripping the broom so tightly the knuckles were white, his blue eyes darting nervously over the course he would have to fly.
“Two…”
Harry’s eyes met Draco’s. The look of pure hatred and rivalry between them burned like embers. Harry had no doubt—he would do whatever it took to beat the arrogant Slytherin.
Harry closed his eyes and listened to his own breathing as he focused, waiting for Penelope to give the signal.
“Three!”
At the sound of “three”, Harry’s eyes flew open and they all shot forwards, leaning over their brooms like arrows fired into the wind. Some were already beginning to pull ahead.
Harry quickly took the lead.
Being a Seeker had its advantages, after all that was the position where you trained your top speed to catch the Snitch as fast as possible, but he knew there were three other Seekers from other teams who were also training regularly—even without matches.
Cedric and Cho were right behind him, their faces set and focused, not caring about the wind stinging their eyes. Harry didn’t have time to observe much, but soon realised Ron was dropping back, caught among other racers battling for positions in the middle.
The sound of the crowd who’d stayed to watch the start quickly faded, leaving only the sound of Harry’s breathing and racing heartbeat mingling with the wind.
He skimmed along the edge of the Lake, so low the water splashed up at the sides and the tips of his shoes almost brushed the surface.
Thud!
Harry felt a powerful shove from his right, throwing him off balance for a moment and dipping his left foot lightly into the water. Only then did he notice Malfoy at his side.
“Don’t get in my way, Potter!” Draco shouted, his face twisted in a sour scowl.
“Piss off, Malfoy!” Harry shot back, anger flaring.
Harry noticed Cedric closing in fast on his left.
He couldn’t help but remember that the Hufflepuff Seeker was extremely quick. Harry stayed focused, watching the jetty draw nearer. They had to skim over the jetty roof, and Harry knew whoever stayed closest would gain an edge.
Then Malfoy came in again, threatening a sharp move to unbalance Harry.
In a swift motion honed by endless practice, Harry flattened himself completely along his broom, balancing perfectly, his body pressed to the handle, legs locked around the shaft and hands gripping the trailing twigs.
It was a risky manoeuvre—if anything struck him or went wrong, he’d fall badly. But if it worked, he’d gain a sizeable speed advantage.
And his plan, thankfully, worked.
Draco gave an angry snort as Harry began to edge away.
With a growl, he forced more speed from his broom, pulling it upwards, almost clipping the jetty roof as Harry had done. And once again, he slammed his broom towards Harry’s, but missed, shooting past as Harry rose slightly.
“Missed me, you tosser!” Harry yelled, swerving with practised ease.
“Fuck off!” Draco snapped back, exasperated.
Harry gripped his broom handle tightly, pressing on through the course with agility.
He was feeling his advantage grow as Cedric fell further behind—using the same brooms gave Harry an edge; he was smaller and lighter than most of the others.
He shot past Hagrid’s cabin like a streak of lightning, followed by the three other Seekers right behind him.
The half‑giant rushed out of his hut, staring out of the window in confusion at the flurry of speed on brooms, scratching his head and wondering what on earth was goin’ on.
Now, the Hufflepuff racer was battling for third place, with Cho close behind him. Ron was still struggling to maintain sixth or seventh place, not even having passed the dock with the rest of the competitors—all either less experienced or simply in Quidditch positions that didn’t requires a lot of speed.
Harry reached the sharp turn near the edge of the Forbidden Forest and, accustomed to his Nimbus’ agility, tried to brake sharply—but the heavy, sluggish school broom didn’t respond as he’d hoped.
Before he could correct himself, he nearly collided with the gnarled trunk of an old tree, swerving at the last second.
“Shite!” he swore, his heart pounding as he realised he’d lost precious speed.
It was enough.
Malfoy cut in front of him with an arrogant flick of his broom, deliberately smacking its tail against the ground. A cloud of dust and dry leaves billowed up, hitting Harry square in the face.
“Eat dust, you wanker!” Draco shouted, throwing him a malicious grin before speeding off, his voice dripping with the kind of disdain only a Malfoy could muster.
Harry didn’t respond.
His fingers gripped the handle of the old broom so tightly he swore he heard the poorly varnished wood creak.
Only one thought consumed him: take back the lead.
Cedric and Cho had fallen further behind too, and the finish line—the Quidditch pitch, now visible in the distance—was approaching fast.
He pushed the broom as hard as he could, closing the gap between himself and Draco again.
Much as he loathed to admit it, that damn Slytherin was a decent sprinter.
Ron had told him many wizarding children learned to fly before even starting Hogwarts, and it wasn’t hard to imagine Malfoy getting private lessons, paid for with trunks of galleons by his parents.
Of course Lucius Malfoy would ensure his son had every advantage. His pure-blooded, aristocratic lineage demanded he master such skills early.
Meanwhile, most of the crowd—including Hermione and Neville—were already climbing the steps to the stands by the pitch, eager to see who would be the winner.
The pitch was emptier than it would be during an official Quidditch match, but it still held a good number of students.
At the entrance to the pitch, a few students were on guard, helping to keep the secret and warning of any intruder. Hermione had to admit that, when it came to pranks and secret events, certain students were far better at that than at actually studying and doing something useful—they were almost too good. Colin Creevey was stationed at the base of the pitch, waiting for the perfect moment to snap a picture of the winner.
Hermione was as nervous as she always got when she had to watch a Gryffindor match. She only ever watched for Harry’s sake, since she had no real interest in the sport. And this time, she also had Ron to cheer for.
Neville, on the other hand, was enjoying being a supporter more and more for the love of the sport itself and not just because his friend was playing. Even though it wasn’t a Quidditch match, his excitement remained the same.
While looking for a good spot to watch the race, Hermione blew a strand of hair from her face, trying to disguise the scowl she wore—a mixture of nerves for her friends competing and indignation that they’d thought this race was a good idea.
They found a good place on the higher rows of benches, from where they could stand and see the racers coming from the direction of Hagrid’s hut. Other spectators were scattered about, watching the outskirts of the pitch as well.
“Where are they?” Hermione asked, nervously biting her lip as she peered beyond the edges of the pitch towards Hagrid’s hut.
“Can’t see anyone yet,” Neville replied, adjusting his Omnioculars.
Hermione twisted her hands anxiously near her chest.
She sighed, the sound loud and worried.
“We could have been brewing the potion today. We could,” she said, frustrated. “But of course, it’d be so much more fun to join in an illegal race! Idiotic boys…”.
“I know you didn’t like the idea,” Neville said, trying to soothe her, “but let them have some fun too. You know not having Quidditch makes a difference to them, even to us. It was something fun we had and they’ve taken it away—you have to admit that.”
“I just don’t want them to get into trouble. That’s all. But it seems impossible.”
“No one needs ter get into trouble,” Neville shrugged. “It’s just—long as no professor finds out about the race.”
“Oh, what a pity!” an energetic voice rang out behind them. “I’ve known about this for ages!”
They spun round quickly and found Professor Lockhart, dressed in tight‑fitting sporting gear, without a cloak but in a bright shade of light blue. The professor flashed one of his dazzling smiles.
Hermione and Neville began stammering out excuses, nervous.
“N-nothing’s happening! No—no race, Professor!” Neville tried to explain, but was clearly lost for words.
Hermione wanted to slap her own forehead for letting Neville speak. The other students nearby who were watching looked tense.
Lockhart let out a forced laugh.
“Oh, my young friends, don’t be afraid!” He made a calming gesture with his hands. “I haven’t come here to spoil your fun. In fact, I’m fully in favour of sport, and I’ve promised to keep quiet about whatever the racers down there are up to, of course. I’ve even offered to help if anything goes wrong,” he added with a wink.
Hermione and a few girls nearby blushed at once. With Lockhart there, she felt certain nothing bad could possibly happen.
“Well then, what are we watching, Mr Longbottom?” He stepped up to the edge of the stands beside Hermione and Neville, hands on hips and chest puffed out.
“Well, nothing… they should be passing over there, but I don’t see anyone yet,” Neville replied.
Hermione, trying not to look too much at Lockhart, picked up the Omnioculars and scanned the pitch. She felt her face growing hot, still embarrassed with the professor so close.
It was then that she saw two figures, fast as lightning, flying low across the horizon towards the pitch.
Harry and Malfoy.
“There!” Hermione pointed, her voice anxious, bouncing on the spot. “They’re coming! Malfoy’s in the lead!”
“Oh, Merlin, Harry can’t let him lead!” Neville smacked his hand against the railing of the stand.
“I’m sure Potter will win,” suggested Lockhart, with a confident smile. “He’s a celebrity, after all. He’s got a reputation to keep. He’ll do everything to hold on to it.”
Hermione frowned at that comment but said nothing—Harry would never do anything just to keep his fame; he couldn’t care less about it.
Skimming the ground, only inches above the tips of grass whipped by the wind of their flight, Harry leaned forward over his broom, feeling the air slice at his face like icy blades. The wind roared in his ears as he wrung every ounce of speed the broom could offer.
With a perfectly timed surge, he shot past Malfoy in a rush of adrenaline and seized the lead again with breathtaking skill.
The pitch hurtled closer at a dizzying speed, and Harry pulled the broom up at the very last second.
The world spun upside down for a heartbeat as he climbed almost vertically, his body pressed to the handle, skimming only inches over the head of a stunned Ravenclaw. The spectators held their breath as Harry streaked over the stands, the timbers creaking under the gale whipped up by his speed.
Right behind him, Malfoy also forced his broom to its limits, narrowly missing a Gryffindor who ducked just in time, letting out a frightened yelp.
The crowd burst into cries and shouts.
“Look at that!” yelled Lockhart, his breathless excitement echoing round the stadium. “Incredible! Reminds me of my own glorious days as Ravenclaw Seeker!”
In the blink of an eye, Harry dived again, cutting through the air and sweeping back onto the main pitch, and Malfoy followed.
The two brooms flew side by side, so close their twigs almost tangled, fighting for every inch with silent fury, focused on not yielding a single fraction of ground.
“GO ON, HARRY!” Hermione yelled, jumping up and down, fists clenched against her chest and her heart pounding.
POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!
The Gryffindors’ war cry thundered through the stands, all in unison, their voices full of passion.
MALFOY! MALFOY! MALFOY!
The Slytherins, like a roar rising from the far side of the pitch.
But above them all, Hermione’s voice was the fiercest, almost hoarse from shouting, as though she could push Harry to victory by the sheer force of her cheering.
The final lap began.
Harry felt his heart hammering in his ears, his blood surging fast, the wind almost tearing the tears from his eyes.
Malfoy was glued to his tail, curses hissing through his teeth, but Harry didn’t let himself be distracted.
He gripped the broom tighter with his knees, leaned even further forward and felt the speed climb.
Penelope moved to the edge of the finish line, wand in hand to officially record the winner, her gaze locked on the two blurs hurtling towards her.
In a desperate move, Malfoy tried to shove Harry aside, reaching out an arm—but Harry, with reflexes quick as lightning, clutched the broom handle tight and held his course, swerving just enough to avoid the collision.
The crowd held its breath.
And then—in one final burst of pure determination—Harry crossed the finish line first, with Malfoy less than half a metre behind, his face twisted in rage and frustration.
The stadium erupted.
The Gryffindors’ roar rolled like thunder as, high up in the stands. A flash of light went off.
Colin Creevey, hands trembling with excitement, snapped a picture at the exact moment Harry, victorious, slowed in mid‑air, his tired smile lighting up his face while Malfoy came on behind, furious and defeated.
The Slytherins booed Harry’s victory.
He raised his arms, grinning in triumph, his face sweaty and breathless, and looked straight at Hermione and Neville.
Neville noticed that Hermione talked more than she truly meant.
She could say she was cross and that she clearly hated this sort of competition, but here she was, bouncing on the spot while waving excitedly at him, cheeks flushed and a bright smile on her face, thrilled.
Malfoy landed and let out an angry snort, stepping off his broom and giving it a kick in the air, snarling at how useless those museum pieces were for racing.
Harry dismounted to catch his breath, running his hands through his hair and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
VUUSHH!
It was at that very moment of pure exhilaration, in the middle of the stands, that a Bludger came hurtling out of the pitch supports like a bolt of lightning, splintering part of one, and shot straight at Harry, raging.
“POTTER, LOOK OUT!” Penelope cried.
Harry had no time to dodge.
He only managed to throw his own arm up in front, trying to block the object.
But the thing didn’t seem to be aiming for his arms.
The rogue Bludger smashed into his shin with full force, a sharp crack splitting the air.
Crack!
“AH!”
Harry yelled and hit the ground, pain etched across his face.
The Bludger whizzed past him.
The spectators in the stands gasped as one.
Hermione’s eyes flew wide and her heart lurched, and Neville turned pale. Without thinking twice, she tore off down the pitch as fast as her legs would carry her.
The rogue Bludger didn’t stop.
It turned again, homing in on Harry even as he lay on the ground.
Harry tried to roll out of its path, twisting from side to side, but he could barely move his injured leg.
The Bludger was out of control, clearly not behaving normally, and seemed fixed on Harry alone.
“Depulso!” Penelope fired at the Bludger, but it swerved aside as though yanked away.
“Oh fuck!” Harry hissed, clutching at his shin that burned like fire, and twisted aside, just dodging the Bludger’s next strike.
Hermione had never run so fast down a flight of stairs, almost leaping over steps to get down quicker. All she could hear were Neville’s hurried footsteps creaking on the wood right behind her.
Harry had just rolled to the other side, dodging yet another swipe from the Bludger, when he realised he’d no time left to protect himself.
The thing was about to smash him full in the groin.
He shut his eyes, bracing for the searing impact.
“FINITE INCANTATEM!” Hermione cried shrilly.
A red jet shot from Hermione’s wand and struck the Bludger at the very moment it closed in on Harry.
The object dropped harmlessly into his lap, as though it had never been dangerous at all, as light as an ordinary Bludger.
Harry didn’t even try to understand what had just happened, hissing through his teeth as he fought the pain.
All around him, no one seemed to notice that Cedric and Cho had already arrived at the pitch along with the other racers. Both ignored the race entirely and hurried down to see what had happened.
Hermione was the first to kneel beside him, her brown eyes blazing with worry.
“Harry! Are you all right?!” she asked, her voice tight with panic, scanning him from head to toe, her brown eyes shining with concern.
“I think… I’ve broken my… leg… bloody hell…,” he muttered between ragged breaths, a sharp stab of pain shooting through him.
The circle around them grew as more people crowded in.
Lockhart bustled forward, waving aside the onlookers with theatrical flourishes.
“Stand back, all of you! Let me see to this, Potter!” he said, bending to inspect Harry’s leg.
His hands held it gently, but Harry felt a chill of mistrust; he’d heard a few accounts of students who’d been “healed” by Lockhart’s odd spells during the Gryffindor–Slytherin scuffle, none of which had worked as intended.
“Ah yes, broken, unfortunately,” Lockhart remarked.
“Shite…” Harry muttered weakly.
“Don’t you worry, my boy!” the professor declared, brimming with enthusiasm. “I know exactly what to do. There’s a perfect spell for this very situation!”
Harry felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He didn’t trust Lockhart’s abilities one bit.
“I think I'd better go to the hospital wing,” he suggested quickly, trying to hold his throbbing leg.
“Nonsense, my boy! Complete nonsense!” insisted Lockhart, whipping out his wand and clearing his throat dramatically. “I’ll have this sorted in a trice. Done it thousands of times. Now, watch and learn—Brackium Emendo!”
A purple light burst from the tip of Lockhart’s wand and wrapped itself around Harry’s leg.
For a brief moment, he felt the pain ebb away and let out a sigh of relief—which, in itself, was surprising coming from that professor—but then he realised something was terribly wrong.
His leg hadn’t merely stopped hurting—it had gone completely limp, hanging in an unnatural way, as though the bones had vanished.
Harry felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the twisted limb; he went pale and, for a fleeting moment, thought he might faint.
“You… you’ve taken the bones out of his leg!” Cho Chang shouted from the crowd, aghast.
Lockhart cleared his throat.
“Well, ah… that was the plan!” he said with obviously false certainty. “Stop the pain first! Now he just needs a little trip up to the hospital wing to sort it out!”
“A little trip?! He’s got no bones!” Dean Thomas exclaimed.
“There are potions to grow them back! Don’t worry,” Lockhart shot back, as though it were nothing at all.
Ron, finally stepped forward. His face was sweaty and flushed, but he squared his shoulders.
“Nev,” Ron called, already bending down to help Harry.
Neville didn’t need asking twice.
He was already beside Harry, draping his friend’s arm over his shoulders.
“Thanks, you two,” Harry muttered, trying not to let his head spin from sheer nerves and shock.
“Leave it for later, mate. Let’s just get out of here,” Ron answered, as they guided him carefully off the pitch, Harry hopping on one leg while the other dangled limply.
As the three of them disappeared through the gates, everyone seemed to be talking at once about what had just happened.
Hermione blinked, finally putting together what had taken place.
First of all, what on earth was a Bludger doing there? There wasn’t even a Quidditch match on, and secondly, it hadn’t behaved remotely normally.
Someone had tried to hurt Harry on purpose.
Her aura pulsed with indignation and fury; if it could be said, it felt hot.
“Who let that thing loose?!” Hermione exclaimed, her voice taking on a sharp edge.
“I didn’t see anyone down there,” replied Roger Davies—a Ravenclaw—shaking his head.
“Everyone was up here in the stands!” Katie Bell pointed out. “I’m sure of it, I was watching the entrance, only Colin stayed to get the picture!”
“Someone could’ve tampered with the Bludger,” Cedric suggested, his eyes narrowing in thought.
“With what?” questioned Penelope. “I tried to stop it with a Depulso and it just swerved! If it weren’t for her,” she pointed at Hermione “that Bludger would’ve smashed Potter to bits! It was bewitched, advanced magic!”
The argument grew more heated, but it led nowhere. Hermione, frustrated, huffed and strode quickly off the pitch.
She needed to get to the hospital wing.
Harry was hurt, and that was what mattered most now, and she wanted to make it perfectly clear that taking part in another race like that was complete idiocy.
In the distance, she noticed the Slytherins had already left the pitch, entirely unconcerned about Harry’s condition.
That only strengthened her suspicion that someone—perhaps even Malfoy—was behind the attack.
That Slytherin, after all, was a candidate for being the Heir of Slytherin.
The rest of Harry’s Sunday dragged by agonisingly, far more slowly than he would ever have thought possible.
Fortunately, Madam Pomfrey didn’t bombard him with questions about how, exactly, he’d managed to lose the bones in his right leg—sparing him the painful task of inventing some excuse about the rogue Bludger... or, worse still, Lockhart’s “help.”
Though, come to think of it, claiming his bones had “mysteriously vanished” due to Lockhart’s incompetence was easier than explaining the whole Bludger business.
Harry noticed that the matron had dealt with so many strange incidents in that place—from students poisoned by carnivorous plants to fairy colds that made their victims sneeze glittering dust—that the matter of vanishing bones barely warranted her attention, and she preferred to focus on the treatment.
The real torture, however, came in the form of the Skele-Gro, the bone-regenerating potion.
The taste was so foul that Harry could only compare it to water from dirty socks—not that he had ever tried such a thing, of course. The thick, greyish liquid had barely touched his tongue before he reflexively spat the first dose on the floor.
“What were you expecting? Peach juice?” said Madam Pomfrey with a touch of sarcasm as she refilled the cup.
“Definitely the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” Harry muttered before being forced to swallow nearly a whole cup of the repulsive mixture.
As if the day hadn’t been bad enough already, Hermione stayed in the hospital wing until it was almost empty—leaving only Harry, Ron and Neville as witnesses to her coming lecture.
At first she seemed genuinely worried, inspecting Harry with a critical eye and firing off quick questions, as though she feared that, besides the vanished bones, he might have suffered some other unseen damage.
But once she was certain he would survive, her face hardened and she instantly switched into “I told you so” mode.
“That was the most irresponsible thing you’ve ever done!” she burst out, gesturing with her hands as she launched into a never‑ending tirade about the dangers of unauthorised broom races, the stupidity of defying professors and, of course, the utter lack of common sense shown by Harry and Ron in general.
Ron held out for about three minutes before making a pitiful excuse.
“I’ll… er… check on Scabbers. Be back in a tick.” He took a step back, then another, and before Hermione could pin him down with more words, he was almost at the door.
Neville, without even trying to hide his escape, mumbled something about “needing some air” and followed Ron in the blink of an eye.
Harry was left behind, alone and abandoned.
“Bloody traitors...” he thought resignedly as Hermione launched back into her lecture with renewed vigour.
“None of this would've happened if you'd just listened to me! But you never do! And what happens? You break your leg because you're still in those foul Slytherins' sights after the courtyard fight! I told you it was better to keep quiet—have you even considered everything we're doing with the potion we've planned? What if you get caught for that too? Do you want to be expelled? That would be my first mistake, but what is it for you? Your tenth with the professors! They've got their eye on you, Harry!”
Did he want to tell her to shut it?
Yes.
But if he was honest... not that much.
Even if she was droning on in his ear, it was because she cared about him—not because she wished him harm.
And though the words stuck in his throat, he didn't snap.
Besides, Harry owed her some slack. This wasn't the first time Hermione had seen him in the hospital wing, laid out on a cot. She had every right to be cross with him, even before breakfast.
After complaining for what felt like a full History of Magic lesson's worth of time, Hermione finally began to wind down, her breathing still elevated. She crossed her arms tightly, huffed, and smoothed out her skirt wrinkles with a jerky motion—as if trying to physically press down her frustration.
“I hope you’ve understood.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“Finished?”
“Finished!” she replied firmly, though her eyes still glittered with irritation. “And I hope I won’t have to repeat myself.”
“No need!” Harry answered quickly, before she could reconsider. “Races are a terrible idea, me and Ron never listen to you, and if you hadn’t got there before the Bludger hit me, I probably wouldn’t ever have kids. Got it.”
In spite of herself, Hermione couldn’t help a small smile, caught off guard by the unexpected joke.
She stared at him in silence for a few seconds, weighing up whether he was being sincere. At last, she sighed deeply and let her shoulders relax, the tension beginning to fade.
“I was worried about you, you know?” she said in a softer tone.
“I know,” Harry replied honestly.
“Then promise me you won’t take part in any more of those races. Please,” she went on, her brown eyes shining with intensity. “Ron, I know, won’t listen to me, but I know—I hope—that you’re different—I know you are. I don’t want to see you in even bigger trouble than we’ve already landed ourselves in.”
Harry listened without looking at her, preferring to fiddle with the blanket on his lap.
“If they find out about the races and you were involved, it’ll just add to all the other things that’ve happened this year,” she continued, “even more so if they find out about our plan.”
Harry sighed and looked down at his boneless leg, wrapped in plaster.
Maybe Hermione really did have a point.
He nodded, resigned.
“Alright. I promise.”
Hermione always trod that fine line between following the rules to the letter and breaking them when the situation demanded it. She would never do so without solid reason. Most of the time, she was the voice of reason in the quartet—though on many occasions, Harry, Ron, and even Neville found themselves wanting to groan in exasperation at her near-inflexible insistence.
This time, however, she had more than enough reason, and Harry knew it.
So he stayed quiet, listening to her carefully. He also knew that arguing with Hermione was an exercise in futility—she always won in the end.
“Good.” She seemed relieved, but quickly changed the subject. “I’m starting to brew the Polyjuice Potion today as well.”
“Already? And where are we going to do that?” asked Harry. “The potion takes a month to make, and we’ve got to keep a constant eye on the cauldron. We can’t just do it anywhere.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Hermione, biting her lower lip. “An empty classroom would be ideal, but there’s always the risk of someone walking in for… well, reasons.”
“What reasons?” asked Harry, puzzled.
Hermione rolled her eyes as though it were obvious.
“Snogging, Harry. Older students do it all the time, looking for the first empty room they can find. It would be a disaster if they discovered what we’re doing because of… that sort of thing.” She finished lamely.
“Oh.” Harry looked away.
There was an awkward silence between the two of them, making them both look anywhere but at each other, feeling their cheeks grow warm.
Hermione cleared her throat, glancing towards the window for a moment.
“So Neville suggested the second‑floor bathroom,” Hermione finished. “Moaning Myrtle’s.”
“Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? Seriously?”
“Yeah, no one ever goes there, it’d be perfect for this,” she explained. “The only problem is Myrtle herself, but I think we can handle her. She can be annoying at times, but I doubt she’ll interfere with the potion. She might splash water at us or start crying, but other than that she won’t bother us much—so long as we don’t bother her, of course…”
The two of them spent the rest of the conversation going over the details of the plan until Hermione had to leave at the request of the Matron.
Harry told her he’d only be staying in the hospital wing for one night, according to Madam Pomfrey, so the next day he’d be back with them once the bones in his leg had grown back.
He sat in silence for a long time, with only the sounds of students laughing and messing about outside, until boredom got the better of him. Harry noticed that Hermione had forgotten a book on the bedside table.
He picked up the volume and, reading the title, couldn’t help but let out a groan of dismay.
“Pride and Prejudice…” he muttered, letting his shoulders slump. “Of course. It had to be a romance… wait—Hermione reads romances?” he wondered to himself, surprised.
If it had been a book on some completely random academic topic, or something complicated about Transfiguration, or even Potions, he would have understood.
But a romance?
Hermione liked that sort of thing? Well, perhaps it made sense—after all, she was a girl, and girls liked reading that stuff.
But of all days, she had to be carrying that book? Harry couldn’t help feeling he’d been unlucky this time.
With no great expectations, he began to read—truth be told, he hadn’t expected anything at all.
However, to his surprise, the narrative managed to hold his attention—perhaps because he had nothing better to do, but even so, it drew him in. The comic tone was engaging, and he found himself wondering how anyone could worry so much about social class instead of focusing on the person themselves when it came to a romantic relationship, to finding true love.
It was at that moment he realised just how far he’d sunk that Sunday: pondering over a dramatic girls’ romance novel whilst lying in the hospital wing with a leg that had no bones.
The situation, already absurd, seemed even more ridiculous when he realised how engrossed he was in the plot of that romantic book.
If any of the boys from his dormitory—or worse still, the twins—found out he was reading it…
It would probably be even worse than being caught with a book of Dark magic. They’d likely force him to join the next girls’ pyjama party and make him discuss the depths of the romance between the characters—Elizabeth and Darcy.
Harry shuddered at the thought and quickly shoved the book aside when he heard the hospital wing door open.
A sigh of relief escaped him when Neville came in, bringing his Potions book and a few Quidditch magazines borrowed from Ron to keep him occupied.
“Thanks, mate, I was bored out of my mind in here,” Harry said gratefully.
Neville smiled.
“You’re welcome, I thought you’d like the Potions book,” he said.
Eventually, the day drew to a close, the sun setting and the lights in the hospital wing flickering on.
Harry yawned, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. It was still early to sleep, but the effects of the potions he’d taken after dinner were starting to kick in more quickly. He took off his glasses and settled down to sleep.
In the middle of his slumber, a strange dream wrapped itself around him—talking snakes coiling around his arm, delighted to tell him they had escaped the Heir of Slytherin to join him instead.
All of a sudden, he woke with a start, the dream broken by a familiar hiss, as though something was whispering in his ear.
“I will find you… I can smell your blood…”
He startled awake, eyes snapping open, and flinched again when he saw a pair of green eyes, glowing like tennis balls, staring at him.
“Dobby?! What are you doing here?” Harry asked, his voice dry as he sat up in bed.
The last time the elf had appeared at the Dursleys’ house, it had been anything but pleasant, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to see the elf ever again.
“Oh! Dobby came to help Harry Potter!” whispered the elf, visibly nervous. “Dobby had to come here to beg Harry Potter to leave Hogwarts!”
Harry let out an angry snort.
“This again?!” he demanded harshly. “Do you know what happened to me back at that house?”
“Dobby doesn’t know, sir! But Dobby did it to save you from the bad things here! He promises he means well!”
Harry felt a shiver and anger rising as he thought of the hunger, the misery of his owl, the pain of the blows and lashings at the Dursleys’ house. He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away, and sighed.
This elf was clearly unhinged, and his master, apparently, was too.
“Doesn’t matter. Now, piss off. I’m not leaving,” Harry said, pointing at the door.
Dobby drooped his ears and looked towards the door of the hospital wing, as though expecting something.
“Dobby begs you, sir!” he said, clasping his bony hands together. “This time is different, the bad things have already begun. Dobby tried to stop you from coming, but neither shutting the barrier at platform, nor the griffins, nor the broom that was meant to hit the pillar of the stands and hit the mud instead, not even the Bludger I enchanted, worked! Master Harry Potter should break a leg and be sent home safely!”
Harry stared at him, stunned.
“It was you?!” he hissed, rage spilling over. “You did all that on purpose? You tried to kill me? You almost sent me back to the Dursleys worse off than before?”
“Dobby never wanted to kill Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby said with a look of utter horror, as though the very idea was unthinkable. “Dobby only wanted Harry Potter safe!” He then lowered his ears again, resigned. “The griffins, however… Dobby understands they went too far, Dobby shouldn’t have thrown the egg at the car like that! He begs your forgiveness.”
There was a brief silence between the two of them.
“I’m going to kill you, Dobby.” Harry said, his voice charged with near‑murderous anger. “I swear I’m going to kill you.”
But before he could do anything—not that he could do much with a leg with no bones—Dobby was quicker, leaping down to the floor.
“You don’t understand, sir! The Chamber, it’s been opened! More dangers stalk the castle than ever before!” Dobby blurted out, frantic.
Harry sniffed, sarcasm lacing his tone.
“Everyone knows it’s been opened.”
“But it’s not the first time!” Dobby blurted, then stopped dead, as though he’d said something he shouldn’t have.
Harry wasn’t surprised. He already knew that. But he realised the elf knew far more than he was letting on.
“Who opened it? Who’s the Heir?” Harry asked, leaning forward, determined to find out more.
“Dobby’s said too much! Bad Dobby!” Dobby cried, before beginning to bang his head against the bedside table, knocking Harry’s wand to the floor.
The potions on top of the table wobbled dangerously, but Harry managed to grab them before they could topple and shatter.
“Dobby, stop! Just stop hurting yourself!” Harry exclaimed, trying to keep him from continuing his self‑punishment.
After a moment, Dobby calmed and stopped, but he looked cornered, as though he’d made a terrible mistake by speaking.
“I know you know,” Harry tried again, more level now, though his anger still simmered, ready to flare. “If you want me safe, you need to tell me who the Heir of the Chamber is! I can warn someone about it.”
“Dobby… can’t… tell!” Dobby gasped, as though he longed to reveal it but was forcing himself to hold back. “He’s doing more than he should! Master will find out what Dobby’s been doing and will punish him, but Harry Potter is more important, sir!”
It was at that moment Harry heard footsteps outside the hospital wing, worried voices carrying closer. He turned, but before he could react, there was a soft pop and Dobby vanished.
Harry pulled the blankets over himself quickly, pretending to be asleep but keeping one eye open, alert to the scene unfolding before him.
He felt a tightness in his chest and swallowed hard as he realised what was happening.
A group of professors entered the hospital wing in a rush, followed by Madam Pomfrey, all of them grave and concerned.
They were levitating Colin Creevey, who was completely motionless, as rigid as Mrs Norris had been.
Pomfrey immediately directed them to place him on a hospital bed.
Colin still clutched his camera before his face, as though he’d been about to take a picture, his eyes glazed through the lens, his posture frozen.
“Where did you find him, Severus?” McGonagall asked, clear worry in her voice.
“On the second floor,” Snape replied coldly. “Near the girls’ bathroom.”
“Did anyone see what happened?” Madam Pomfrey asked.
“I fear not,” Dumbledore sighed. “What has happened to poor Mr Creevey here is the same as what happened to Mrs Norris on Hallowe’en night.”
The air grew heavy with silence.
All four adults were aware of the gravity of the situation. Colin’s presence as a victim carried grim implications.
McGonagall, her hands trembling, took the camera from Colin’s stiff fingers. He remained so motionless it looked as though he were holding an invisible camera.
“It seems he took a picture just before he was Petrified,” she said, her eyes fixed on the object.
“I only saw that the last photograph was burnt,” Snape observed, his voice drained of feeling. “Only the roll of film was saved. The camera itself was destroyed.”
Madam Pomfrey let out a long sigh, visibly unsettled.
“I’ve never seen such a severe Petrification,” she said, drawing on years of experience. “This is only comparable…”
“To when it was opened the first time,” Dumbledore finished for her, his expression sombre. “Yes, Poppy, that’s exactly right. The Chamber of Secrets has definitely been opened again.”
“And what are we to do?” Snape asked, his eyes fixed on the Headmaster.
Dumbledore ran a hand through his beard, thinking.
“I need time to consider, Severus,” he answered calmly. “But I believe I already know how this is going to unfold, and it will not be pleasant.”
Madam Pomfrey sighed.
“It’s already far from pleasant, Albus,” she said, glancing worriedly at the Petrified boy.
“I know, Poppy, I know,” he replied serenely.
McGonagall, eyes still on the camera, removed the film roll and began examining the photographs, frowning.
“One of the last pictures he took was of that race this morning,” she said, pressing her lips into a thin line. “And by the looks of it, Potter was the winner, Malfoy came second, and one of the photographs shows him leaving the pitch with no bones in his leg.”
Harry felt a chill run down his spine.
He shut his eyes, swallowing hard, feeling as though every pair of eyes in the room were burning into him, as if they all knew he was only pretending to be asleep.
“Who was the idiot who let Colin have a camera at that race?!” he yelled inwardly.
If he weren’t Petrified, Harry would have gone after Colin even if he’d had to chase him with a crutch.
“Of course… Potter’s mixed up in something, how could I not have guessed?” Snape said with contempt, watching him with a critical glare.
“Not just him, mind you,” McGonagall retorted. “Several students from every House are involved.”
“Those foolish children…” Snape muttered, his tone steeped in disdain. “And they think we don’t know? That we’ve no idea what they’re up to behind our backs?”
“Let’s not lose focus on that right now,” Dumbledore said. “So long as they don’t hurt themselves with duels again, that’s—by far—the least of our worries at the moment.”
“This could even force us to close the school,” McGonagall observed, tension in her voice. “And if they do, they’ll want to tear down every brick until they find what’s behind this.”
“They won’t do anything of the sort—not yet, Minerva. But we’ll see what we can do,” Dumbledore replied, his eyes once again distant, lost in thought.
A week had passed since the incident with Colin Creevey, and the rumours about what had happened had spread through the castle like wildfire through dry straw.
By the very next morning, his closest friends—Jack Sloper and Andrew Kirke—were telling everyone that Colin had mentioned, the night before, his intention to take “just a few more pictures” of the portraits of famous wizards to send to his father. But, unlike usual, the boy had never come back to bed.
The whispers multiplied along the corridors, each version more twisted than the last.
What had begun as a simple disappearance turned, within hours, into tales of more blood on the walls, eyes gleaming in the shadows and even a supposed scream echoing from the trophy room.
It was like a warped game of Chinese Whispers, where every new listener added their own touch of horror.
Before panic could spread irreversibly, Professor Dumbledore intervened. The following morning, his calm but firm voice rang through the Great Hall as he assured everyone that Colin was safe—Petrified, yes, but stable, just as Mrs Norris had been.
“There is no cause for alarm,” declared Dumbledore, his hands raised in a gesture of calm, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half‑moon spectacles. “Our efforts to unravel this mystery continue, and I assure you that the safety of our students is our highest priority.”
But not even the Headmaster’s words were enough to dispel the fear that now hung over Hogwarts like a thick mist.
Harry noticed that students walked in tight groups, glancing over their shoulders at every shifting shadow. The whispers about the “Heir of Slytherin” and his “monster” became as frequent as the clinking of cutlery during meals.
“I heard it’s a wendigo,” murmured a Hufflepuff girl, tugging her friend closer.
“Don’t be silly, wendigos are American and live in the woods, they’d kill you outright, not Petrify you!” retorted the boy beside her, though his voice didn’t sound as confident as he’d have liked.
Harry didn’t need Divination to know that, behind every averted gaze, there was an unspoken question.
Who’s next?
After all, if Mrs Norris had been first and Colin came next… there would surely be more attacks.
Soon, rumours began to circulate that talismans and amulets might protect against Petrification. Snape, in his lessons, seized every opportunity to mock those who believed such superstitions.
Lavender and Parvati became his favourite targets when he saw them wearing necklaces and an odd‑looking ring.
“In the wizarding world, we thought ourselves free of this Muggle nonsense,” he sneered during a class. “But it seems fear turns even the brightest into fools. Not that either of you are remotely bright, of course, but it is still disappointing.”
Lavender and Parvati lowered their heads, shrinking back in shame. They slowly slid the rings from their fingers and tucked them into their robe pockets, slipping their necklaces under their shirts to hide them.
Hermione also dismissed the idea of amulets, but unlike Snape, she explained to anyone who would listen exactly why nothing of the sort would work against a Petrification effect of that level of complexity. She cited her books with confidence, truly explaining why it was mere foolish superstition and absolutely useless.
Meanwhile, Fred and George did their best to lift the tension in the Gryffindor Tower.
At the end of the day, they set off little fireworks that burst into colourful sparks on the ceiling, and their jokes drew nervous laughs from worried house‑mates.
Harry noticed Hermione had begun to avoid staying alone in the library too late, and the common room became everyone’s preferred refuge. Many students breathed sighs of relief as they passed through the portrait of the Fat Lady and were welcomed by the warmth of the roaring fire.
In the midst of this rising chaos, Harry, Neville, Ron and Hermione spent more and more time in the second‑floor girls’ bathroom, the unlikely spot where Hermione had begun brewing the Polyjuice Potion.
Moaning Myrtle would drift in from time to time, floating gloomily over the cubicles.
Harry and Neville were the only ones who genuinely tried to talk to her in hopes she would leave; Hermione avoided looking in the ghost’s direction, especially since the incident at Sir Nicholas’s Deathday Party.
“I tried to kill myself after she said those things behind my back!” Myrtle sobbed, pointing a translucent finger at Hermione.
She merely ignored the provocation, shaking her head—her brown curls swaying gently from side to side—and rolling her eyes without lifting her focus from the cauldron, which was bubbling dangerously.
Ron, who had been watching the potion with an expression caught between fascination and worry, frowned as he looked back at the ghost.
“But… you’re already dead. How were you gonna kill yourself if you ain’t alive?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
Myrtle planted her spectral hands on her hips, floating a few inches higher in indignation.
“That… that’s not the point!” she huffed, thinking for a moment. “I mean, it is, but—Oh, I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”
And, with one last dramatic look at Ron, she vanished through a wall, leaving behind only a faint smell of damp mould.
Ron blinked, surprised.
“What did I say?” he asked, turning to the others.
“The obvious, but she still wants an argument,” Hermione replied dryly, not lifting her eyes from the open book beside her.
Despite the tense atmosphere, Hermione maintained an unshakable confidence.
She assured her friends, in the firm voice of someone who had memorised every word in that hefty Restricted Section book, that she knew the recipe back to front—although, every so often, her fingers stained with strange ingredients betrayed a quick glance at the yellowed pages.
While Hermione worked, Ron often dozed off in a corner or made excuses to leave, and Harry divided his time between Quidditch practice and trips to the bathroom. Neville, on the other hand, spent much of his time helping Professor Sprout in the greenhouses, though he didn’t always seem convinced he ought to carry on.
Harry was leaning against the cold wall, the spellbook balanced in one hand as he studied intently the variation of the spell he needed to master for the plan, repeating the wand movement several times.
He knew he would have to be precise—sneaking into Snape’s office to get the remaining ingredients required more than courage, and he wasn’t exactly in good standing with the professors, seeing as they knew about his recent victory in that race, even though—for his good fortune—they had never reprimanded him or even mentioned anything about it.
Beside him, Neville and Hermione were speaking in low voices.
“I could stop going,” Neville suggested, as he watched Hermione stir the cauldron. “I could stay here if you need a hand.”
“But you can’t do that,” said Hermione without taking her eyes off the cauldron as she added a fresh handful of fluxweed. “Firstly, because it would look suspicious, seeing as you love being in the greenhouses, and secondly, because I know you don’t like Potions, and I know this is boring for you.”
Neville scratched the back of his neck, hesitant.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered, “but… I just mean you don’t need to push yourself too hard here, you’ve been in this bathroom for ages, don’t you think?”
“I can handle it, honestly,” insisted Hermione, in a tone that brooked no argument.
The truth was, she didn’t need help from anyone—not even Harry, who had started putting more effort into Potions and was reading when Hermione allowed him to borrow Moste Potente Potions.
She knew Neville was far better at Potions when Snape wasn’t around, but she still didn’t want to risk unnecessary mistakes, least of all with a potion like this.
“And, in any case, I’ve got company,” Hermione added with a small shrug.
“Moaning Myrtle doesn’t count as good company,” Neville whispered, casting a wary look towards the cubicle where the ghost often hid.
“I said company, not good company. This one in particular hates me, but anyway,” Hermione shrugged again. “It’s what I’ve got at the moment. Now go before Professor Sprout gets cross with you.”
Neville let out a short laugh but heaved himself up off the floor.
“She’d never get cross with me. Not even for being late.”
Hermione merely smiled without lifting her attention from the bubbling cauldron.
“Going to throw me out as well?” Harry asked in an amused tone as Neville disappeared through the door.
She gave the potion one last clockwise stir with a precise flick of her wand and left it to brew, finally lifting a slightly smug gaze to Harry and nodding.
“I am. And I also know you’ve got practice soon, and between Professor Sprout and Oliver, I reckon he’d be far stricter if you were late.”
“It’s not that strict a practice, we haven’t got any matches this year anyway. And I’m already used to Oliver’s lectures about turning up after hours,” Harry said with a shrug, feigning nonchalance.
“Hmhm,” Hermione murmured, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. “You’re more like Angelina’s protégé, that’s what.”
Harry flushed at once and tugged his scarf up to hide his face almost instinctively, which only widened her smile.
“I’m not Angelina’s protégé!” he protested, folding his arms, trying to sound convincing. “I can handle myself.”
“That’s not what I’ve been hearing…” Hermione remarked casually, stirring the potion with the wooden spoon in a distracted manner.
Harry froze, eyes widening.
“Wait… people are talking about that? What? She… she said she didn’t say things like that!”
In truth, Angelina had a habit of stepping in whenever Oliver went too far during practice. The captain sometimes took his Quidditch frustrations out on the team’s drills, especially now there would be no more matches that year, insisting they ought to do everything they could to win the Cup the following year. And Harry, being the Seeker and a key part of the team, would have suffered far more from the heavy practices if Angelina hadn’t been there to rein Oliver in and bring him back to reality.
Hermione broke into another smile, this time even broader, clearly enjoying herself.
“Oh, so that’s true? Now I’m certain you’re her protégé!” she declared before bursting into laughter at the sight of Harry’s gaping expression.
“Idiot…” Harry sighed, but the smile on his lips betrayed the reproach in his tone.
After days of meticulous work sitting on the cold floor of that damp bathroom, Hermione finally announced that the moment had arrived: they had reached the part of the Polyjuice Potion that required the rare ingredients stored in the Potions master’s private stores—a bicorn horn and three measures of boomslang skin, the equivalent of an entire jar.
It was almost common knowledge that Snape’s storeroom was behind a door within the Potions classroom.
Despite the gravity of the mission, only Neville seemed truly shaken.
He was even paler and more frightened than usual, clutching his wand as though it were a useless twig—which, if he were honest, wasn’t far from the truth. Harry and Ron, on the other hand, hid their nerves well with jokes, while Hermione had sweaty hands and a pounding heart, going over and over in her mind whether she’d forgotten anything about the plan.
The original idea, of course, had been Harry’s, but Hermione had dismissed it almost immediately, claiming it was riddled with flaws and lacked a sufficient number of alternatives should anything go wrong.
She had spent weeks reworking the strategy. When she presented the final version, she had made sure to train Harry in the Disillusionment Charm, essential to the success of the undertaking.
Ron, as expected, rarely showed up for practice sessions, and Neville, with his patched‑up wand, was out of the question.
“Okay, this is going to work,” Hermione murmured to herself as they walked along the corridor towards Potions, more trying to calm herself than truly checking she hadn’t missed anything. “Harry asks to go to the loo, I distract Snape with a question, Harry uses the Disillusionment Charm, slips into the storeroom, takes what we need and gets out without being seen. Simple, planned, flawless.”
“Er… you all right, Hermione?” Neville asked hesitantly, watching her.
“Hm?” Hermione blinked, snapped out of her thoughts.
“You’re talking to yourself again. That’s the third time today,” Ron commented with a half‑smile. “Relax, you’ve thought of everything. It’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” she sighed, still anxious. “But what if it doesn’t? What if he—”
“The more you think about it, the worse it’ll be,” Ron cut in with a practical tone.
“And if anyone’s going to get into trouble, it’s me,” said Harry, unfazed by the idea, almost content at the thought of sparing her any backlash. “And, to be honest, detention with him’s already become routine. Just another normal Tuesday.”
“That’s not helping at all!” Hermione burst out, folding her arms. “You getting caught is the problem! You’re already on the professors’ blacklist this year.”
“Whoa, steady on, don’t go overboard,” Harry interrupted with a nervous laugh. “I know I’ve not exactly been the model student, but… look at Ron.”
“‘Look at Ron’?” Ron repeated, laughing. “Not sure I like being that example.”
“Oh, come on, you’re hardly the king of caution,” Harry shot back, green eyes bright with amusement. “But you’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, fair point,” Ron conceded, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “But think about it—if I died?” He leaned forwards, adopting a conspiratorial expression. “Or worse… got expelled?”
Harry and Ron burst into loud laughter, while Neville chuckled more softly, as though unsure if he ought to find it funny.
“Don’t you start!” Hermione warned, jabbing an accusing finger at the two of them, who only grinned and raised their hands in mock surrender.
“Besides,” Harry went on, with a mischievous smile, “McGonagall’s probably proud of me. All I did was… just win an innocent broomstick race against our rivals, right? Gryffindor one, Slytherins nil.”
“Should’ve bet on you to win,” Ron admitted honestly. “Lost a fair few Sickles on that. Far as I know, Lee and Fred are still stuffing their faces with Chocolate Frogs, all with what they won from the bets.”
Hermione huffed but ignored the redhead; she hadn’t the headspace to scold him for gambling, not when she was helping to break half the rules at Hogwarts in half an hour.
“And if it goes wrong, we could… flee the country, yeah?” Neville said suddenly, in a tone half nervous, half joking. “Change our names, find another place… that sort of thing.”
“The way you’re talking, you’re almost convincing me,” Ron commented.
“Well, they say Brazil’s great at this time of year,” Neville went on, thinking aloud, swallowing hard as they descended the cold, damp dungeon steps. “At least it’s sunny and warm.”
“I’d appreciate it if it were warm,” Harry muttered, shoving his chilled hands into his cloak pockets.
“There are gorgeous beaches there too,” Hermione remarked. “Mum researched them before deciding to take the summer holiday to Polynesia, but the problem is it’d be winter there when it’s summer for us in June.”
“There’s a rather big city there, on an island famous for having loads of wizards too,” Neville continued, speaking quietly but thinking aloud. “I think it’s called Florianópolis, Gran mentioned it when she went visiting. Worth going, don’t you think? Their school—Castelobruxo—is really famous for specialisations in Herbology and Magizoology, so it’s not that bad…”
The group stopped for a moment, staring at Neville.
The comment was clearly meant as a joke, but there was a hint of truth in it, considering they were dealing with Snape, and the nearer they got to the classroom door, the more tense he seemed to become.
“You know, the plan’s actually good,” Harry remarked.
Ron nodded.
“Better than Hermione’s, actually—with all due respect,” he said with mock seriousness.
Hermione sighed heavily.
“I’m starting to consider that idea,” Hermione groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and massaging her temples.
When they reached the Potions classroom, the atmosphere felt darker and more oppressive than usual.
The acrid smell of ingredients misused by students mingled with the rising tension in the air. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the result of everyone’s nerves or if Snape simply had that unique talent for turning every lesson into a claustrophobic nightmare.
It was probably a combination of both.
The first half of the lesson passed without major problems. It was only theory, and Harry had revised the uses and properties of salamander blood the night before. He managed to follow the reasoning without getting distracted—something rare in Snape’s lessons.
Snape broke off his writing on the board and spun suddenly, his black cloak billowing dramatically.
He pointed to what he had just written, where Salamander Blood stood out in large, jagged letters.
“I do hope you understand, especially you, Potter,” he said, his voice venomous and drawn out, dripping with pure sarcasm. “Salamander blood is an extremely valuable component, with rare and versatile properties. That is why it is expensive. And, because it is expensive, I despise waste.” He fixed his icy eyes on Harry. “Therefore, I suggest you remember that ingredient jars are to be handled carefully, not as though they were salt shakers.”
Harry clenched his quill so tightly he almost snapped it, forcing himself to keep his face impassive.
He knew exactly which incident Snape was referring to.
The infamous episode in September—when a jar of salamander blood and the epidemic of colds caused by Peeves had conspired against him—still hung over his head like a particularly persistent storm cloud. He had been carefully pouring the ruby liquid into his potion when an uncontrollable sneeze had struck, causing him to spill not only the contents but the entire jar into his cauldron.
The result had been catastrophic.
His potion had turned a sinister purple and begun to bubble so violently it had even melted through the metal stand, leaving behind nothing but a smoking hole in the surface of the desk.
Of course, the event took more points from Gryffindor than it should have—as always—and earned him detention, but nothing he wasn't already used to.
Snape turned back to the board, resuming his explanation in a monotone as he wrote additional notes about brewing the Wiggenweld Potion.
When the theoretical part finally ended, he turned once more to the class.
“Now, you will brew the Wiggenweld Potion,” he announced, his voice low and threatening. “The ingredients are already laid out on your tables. I want a decent potion on my desk by the end of the lesson. Brewed correctly, it will be able to heal and sterilise minor wounds, as well as act as an antidote to the Sleeping Draught. Work alone.”
There was a rustling of aprons and cauldrons as everyone began to work.
Harry looked around with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety.
Crabbe and Goyle were obviously copying everything Susan Bones was doing, who was ahead of them, while Malfoy stirred his potion with the expression of someone dealing with sewage. A greenish smoke escaped his cauldron, and Snape, passing by, pursed his lips in disgust, but said nothing.
Neville looked on the verge of a breakdown; his book was upside down and he had not yet noticed. Ron, on the other hand, stared at the instructions with an expression suggesting he might have been trying to decipher ancient runes. Harry was only waiting for Hermione’s signal to set the plan in motion.
As Harry added the blindworm mucus until the mixture took on a bright, glaring cyan, he saw Hermione give him a significant look and touch the tip of her nose.
That was the signal. Time to act.
“Professor,” Harry called, raising his hand. “May I go to the loo?”
Snape wheeled round, his dark eyes fixed on him.
“No.”
“But I really need to go,” Harry insisted, trying to sound convincing.
“I said no. Finish your potion, Potter. And do not dare make a mess of my classroom.” The last phrase was delivered in a tone so icy it seemed to freeze the air around them.
Harry huffed inwardly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered to himself. “The plan’s going down the drain before it’s even started. If I really needed to go—curse that stinking, bat‑nosed git!”
He looked at Hermione with an expression that clearly said: “Now what?”
Hermione bit her lower lip, thinking fast. Maybe there was still a way to salvage the plan.
“Professor,” she said, raising her hand.
“Yes?” Snape sighed humourlessly.
“If salamander blood has healing and rejuvenating properties, why doesn’t fish spine interfere with the Wiggenweld Potion? Since it’s also used to make herbicide potions?”
Snape turned to her, suspicious of such a question, especially coming from her.
“Curious, Granger, that you don’t know that,” he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “Has your brilliant memory suffered a lapse? Or are you attempting to waste my time with obvious questions?”
Hermione kept calm and threw a quick glance at Harry, who began edging slowly towards the side of the classroom.
For a moment she wondered if she should have asked an even more complex question, perhaps NEWT‑level, the kind that would take an entire lesson to explain just the first part.
“Actually, Professor, I believe I’ve forgotten,” she lied, in the most polite tone she could muster. “Could you explain it to me again, please?”
“Potter!” Snape barked suddenly, spinning on his heels to face Harry.
The cutting voice made Harry freeze in place, clearly a little farther from his table than he ought to have been.
Snape’s suspicious gaze stabbed into him like sharpened blades.
“Answer Granger’s question,” he said slowly and deliberately. “I believe it’s time you started repaying how much she carried you last year in Potions, don’t you think?”
It was as though he could smell something was wrong—or would be, very soon.
Every head in the room turned towards Harry, curiosity written on the students’ faces.
Harry hesitated for a moment, then crouched down, pretending to search for something on the floor, as though to justify why he had moved from his bench.
“Er… what was the question again?” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to sound casual.
“Minus five points from Gryffindor for your inattention to your classmate’s question; after all, it might have been yours,” Snape said with irritating calm. “Why does fish spine not interfere in this healing potion, when it is also used in poisons?”
“Because salamander blood is heated until it goes through eight colours in the initial boiling process,” Harry explained. “That separates the toxic elements of the fish spine. Adding honey‑water at the end of the process removes the poisonous residues, making the mixture safe to drink.”
Snape narrowed his eyes, clearly dissatisfied.
“Correct,” he admitted reluctantly, before turning to Hermione. “Now, get back to your potion, Granger.”
When Snape turned his back, Hermione let out a sigh and shot Harry a significant look.
It was clear the plan had failed.
Until something loud echoed through the classroom.
CLANG—SHHHH!
The crash reverberated through the dungeons, followed by a moment’s silence, soon broken by murmurs and muffled laughter.
Everyone turned towards the source of the noise—Neville’s table—where disaster had struck.
His cauldron had simply exploded onto the floor and shattered, splattering a yellowish, acrid‑smelling potion that hissed as it met the stone floor, as though it were acid. Part of the mixture had splashed onto Neville’s shoes and robes, melting the leather and fabric instantly—thankfully the mixture did not eat through human skin.
“AH!”
Startled, Neville gave a high‑pitched yelp, stumbling over his own feet as he grabbed desperately at a nearby shelf.
The movement, however, only made things worse.
CRACK! CLIM! TRASH!
The shelf wobbled dangerously before collapsing completely, scattering a jumble of jars and pots across the floor. Grotesque and utterly revolting ingredients spread everywhere—many of them directly over Neville.
The floor was now littered with items that would have turned even the strongest stomach.
Frog offal, salamander spleens, armadillo bile and even a sloth’s brain preserved in viscous liquid landed in his lap.
The nauseating stench that instantly filled the air made several students’ eyes water, while others clamped hands over their noses, groaning in protest.
“You complete and utter idiot!” Snape roared, his voice as cutting as a blade as his black eyes blazed with fury. “How is it that in all the years I have taught at this school, you alone are incapable of carrying out even the simplest task without causing disaster?!”
Neville was frozen, his face paler than a ghost’s and twisted with nausea, as Snape bore down on him with not the slightest intention of helping.
He swallowed back vomit that threatened to rise.
“I think—I think I… Merlin help me,” he murmured, ignoring all the chaos, staring down at the brain in his lap which did nothing to settle his churning stomach.
“If you were of any use whatsoever, your toad might already have found a better purpose as an ingredient in my classroom!” Snape snapped, while Neville stammered incoherent apologies and struggled in vain to prise off his melted shoes.
Meanwhile, the other students crowded round to see the scale of the mess.
Some laughed under their breath; others, like Hermione, looked worried and thoroughly queasy.
Neville had just enough time to dart a quick look at Harry, as though in less than half a second he were begging him to do something.
This was his chance.
With Snape and the class distracted, he ducked beneath his table, drew his wand and whispered:
“Disillusionare.”
A cold white light wrapped around his body, turning him almost transparent—but not perfectly; you could still make out his shimmering, translucent outline. He knew his Disillusionment Charm was crude—after all, it was an extremely advanced spell. But right now, he was counting more on the overall distraction than his own skill.
Moving like a shadow, he slipped across to the ingredients cupboard door.
He turned the handle, but, as expected, it was locked.
He raised his wand, quickly glancing back to see everyone still watching Neville on the floor, who seemed in no hurry to get up.
“Alohomora,” he murmured, hearing the soft click of success.
Harry eased the door open just enough to slip inside and closed it behind him.
The storeroom was dark and cramped, with shelves that ran to the ceiling, crammed with jars, pots and containers of every shape and size. Snape’s impeccable organisation, with the ingredients in alphabetical order, made the job easier.
Harry quickly found what he was looking for: a jar of boomslang skin and a sack containing powdered bicorn horn.
He stretched up on tiptoe to reach the ingredients on the higher shelves and shoved them into his cloak pockets, feeling very much like a thief in a vault stuffing handfuls of gold into a bag.
When his eyes landed on a tiny vial of Felix Felicis, the temptation was strong and he knew a dose of Liquid Luck might help them, but he resisted.
He wasn’t here to abuse luck—literally.
With the ingredients safely tucked into the inner pockets of his cloak, Harry slid back into the classroom, closing the cupboard door with an almost imperceptible click.
He crouched furtively, returning to his place as though he had never left, his fingers still tingling with adrenaline.
“Get up at once, Longbottom! Now!” Snape’s impatient voice sliced through the air like a sharp Diffindo. “Stop crawling about on the floor like a pig in muck!”
“Uh…” Neville groaned, too weak to hold himself up any longer, the world spinning around him.
Snape wrinkled his nose in disdain.
“And get that brain off—”
A wet, hideous sound cut across his words.
Blargh!
Neville, green as a pond toad, had just vomited directly over Snape’s immaculate black boots—and, by extension, the hem of his cloak.
For a moment, the room fell into absolute silence. Even the bubbling of the cauldrons seemed to stop.
Snape stood frozen, his dark eyes wide with pure horror, his fingers twitching as though he were struggling against the urge to strangle Neville on the spot—or perhaps to cast a spell that would erase him from existence.
“Urgh…” the girls moaned half in unison, with expressions of disgust and wrinkled noses
“Blimey, Longbottom, what did you have for breakfast?!” Zacharias Smith exclaimed, backing away and clamping the sleeve of his robes over his nose. “That reeks of death and defeat!”
Without hesitation, Hermione and Ron hurried to help Neville, who trembled like a wandmaker’s rod, his face even paler than usual. They tried to keep neutral expressions, but it was clear they were battling their own reflexes of nausea—still, their loyalty won out.
As the other students backed away, forming a wide circle around the disastrous scene, Harry seized the chaos. Still half‑invisible under the Disillusionment Charm, he slipped back to his bench and murmured:
“Finite.”
With a slight shimmer in the air, his figure came fully back into view. He seized his potion‑spoon and began stirring the cauldron with a studious air, as though deeply absorbed in his mixture—which, to his relief, was still exactly as it ought to be.
It was then that Snape’s voice rang out again, icy and dangerously calm:
“Potter!”
Harry looked up with an expression of carefully calculated innocence.
“Here, sir.”
Snape regarded him with razor‑sharp suspicion.
“What are you doing there?” he said, noticing that he was the only one not interested in what had happened to Neville, who was, after all, his best friend.
“The potion you asked for, sir. You didn’t give me permission to leave my desk, did you?” he said in an innocent yet defiant tone.
Snape pressed his lips together, but did not press the matter further; his attention was directed elsewhere at that moment.
“Take Longbottom to the hospital wing,” he ordered, each word punctuated with disdain. “Make sure he hasn’t been poisoned—and, more importantly, make certain he doesn’t vomit on anyone else.” His eyes swept the room with a sinister glint. “The rest of you, get back to work.”
“You’ll be all right, mate,” Ron muttered, gripping his friend by the shoulder as he helped him keep his balance.
Neville only shook his head, looking as though he were about to collapse from shame and sickness.
As Harry passed Hermione, he felt the weight of her gaze—that piercing look that always seemed to see more than it should. He blinked quickly, almost imperceptibly, and saw the corners of her mouth curve in a brief smile, though her eyes remained full of unspoken questions.
As the door to the classroom closed behind them, Harry and Neville began walking through the corridors in silence.
The stench was dreadful, and Harry fought not to show how much it bothered him. He glanced at Neville and took in his pitiful state: ruined shoes with toes poking through the gaps, robes stained with vomit and potion slime, and an expression of utter exhaustion.
At last Neville broke the silence, his voice so faint Harry barely heard it.
“Please…” he murmured, swallowing hard. “Tell me… tell me that all this was worth it.”
Harry stopped abruptly, turning to stare at his friend, eyes wide.
“You did that on purpose? It wasn’t an accident?”
Neville gave a little shrug, but a shy—almost mischievous—smile played at his lips.
“I saw you and Hermione exchanging looks. I realised the plan had gone wrong. Someone had to do something, but I saw Ron was more focused on not blowing up his own potion than noticing the signals. Then I thought, ‘Snape hates me anyway, so… why not?’ I chucked the cauldron on the floor on purpose and, being clumsy as I am, I put one foot in front of the other and… well, I overdid the mess to buy you time. Only I didn’t mean to throw up on him—when that brain landed in my lap… Urgh… Merlin…” He clapped a hand to his mouth, eyes wide, swallowing down another surge of nausea.
“No need to go on!” Harry said quickly, raising his hands, dreading a second incident. “I get it, all right? And yes, I got what we needed and no one saw a thing.”
“Th–that’s good,” he breathed, relieved.
The two kept walking.
Harry couldn’t help feeling a deep respect for his friend. Neville had sacrificed himself without hesitation, risking his dignity and facing one of his greatest fears, all for them.
After a few minutes, Harry decided he needed to say what was on his mind.
“You know, Nev. You’re by far the bravest person I’ve ever known.”
Neville gave him a shy smile, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment.
“Or just the daftest,” he muttered, but Harry saw the corner of his mouth twitch into a half‑smile.
“No matter how you look at it—you saved our plan today,” Harry said firmly.
When they finally reached the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey greeted them with a critical look and immediately steered Neville onto a bed, beginning to examine him with brisk movements.
“My dear boy, what have you done to yourself?” she said, cleaning his robes with a cloth soaked in a solution that smelled of mint and something acrid, then drying them properly with a flick of her wand. “Have you ingested anything? Swallowed any potion ingredients?”
“I had a brain of… something… in my lap,” he muttered queasily, “I think… I think I swallowed some of the slime when the jar burst on me and… Urgh…”
Again, he clapped a hand over his mouth while the matron bustled about, administering the right potions.
Harry watched from a distance, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as Madam Pomfrey muttered about “reckless students” and “Snape and his dangerous classes.”
It was impossible to ignore: behind all that insecurity and habitual clumsiness, Neville Longbottom was loyal, selfless and—though he’d never admit it—brave beyond measure.
Far braver than he himself believed.
With a silent sigh, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the outlines of the jar of boomslang skin and the bag of powdered bicorn horn.
The plan might have gone off the rails, but thanks to Neville, it had found its way.
His eyes drifted to the hospital wing window, where the grey sky heralded the approach of winter.
A thin mist clung to the Hogwarts grounds, and Harry shivered. From what the Daily Prophet was reporting, this was likely to be one of the harshest winters in years, with heavy snowfalls expected.
But with friends like Neville, Hermione and Ron, Harry knew that even if the world came crashing down, they would stand together whatever the challenge.
“Nothing can go wrong...” he thought to himself, before realising that might be a curse that would make the exact opposite happen.
Chapter 26: The Nutter Who Talks to Snakes
Notes:
Just a heads-up that this chapter exceeded the average word count per chapter, reaching 18k words.
Enjoy the read ^^
Chapter Text
The curious looks and barely disguised whispering that now followed Neville through the corridors of Hogwarts were impossible to ignore.
It had all started after the incident—the one in which he, thanks to a blasted brain in a jar on his lap, had accidentally vomited on Professor Snape’s shoes.
Even the most oblivious knew Neville would never have done something like that on purpose; no one was bold enough to do something so utterly foolish. It would have made more sense to force himself to swallow the sick—or aim at literally anyone else nearby—than to target the grumpiest, most unpleasant Potions Master the castle had ever known.
And, as with any piece of gossip worth its weight, the story had spread like wildfire. Within days, it seemed even the portraits on the walls knew all about it.
Opinions, of course, were divided.
Most of the Slytherins, in particular, never missed an opportunity to mock Neville, flinging snide laughter and comments that echoed through the corridors like poison.
“Look who it is—Longbottom, the walking disaster!” growled a green-and-silver-clad student, as his mates laughed.
“I bet he can’t hold a wand without tipping his own cauldron over,” added another, with a cruel grin.
“I told you he wasn’t a real wizard,” Neville heard Malfoy sneer during one such conversation.
Harry watched it all with a knot in his stomach.
He knew those words cut Neville deeper than any spell—and, worse still, his friend seemed to be believing them.
In the days that followed, Neville became even quieter, curling into himself like a frightened hedgehog, even when faced with Ron’s awkward but well-meaning attempts to cheer him up.
“Oh, come on, mate,” said Ron, giving him a pat on the back that nearly knocked the boy forward. “You’re really gonna let Crabbe get to you? That bloke can’t even talk without drooling all over his robes!”
Neville let out a sigh so soft it was barely audible.
“Yeah... suppose not...” he murmured, staring down at his shoes as if willing the floor to swallow him up.
Ron cast a helpless glance at Harry and Hermione, lifting his shoulders in a silent “no idea what else to try.”
The other two exchanged a knowing smile, but in Hermione’s eyes there was a flicker of concern—and Harry knew exactly what she was thinking.
“How do you help someone when even the kindest words slide right off them like water?” He could almost hear her saying it in her head.
Talking about Neville’s abilities had always been a touchy subject, and the incident had only worsened his insecurity.
On the other hand, not everyone saw Neville as a joke or a failure—and, as expected, Fred and George Weasley were firmly in that camp.
To the twins, vomiting on Snape’s shoes wasn’t just a mortifying accident—it was a feat worthy of admiration. Perhaps it was sheer Gryffindor courage, or perhaps a staggering lack of self-preservation—but either way, they found it absolutely brilliant.
“Think about it,” Fred had once said, eyes gleaming with amusement as he leaned towards Neville in the Great Hall, “you could have been sick on yourself—but no! You chose Snape—Snape! That’s style, mate.”
George nodded vigorously, as though Neville had just pulled off a miraculous Quidditch manoeuvre.
“If that’s not Gryffindor bravery, I don’t know what is,” he declared, in such a solemn tone it sounded as though they were about to commission a statue in honour of the feat.
The two did agree, however, that Neville had just guaranteed himself three years of Potions classes even more miserable than usual—and considering Snape already treated him like he was personally responsible for every badly brewed potion in the history of magic, that was saying something.
Perhaps that was why Neville had astonishing luck in escaping harsher punishments. Being publicly humiliated wherever he went seemed to be quite sufficient, apparently.
Because as soon as he was discharged from the Hospital Wing—now free of the potion ingredients that had once clung to him—Neville made his way, legs trembling, towards Snape’s office, where he was expected to “discuss the matter”.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as though his legs had been weighed down with lead.
Inside the office, the Potions Master was waiting with the patience of a snake poised to strike. His black eyes glinted with restrained fury, and Neville had no doubt that, at any moment, dozens of Gryffindor points would go up in smoke. Detentions—hours under Snape’s poisonous glare—loomed on the horizon like an unavoidable sentence for at least a month.
Harry, who was peeking down the corridor, was suddenly sure that whatever punishment Neville received would make his own slug-belching session seem like an afternoon picnic.
Snape opened his mouth to deliver his verdict, his lips curling into a smile that had no joy in it.
But was interrupted when the door swung open with purpose.
There stood Professor McGonagall, her pointed hat tilted ever so slightly, her eyes as sharp as her voice.
“Severus,” she said, marching towards the desk with the air of someone who wouldn’t stand for argument, “I’ve just been informed about the incident, and it is perfectly clear that it was a most unfortunate accident. Mr Longbottom has already endured quite enough embarrassment, wouldn’t you say?”
“Unfortunate?” Snape jabbed at the word as though it were a spoiled ingredient. “It was a display of incompetence that soiled my laboratory, tarnished your House’s reputation and—”
“—your shoes,” McGonagall cut in crisply, her eyes narrowing behind her rectangular spectacles. “Which, I must say, appear to have been cleaned quite thoroughly by the kitchen elves. Or are our students to be punished now for physical illness?”
“Physical illness,” Snape repeated, his tone turning the words into pure poison. “Longbottom turns every lesson into an exercise in survival, Minerva. If he can’t handle the basic smells of potion ingredients—”
“—then weekly detentions certainly won’t do his stomach any favours,” she countered, tapping her fingers lightly on Snape’s desk. “Unless you’d like a repeat of the incident in your office. I daresay carpet is harder to clean than tiles.”
Snape went so still he could have been mistaken for a portrait. His thin lips pressed together until they disappeared into a pale line, as if vanished by a lip-removal chewing gum.
Outside, Harry and Ron, pressed up against the door like two shadows, had their fists clamped over their mouths to muffle the laughter threatening to burst out. Hermione, beside them, shot them a glare that could have melted iron, frantically gesturing for them to get a grip before Snape discovered them.
When Neville finally emerged from the office, his face still red, he found his three friends waiting for him in the corridor.
They hurried away from the dungeons, eager to find some sunlight.
“How did it go?” Harry asked, trying to appear serious, though a stubborn smile was already tugging at his lips.
Neville hesitated, loosening the tie that seemed to be choking him as they walked.
“He still had that emotionless look when Professor McGonagall overturned everything...” He paused for a moment, then gave a shy smile. “But I’m almost certain I saw one of his eyelids twitch when he realised he had no argument against what she said.”
Ron couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter.
“Oh, I bet he was about to blow his top!” he said, a gleam of amusement in his blue eyes. “And best of all—McGonagall doesn’t even know you’re such a good actor!”
“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed, folding her arms. “You shouldn’t be encouraging that sort of behaviour. Neville only got into this because Harry and I—”
“Because it was necessary,” Harry cut in, laughing. “And you know it, Hermione. If Nev hadn’t done what he did, we wouldn’t have got anything we needed for the potion.” He looked at his downcast friend. “The truth is, no one would ever suspect you. Longbottom, the quiet boy, the one who looks like he’d never break a rule. It’s perfect.”
“Exactly!” Ron said, eyes gleaming with admiration as he let out a laugh that echoed through the empty corridor. “You basically got back at Snape for being a complete git. Was it risky? Obviously. But was it absolutely epic? No question!”
“I... I don’t know if it was all that brilliant...” he murmured, shrugging as if he wished he could vanish into his robes.
“You’re a genius in disguise, Nev,” Harry insisted. “No one else would’ve had the nerve—or the stomach—to do what you did.”
Hermione let out a sigh that sounded very much like boys will be boys, though the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile, despite her effort to remain stern.
“Well, the truth is you helped us exactly the way we needed,” she admitted, adjusting her book bag on her shoulder. “And, being completely honest, the result was better than I expected. Let’s just be grateful nothing actually went wrong.”
Neville gave another of his trademark shrugs, but there was something different in his eyes now—a shy glimmer of confidence that hadn’t been there before.
As the four of them walked together through the sunlit grounds, the weight of the laughter and cruel whispers already starting to spread in the distance seemed, for a moment, just a little bit lighter.
Because, in the end, he knew he had real friends by his side.
If Hermione was the brains of the group, Harry the gifted one, and Ron the smooth talker... well, vomiting on Snape’s shoes to help them out wasn’t exactly a meaningless role.
For the first time in a long while, Neville Longbottom had felt useful—and that, perhaps, was worth more than any compliment.
And even though the teasing about what had happened would carry on for days, he knew it had been worth it for the sake of everyone when they found out who the Heir of Slytherin really was.
Even if it meant spending days being the main topic of discussion about embarrassment at Hogwarts.
Hermione was hunched over the cauldron in the second-floor girls’ lavatory, her brows furrowed in concentration as she stirred the Polyjuice Potion with precise, calculated movements.
The place was wrapped in a heavy silence, interrupted only by the gentle bubbling of the thick liquid and—of course—the muffled sobs of Moaning Myrtle, who floated near the pipes with an exaggeratedly woeful expression.
Hermione had always been patient, but even her remarkable tolerance had limits, especially when combined with the lingering irritability of her worst menstrual days. Of course, she’d taken the potions Professor McGonagall had offered her, and had even fetched another from Madam Pomfrey—she no longer felt pain, nor had she repeated the embarrassing incident from earlier in the year, when she'd awoken to find the sheets stained red.
But the unpredictable mood? Ah, that stubbornly remained.
“What are you doing here so often?” Myrtle asked suddenly, plunging through the wall to appear inches from Hermione’s face, her shrill voice slicing through the air like a blade. “Some secret thing? Something shameful?”
Hermione pressed her lips into a thin, rigid line.
“Nothing important,” she replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the cauldron, determined not to give the ghost the satisfaction of seeing her flustered.
Myrtle crossed her spectral arms, raising one translucent eyebrow with an air of false innocence.
“Oh really?” she said, a malicious smile stretching across her pale face. “Then why the big secret? Why not do it in the Gryffindor common room, hmm?”
“Because it’s none of your business, Myrtle!” Hermione snapped, before clenching her fists and taking a deep breath, forcing herself to regain composure. “And honestly, I don’t understand why you insist on bothering me all the time—”
“BECAUSE YOU’RE JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHER GIRLS!” Myrtle shrieked, her voice echoing shrill and loud off the lavatory tiles before she vanished into a cubicle, where she began to cry with enough volume to drown out even the sound of the potion.
Hermione rolled her eyes to the ceiling, counting to ten in her head.
She begged for more patience—from Merlin, God, Buddha, and whoever else might be willing to lend her some from the beyond. She knew from experience that telling Myrtle to “go cry somewhere else” would only make things worse.
Over time, she’d learned how to handle the temperamental ghost: ignore when possible, be evasive when necessary, and never—ever—be openly rude, no matter how strong the temptation.
The truth was that Myrtle had never forgiven her since the Halloween ghost party, when Peeves had spread that Hermione thought she was “unbearable and couldn’t stand listening to her sob”—which, at the time, hadn’t been entirely untrue.
And Hermione, for her part, had absolutely no intention of making amends with a spirit who seemed to dedicate her eternal afterlife to making everyone else’s just as miserable as her own.
She’d promised, among other things, that she could handle everything without trouble, and that the boys were free to focus on their own tasks while she took care of things.
So, meanwhile, Harry and Ron spent their days watching more illegal broom races—Harry always cheering for Ron whenever the redhead raced, since he himself no longer took part—or playing informal matches of Quidditch. Neville, for his part, sometimes joined in their fun, exploring the castle’s hidden nooks or joining in a casual adventure, but he also loved spending hours helping Professor Sprout in the greenhouses, as he always had.
Hermione, however, couldn’t ignore the unease growing inside her as she watched Harry’s behaviour.
She noticed, with increasing concern, that he was giving in to Ron’s laid-back influence, putting off assignments and homework more than he ever had before. He wasn’t as careless as Ron—he still usually finished everything the night before it was due—but he no longer showed the same meticulous diligence he’d had in first year.
“Harry, your marks are going to plummet if you keep this up!” Hermione warned on one occasion, the words coming out sharper than she’d intended, as she watched him shove a roll of History of Magic questions to the bottom of his bag with a careless look.
Harry only shrugged, as if the warning were no more bothersome than a fly buzzing near his ear.
“I’ll sort it later. I’m not falling behind,” he replied, in a tone that was already becoming a familiar refrain.
After finishing another stage of the potion, which now needed to ferment for an entire day, Hermione decided to head to the library.
It was her usual refuge when she wasn’t in the lavatory.
Walking through the corridors, she glanced absently out the window and saw that snow was beginning to fall in delicate flakes, announcing the arrival of December and the end of term.
She sighed, remembering what Harry had been like in the early days of their first year.
Back then, he rarely left the library. He was always beside her, just as intimidated by the wizarding world as she was. Sometimes even more so, when she noticed how he’d hunch his shoulders as if expecting to be attacked at any moment. Books and study had been his escape. Harry had an almost desperate need to prove himself, especially to Professor McGonagall—that much was obvious.
Hermione suspected it had something to do with gratitude.
Even now, he still did well in lessons, but without the same sparkle in his eyes as before.
Transfiguration remained one of his strongest subjects, and in Potions—to many people’s surprise—he had improved considerably, both in practicals and theory, though he still tripped up now and then. As for Defence Against the Dark Arts, it was undeniable that he excelled, even if the professor was... well, Lockhart.
“He literally vanished the bones in my leg!” Harry had said indignantly after yet another disastrous class, while Hermione—as always—defended her favourite professor.
Even Ron, already fed up with the argument, merely rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath to Neville, who nodded in silent agreement while chewing on a Chocolate Frog.
“But he did it for your own good!” Hermione shot back, crossing her arms. “Or would you have preferred to stay with a broken bone, waiting weeks to recover?”
“Have you ever taken Skele-Gro?” Harry asked, sarcastically. “No? Well, I have. Know what it tastes like?”
“Technically, the taste doesn’t matter, because—”
“Take dried elephant dung, squeeze it out, and strain it through an old pair of pants. There you go: Skele-Gro!”
Neville had frozen mid-chew, pulling a face of disgust as he stared at his brown chocolate sweet with growing nausea, his imagination clearly faster than his appetite. Hermione's eyes widened, horrified, while Ron burst out laughing.
“And how in Merlin’s name do you know what elephant dung tastes like, mate?” Ron asked, still wheezing with laughter. “Bloody hell, what’ve you been drinking?”
“Nothing worth mentioning!” Hermione cut in, going red. “Look, I know you lot don’t like him, but he meant well! You could at least acknowledge that!”
“Wouldn’t give him credit even if I had a credit card,” Harry muttered.
“A credit what?” Ron and Neville said at once, baffled.
Harry snorted a dry laugh and Hermione sighed.
“It’s a Muggle thing, to do with money,” Hermione explained quickly. “Harry’s just annoyed and making ridiculous comparisons.”
“All right, whatever,” Harry shrugged.
And despite differing opinions from hers, the truth was that Harry was still extremely capable—his spells were quick and accurate, and his instincts in Defence Against the Dark Arts remained razor-sharp.
But the enthusiasm he’d once shared with Hermione—that curiosity about why things worked the way they did—had faded far too quickly for her liking.
Now, he only wanted to know just enough to scrape through the tests. Nothing more.
And whenever possible, Harry preferred to spend time with Ron and Neville, pushing off homework and revision until the very last moment—much to Hermione’s eternal despair.
Deep down, though, she did understand—in part—why he behaved that way.
“Who in their right mind would choose the library over flying on a broomstick or mucking about with their mates?” she muttered to herself, sinking even lower into her library chair, as if the books might shield her from the thought.
Well, she knew she was an exception.
Hermione had always found comfort among the pages of books for as long as she could remember, and the dusty shelves of the Hogwarts library only deepened the habit. There, she was safe from girls like Pansy Parkinson or boys like Draco Malfoy, who rarely ventured past the front rows—and certainly never reached the far corner Hermione considered her private haven.
Even so, sometimes... she missed those early days.
A strange chill settled in her chest as she closed the book she hadn’t managed to read properly anyway.
It was a sort of emptiness that didn’t make much sense—after all, she still had Harry, Ron, and Neville, didn’t she?
But… it wasn’t quite the same.
She missed that version of Harry who would sit beside her in silence, sharing the burden of studying as if it were an adventure to be tackled together. She liked his company during those moments—more, even, than Ron or Neville’s.
Perhaps it was because… he’d been her first friend?
It seemed the most likely, at least within her vision.
But she really didn't have the answer. Only that, when she thought of him that way, she felt her own energy dim and sink, as if his absence in those quiet moments gnawed at her.
That feeling only went away when he sat beside her and they pored over Moste Potente Potions together. What little hunger for knowledge Harry still had was mostly due to that subject and that book, so she clung to it with relief.
But why had she thought all of this?
“I’ve got to stop being silly,” she muttered, shaking her head as though she could jolt the thoughts loose.
Harry had changed. She needed to accept that.
The boys still studied with her from time to time, of course—but with exams still far off, those moments were rare. Most evenings, they gathered in the Gryffindor common room to play Hero Path or chat into the night.
She even joined them on some of their aimless wanderings around the castle from time to time, though not as much because of the Polyjuice Potion preparation.
And Hermione didn’t want to burden them with the potion.
The preparation process was tedious for anyone without patience for Potions—and, to be honest—very few people at Hogwarts had the skill needed to brew it properly.
She knew she was one of the best at it, and she wasn’t about to risk wasting all the ingredients Harry and Neville had obtained with so much effort—and so much risk, considering they came straight from Snape’s storeroom.
That was why she’d insisted on doing everything herself.
But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself it was the right decision, that stubbornness to shoulder everything alone sometimes only made her feel lonelier than ever.
Hermione was so absorbed in her thoughts, with her Astronomy and History of Magic books forgotten in front of her, that she barely registered the urgency in her bladder until the last possible second. When she finally noticed, she stood up abruptly, leaving the yellowing pages behind as she headed to the nearest bathroom at a brisk pace.
The cubicle she chose became, for a brief moment, a quiet refuge. Sitting there, she let her thoughts drift freely, appreciating a silence she rarely found in bustling Hogwarts.
But her peace didn’t last long.
Shrill laughter and high-pitched voices echoed through the bathroom, making Hermione clench her fists involuntarily.
She didn’t need to look to know who it was—that affected, smug tone could only belong to Pansy Parkinson, accompanied by the unmistakable snort of Millicent Bulstrode and a third voice Hermione didn’t recognise.
“Oh, perfect,” she thought, rolling her eyes. “Just what my day was missing.”
The three Slytherin girls crowded around the mirrors, chattering with the careless confidence of people who assumed they had the bathroom to themselves.
“I’ve told you a thousand times, Millicent!” Pansy’s syrupy voice cut through the air. “All you have to do is control your appetite a bit and give Theo a few sweeter looks, and he’ll fall at your feet like a stupid Muggle.”
“But it’s not as easy as you make it sound!” Millicent replied, her deep voice tinged with frustration. “I try, but... sometimes hunger just wins...”
“Ah, love,” came a third voice—Hermione now recognised it as belonging to an older student. “That's just nerves, really. But look, if you cut back on the sweets, be a bit nicer... offer to help with Transfiguration homework, maybe? He'll notice you, you can bet on it.”
“Might take a while, though,” Pansy added, in a tone that was clearly meant to sound wise. “Boys are ridiculously thick about this sort of thing. Draco especially? Might as well have a toad where his brain should be! All he ever talks about is Quidditch and how wonderful he is. Complete idiot...” But even as she said it, her voice softened in a way that made it obvious she found those same qualities utterly charming.
Hermione had to bite her lip hard to keep in a sarcastic laugh.
Parkinson and Malfoy—a couple so absurd it was practically comedic.
“At least I’m close to the loo if I need to throw up,” she muttered to herself.
“Honestly, Draco’s more likely to marry himself than anyone else, Pansy,” said the older Slytherin girl with a laugh. “From what you say, he’s an idiot. This year he won’t shut it about the blood purity, instead of paying attention to the pure girls right in front of him! You’ll be waiting ages for him to grow up. Unless he ends up marrying a cousin—has his dad got some arrangement with another old family?”
The mention of pure-blood marriages, with parents brokering matches like trading sacks of flour for rice, made Hermione feel nauseated. Certain things about the wizarding world disgusted her deeply, and ancient family customs were at the top of the list.
“Far as I know? No...” Pansy mused. “I mean, he must have loads of cousins, but the Malfoys aren’t quite as bad about that, are they?”
“Not as bad as the Blacks, that’s for sure,” the older girl replied.
“And that family’s already dead,” Millicent chimed in. “One less to worry about.”
“But I get where he’s coming from, y’know?” Pansy added breezily. “That Granger makes me sick, urgh! You’ve no idea what it’s like dealing with that swot every single day, brown-nosing the professors!”
Hermione felt as though a cold blade had pierced her chest, but she only pressed her lips together, swallowing the hatred that bubbled in her throat.
“Snape’s the only one with the guts to tell her to shut it,” Pansy continued, her syrupy voice dripping poison. “The other professors seem to enjoy suffering, listening to that know-it-all performance all the time. And Lockhart? He puts that Mudblood on a pedestal just because she memorises every insignificant word of those ridiculous books of his! Bet she’s in love with him. Would marry the bloke if she could!”
“Anyone would marry him…” Millicent sighed, dreamy.
“See what I mean?” Pansy huffed, exasperated. “The effect he has on you lot is unreal. Even I fell for it at first, but give it two weeks and you see it’s all an act. Granger though? She’d lick his boots if he asked.”
Hermione felt blood pounding in her temples.
How dare they speak about her like that? Reduce her to petty gossip? And worse—insinuate something inappropriate between her and a professor? The mere suggestion was revolting, vile, abhorrent.
She held her breath, fighting the urge to kick open the cubicle door and confront Pansy then and there. To show that snake what happened when someone crossed Hermione Granger.
“Who’s this Granger again?” asked the older Slytherin girl, her voice dragging with confusion.
“That bushy-haired know-it-all who thinks she knows everything,” Pansy answered, with a contempt so sharp Hermione almost felt it physically. “You know, the one who’s always with Potter and those other two morons?”
“Oh, the one with the rabbit teeth?”
“I’d say rat teeth, but yes, that one,” Pansy laughed, a rough and cruel sound that echoed round the bathroom. “My mum always says there are things not even magic can fix, not so much—and Granger’s face is definitely one of them.”
“Can’t imagine any wizard wanting her,” Millicent added, her rough laughter following. “She’ll be the first in our year to hit thirty without ever being kissed.”
Hermione felt a knot form in her throat.
The words stung like acid, each syllable sharper than the last. Their laughter echoed inside her skull, amplified by the bathroom tiles, and for the first time in ages, Hermione wished she could simply disappear. She shrank further into the toilet, pulling her legs closer to her body.
“Well,” the older Slytherin said in an almost comforting tone, “if what they’re saying about the Chamber of Secrets is true... then you won’t have to worry about her for much longer. Relax, Pansy.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. The words hit her like a Stunning Spell to the gut.
What hurt more? That someone openly wished for her to be petrified—or that, if something did happen to her, no one would be surprised? The school would carry on, lessons would resume, and girls like Pansy Parkinson might even celebrate.
Knowing they thought that was one thing. Hearing it said aloud, so casually, as though it were just another fact of daily life... that was monstrous.
Her eyes burned, but she swallowed the tears with effort. Not here. Not in front of them. She would never give Pansy the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
“Yeah... you’re right,” Pansy agreed, with the breeziness of someone discussing dinner options. “Come on. Vaisey, didn’t you say you were going to try that spell on my hair? I want to see what I’d look like as a blonde.”
“Right behind you,” said the older girl. “Millicent, let’s go find Theo as well.”
“I don’t know, he always seems to run away from me...” Millicent sighed, her voice fading as they headed out of the bathroom.
Hermione remained frozen inside the cubicle until the last echoes of their footsteps and laughter had disappeared down the corridor.
Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the toilet seat, her fingers white from pressing so hard. Her breathing was fast, echoing in the tiny space, but she couldn’t move—as though a Full Body-Bind had hit her.
The cruel words kept spinning in her mind, each one sharper than the last.
The Chamber… Did they truly want her to be Petrified? Or worse, dead?
Her stomach twisted, and Hermione had to swallow hard against the bitter taste rising in her throat.
She knew she’d never been popular.
Ever since primary school, she'd been the “insufferable know-it-all with big teeth,” the girl no one wanted to sit with at lunch. But to hear, so openly, that her absence would be celebrated.
That no one could ever love her...
Deep down, she knew this was true, but hearing it out loud was more painful than it sounded.
Hot tears began to fall before she could stop them. Hermione rubbed at her eyes fiercely, as if she could scrub away not only the tears but the entire humiliating scene.
She would not cry here. Not again. Hogwarts bathrooms had seen too many of her tears already—first with the troll, and now this.
When she stepped out of the cubicle, her reflection in the mirror startled her: red, puffy eyes, blotchy skin, hair even more out of control than usual.
The cold water from the tap stung her face as she splashed it on, but at least it disguised the signs of crying. She took three deep breaths, counting silently the way Professor McGonagall had taught her to manage exam nerves and practise Magical Sensitivity.
The library should have been her refuge, but today even the familiar rows of shelves seemed to judge her. Every glance she felt on her back burned like a Flagrante Curse. She took her usual seat furthest from the door, where the dim candlelight barely reached, and opened her Transfiguration textbook with forced determination.
Focus, she ordered herself, pushing her eyes to skim over the lines about the transformation spell she’d been studying.
But the words danced on the page, refusing to make sense.
Instead, what echoed through her mind were the voices of the Slytherin girls:
“Rat teeth… Not even magic can fix it… No one will ever love her…”
“Am I really that awful?” she murmured, running her tongue across her front teeth in an automatic gesture.
The foolish hope that they'd somehow shrunk since the last time she checked vanished at once. No, they were still there—large, prominent, impossible to ignore.
Madam Pince passed her table with a suspicious glance, prompting Hermione to sit up straighter and scrub her eyes again.
She couldn’t risk being thrown out of the library—it was the only place she still felt remotely safe. With a Herculean effort, she buried herself in the book again, trying to drown the painful thoughts in complex theories of Advanced Transfiguration.
But even as she painstakingly wrote out her four-foot essay, part of her mind was still stuck in that bathroom, replaying the cruel laughter now etched into her memory forever.
Yet she clearly hadn’t managed to write even the first sentence. Her shoulders remained hunched, and she wiped away more tears with the sleeves of her robe.
“Should I write to Mum and Dad?” she wondered.
Maybe if she asked for permission to use magic to fix her teeth, she could shed this reputation. Hermione had read about potions Healers used for such things, and she knew Madam Pomfrey might be her salvation—but she hesitated.
“No… better… better leave it alone,” she said aloud to herself, shaking her head.
Her parents were dentists, passionate about their profession, and solving something so directly tied to their life’s work with magic might feel like an insult—or at least, that’s what Hermione feared.
She knew it would feel like striking at the very heart of their dedication to helping people through non-magical means, like saying their way wasn’t good enough anymore.
Sighing, her thoughts drifted home.
Her Transfiguration homework now felt like nothing more than a decorative prop sitting in front of her.
She loved her parents with all her heart—of that she was certain.
John and Emma Granger had done everything within their power to understand the new world their daughter belonged to. But no matter how hard they tried, an invisible wall remained between them—made of unfamiliar spells, incomprehensible traditions, and dangers no Muggle parent could ever imagine.
She remembered perfectly the day she’d explained the prejudice against Muggle-borns to them.
Her mother’s face had gone deathly pale, hands trembling slightly as she held her teacup. Her father, usually so calm, had turned red with indignation. But what stayed with Hermione most was the look in their eyes—not just anger, but a deep, gut-level fear.
And then there was the story of the Philosopher’s Stone.
Hermione had never been good at lying, and keeping something so important from her parents was unthinkable. So, during the holidays—after much prodding and pressure—she had told them everything. About the troll let loose in the castle, how Harry had saved her and nearly died for it, and how the four of them had stopped You-Know-Who from stealing the Stone.
“You nearly DIED?!” her mother screamed, as pale as if she could see her own daughter's tombstone.
“This isn’t normal for children, Hermione!” her father had snapped, the veins in his neck bulging. “Let alone at a school that claims to be safe!”
And then, over dinner on the day she’d shared the full story of her first year, came the words that froze her blood like a Freezing Charm.
They were considering transferring her from Hogwarts.
“We’ve looked into the alternatives,” her mother had explained in a tone meant to soothe, but which only deepened Hermione’s panic.
“W-what?” she stammered.
“There’s Ilvermorny, in the United States—they speak English, it’d be an easy transition,” she said calmly. “Or Beauxbatons, in France—you love French, and you speak it fluently.”
Her father had chimed in, mentally flipping through the list of schools Hermione had mentioned in letters and conversation.
“There’s also Maho… Mahoutokoro, isn’t it? In Japan—it’s far, but doable. That’s the one where the robes change colour with your progress, right? There’s Castelobruxo in Brazil too, I think it has an exchange programme with Hogwarts—we can afford that. Then there’s Koldovstoretz in Russia, you said Christmas there is beautiful…”
Hermione sat there with her mouth open, trying to speak, but no sound came out—completely panicked as her parents continued listing magical schools like holiday destinations.
Uagadou and Durmstrang were the only ones ruled out straightaway—the former for its extremely isolation in the mountains of Uganda, the latter for its infamous reputation of breeding Dark wizards. But all the others, all the great magical institutions Hermione had ever spoken of with admiration, were being considered.
Upon realising that this wasn’t a mere outburst, but actual plans being made, panic rose in Hermione’s throat like a living tide until it became unbearable.
Never seeing Neville and Ron again was already unthinkable, but the moment she thought of Harry, her aura screamed inwardly in desperation at the mere possibility.
And it was at that moment—before she could stop herself—that she was already on her feet, knocking the chair over with a crash, tears streaming freely down her face as she gasped uncontrollably and shouted in a voice she barely recognised as her own:
“THIS IS MY WORLD! YOU—YOU’VE GOT NO RIGHT TO TAKE ME AWAY FROM IT! I BELONG AT HOGWARTS! WITH MY FRIENDS!”
Her parents stared at her, wide-eyed, startled by her reaction.
Hermione realised what she’d just done—shouted at them—and was horrified with herself.
Trembling, she set the chair upright and sat back down, curled into herself.
“Just... please... I—I’m begging you not to...” she said in a weak, trembling voice.
John and Emma exchanged that look—that one that spoke louder than a thousand words.
They knew that, deep down, Hermione had always respected their decisions... but they also remembered all too well the visit from Professor McGonagall before her first year, when the stern Transfiguration professor had made it clear that, in the wizarding world, the Ministry of Magic had the final say over the education of young witches and wizards.
That piece of information had frightened them more than any magical creature. Not that they truly wished to separate Hermione from the world she loved so dearly—they simply wanted, like any mother and father, to keep her safe.
In the end, when they saw the determined gleam in their daughter’s eyes even through the tears, when they heard the passion in her voice as she spoke of magic and her friends, they gave in.
If that was where Hermione belonged, then, however hard and painful it might be, they would support her choice and stand by their daughter.
It had been the most difficult conversation of her life.
And even now, sitting in the Hogwarts library, Hermione felt a lump rising in her throat at the memory. At times, in her loneliest moments—just like this one—she wished she could simply hug them and forget, just for a moment, the crushing weight of living between two worlds.
Or worse, slowly forgetting and burying the world she’d lived in all her life, in exchange for the one she now called her own.
It was a topic far too painful and raw to dwell on, and so almost instinctively, her mind turned elsewhere—to her appearance again, to her overly thick, curly hair and teeth, all too much—when she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, forcing herself to ignore the ache that still lingered in her chest.
She had Transfiguration essays to work on, and her appearance, after all, wasn’t a priority—Hermione had never cared about that, and now wasn’t the time to start.
Besides, she didn’t need to impress anyone—what was she thinking, anyway? Some boy finding her pretty? Dating? Marriage? That sort of frivolity meant nothing when her future and career were at stake.
The blood supremacists, with their petty, vile, backward views, could wait.
One day, they would all eat their words when she became the shining example of a model student for everyone to follow.
That was what truly mattered.
And Hermione Granger would make absolutely certain, once again, that determination and intelligence mattered far more than anything blood could dictate—and she would prove she was better than all of them, just as she always had.
Less than a week had passed, and the second-years were back in Potions class, resuming their work on the Wiggenweld Potion.
In the previous lesson, due to what had happened with Neville’s incident, not everyone had managed to finish their brews, and now that only increased the pressure to get it right.
Neville was more nervous than usual—which was saying something, considering he normally looked on the verge of a breakdown every time he stepped into Snape’s dungeon.
However, after recent events, his fear seemed even more justified.
He was convinced Snape would find some excuse to retaliate, perhaps with a creative and humiliating punishment. Yet, to his immense surprise—and relief—the Potions Master all but ignored his existence for the entirety of the lesson.
Harry, for his part, noticed something even more unusual.
Snape didn’t humiliate anyone.
Not a single biting remark about someone’s incompetence, no sarcastic commentary about how someone’s parents should be ashamed, and no declaration about how hopeless they'd be if they carried on making potions as awful as these.
Nothing.
It was as though the professor had lost, just for a brief moment, the pleasure he normally derived from turning his lessons into a form of psychological torture.
That, Harry decided, was a new record—a full day without Snape unleashing his usual contempt upon a group of terrified students? News of the week, deserved a Nobel Peace Prize, and the one for common sense thrown in as a bonus.
But of course something was wrong. When the silence is too much, it means something bad is coming.
And that’s why—even in silence—Snape seemed more agitated than usual, his black eyes deeper and more piercing, and he walked among the desks with an unusual energy. His cloak billowed behind him as he passed, footsteps echoing off the dungeon’s stone walls. His gaze was inquisitorial, assessing every student, every movement, every facial expression, without even the usual leniency for the Slytherins.
“Would anyone care to tell me who stole from my private stores this past week?”
A heavy silence fell.
The question was so cold, even the fire heating the cauldrons seemed to waver.
Harry cast a quick glance at Neville, who was already naturally jittery. His pale, anxious expression, however, didn’t seem to draw Snape’s attention.
Ron and Hermione exchanged tense looks with Harry, but tried not to betray any suspicious emotion.
Snape, of course, was not satisfied.
“A jar of boomslang skin and a pouch of powdered bicorn horn—ingredients I ground myself,” he continued, his voice sounding even more menacing, the sound of his shoes echoing throughout the classroom. “Can anyone here tell me what those ingredients are used for?”
Hermione raised her hand slowly, far more hesitantly than usual, but Snape ignored her as if she were invisible.
“No one? Then let’s see...” His eyes landed on a Ravenclaw boy. “Mr Goldstein, answer.”
“I—I don’t know, sir,” stammered Anthony Goldstein, looking as though he wished he could disappear under the desk.
Snape pursed his lips, clearly displeased.
“And you, Miss Abbott? No idea? Mr Thomas? Neither? What a surprise... your incompetence never ceases to amaze me.”
His black cloak rustled ominously as he walked, and each student he passed behind shrank slightly, afraid of being singled out as a suspect.
When he passed Hermione, she swallowed hard.
When he passed Ron, he lowered his gaze.
But when he passed Harry, he acted indifferent.
“Those ingredients serve three purposes,” Snape began, his voice low and as sharp as a blade. The silence in the room felt even more oppressive as he spoke. “Bicorn horn, if whole, may be used to brew a cure for the common cold. But I doubt anyone was that banal—and frankly, stupid—since a simple trip to the Hospital Wing would’ve solved the issue.”
He shot a sharp glance at a few Slytherins, and even they, normally impassive, looked cowed.
“Boomslang skin, on the other hand... can be used to create a Beautification Potion, allowing even the most disadvantaged of faces to gain some semblance of attractiveness. I won’t name names, but it’s a possibility that might’ve crossed someone’s mind.”
Hermione lowered her eyes, suddenly seeming downcast, not tense like the rest. Harry didn’t understand why, but Snape, always observant, noticed the shift in her mood and turned slowly.
“Granger…”
Hermione’s head snapped up.
“With all your brilliance,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “tell me: what potion requires the combination of boomslang skin and powdered bicorn horn?”
“Polyjuice Potion, sir,” Hermione replied, her voice quieter than usual, clearly intimidated.
Snape drew closer, planting his bony fingertips on her desk as he stared at her intently.
“Correct. And what does that potion do?”
“With the proper ingredients, it allows you to transform into anyone,” she explained simply, trying to keep her voice steady.
“And is that allowed?” Snape asked, pausing between each word as though savouring the growing tension.
Hermione shook her head and looked away.
“No, sir. Use of Polyjuice Potion is strictly monitored by the Ministry of Magic and, if used illegally, can result in severe punishment.”
“Correct.” Snape straightened, his gaze still fixed on her.
He returned to the centre of the room, surveying the students with suspicious eyes.
“When I find out who’s responsible for this theft, the consequences will be more than severe. However, if the culprit wishes to come forward now and explain why they had the audacity to steal what does not belong to them, I will be fair. Perhaps expulsion from Hogwarts won’t be the only remaining option.”
The students exchanged frightened glances at the mention of expulsion, but no one moved.
“Potter,” said Snape, walking slowly towards him. “Have you got anything to say about this?”
“No, professor,” replied Harry, keeping his voice neutral. He knew Snape would pick on him either way.
Snape stared at him for several seconds, trying to break Harry's eye contact first, but the boy barely blinked.
The silence in the room grew unbearable.
Then, with a slight twitch of his lips, Snape said:
“We shall see...”
The common room was strangely quiet for a Sunday afternoon.
Christmas was approaching, and while most students could hardly contain their excitement to go home, others seemed quite content to remain at Hogwarts, far from responsibilities and family chaos.
The winter sun lit up the room, making the red and gold tones glow warmly. The light gleamed on the decorations already scattered around the common room—a promise of the festivities to come.
Hedwig, needing to fly more out of need for freedom than desire, fluttered her wings impatiently on the back of the chair beside Harry.
“You want to go out, don’t you?” he asked softly, smiling at the owl.
Harry rose from the armchair, picked up a treat, and opened the window to let her fly free. She gave a grateful hoot before taking off, vanishing into the clear sky.
“She likes to stay here with you more in the winter,” Neville remarked casually as he adjusted a tile in the game of wizarding dominoes he was playing with Ron. “But in the spring, I think she prefers the Owlery during the day. Then she only comes down to sleep.”
Harry blinked, surprised.
“Really? I never noticed that.”
Neville shrugged, a little shyly.
“Well, I did notice…” he said in a quiet voice. “Trevor prefers to stay close to me when it’s cold, too.”
He looked over at his toad, who was lounging lazily on the windowsill, flicking his tongue at passing insects.
Harry gave a soft laugh and returned to his armchair, where he and Hermione were buried in books. Their peaceful reading was only broken by the sound of Ron and Neville’s dominoes and the occasional crackle from the fireplace.
Scabbers was observing the game with an oddly interested expression, as though waiting for a chance to interfere—or perhaps hoping for more food.
“Harry, are you staying for Christmas again this year?” Hermione asked, breaking the silence.
“Course I am,” Harry replied at once, not looking up from his book. “Got no reason to go back.”
Hermione hesitated, choosing her words carefully.
“But… don’t your aunt and uncle celebrate Christmas? I mean, don’t they have dinner or anything?”
For a moment, Harry sat perfectly still.
The memory of every Christmas spent locked in the cupboard under the stairs flooded his mind.
The smell of turkey he wasn’t allowed to eat, the muffled laughter he could hear, the sounds of presents being unwrapped, while he pretended to fall asleep early so he wouldn’t be in the way—or noticed at all.
When he did get food, it was cold leftovers the next day—if they let him have any.
“Oh, there’s a Christmas dinner, all right,” Harry said at last, his voice flat. “They just prefer I’m not there. And I prefer it here too. Why?”
Hermione realised she’d touched a nerve and lowered her eyes to her own book.
“Oh, just curious...”
“Alright,” Harry said, giving her a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I like it better here anyway. The castle feels different with fewer people around.”
Before Hermione could respond, the common room door opened and Professor McGonagall entered with a scroll of parchment in her hands.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said, adjusting her glasses as all eyes turned towards her. “I’ve come to collect the list of students who will be remaining at the castle over the Christmas holidays. The break is just two weeks away, but I want you all to plan ahead. Those who wish to stay, please come to this table and sign your names.”
Some students stood at once, while others remained unsure.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville had already decided they would stay—not only because the Polyjuice Potion would be ready by the end of the month, but each had their own personal reasons.
Ron, excited at the idea of spending Christmas at Hogwarts for the first time; Neville, encouraged by his grandmother, who thought it would do him good to spend more time with his friends; and Hermione, who had written to her parents explaining she wanted to experience the magical atmosphere of the castle during the holidays.
As they signed their names on the parchment, they noticed the names of students from the other houses too—Draco Malfoy would be staying for the holidays, along with Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, Theodore Nott and even Blaise Zabini.
“Of course they’re staying,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. “Probably just to carry on being the same slimy gits as usual, only—ouch!”
Harry jabbed him in the stomach to shut him up as he noticed McGonagall watching them from across the room with a disapproving expression.
Once everyone had signed, McGonagall rolled up the parchment with a nod.
“Very well. If anyone else wishes to sign, you may come to me by the end of the week.” She paused, her gaze sweeping the room. “Now, I’d like to speak with the students enrolled in the Magical Sensitivity classes. Please come forward.”
A little over half a dozen students stood and walked towards her, leaving the others free to go back to their activities. Ron flopped onto the sofa with a satisfied sigh, folding his arms behind his head as he watched from a distance.
Harry, Hermione, and Neville joined the rest.
“I believe the results of the extracurricular lessons have exceeded my expectations,” said McGonagall, her eyes gleaming behind her square spectacles with approval. “You were among the few who persevered, and I must say I’m very proud of the progress you’ve made.”
Hermione felt a twist of discomfort in her stomach.
Despite the encouraging words, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d failed.
No matter how many books she read on magical sensitivity, her struggle with meditation and concentration continued to frustrate her. It felt as though there was something wrong with her—a bitter inability she couldn’t seem to overcome.
“In our first lessons, we covered the basics of magical sensitivity, and later, we moved on to techniques for concealing one’s aura,” the professor continued, her tone firm but tinged with satisfaction. “These are the two main pillars of the subject, and there’s nothing more I can teach you theoretically. Therefore, as I said before we began the lessons, I now declare them concluded. However, I ask that you continue practising, and if you have any questions or run into difficulties, know that you’re always welcome to come and speak with me, understood?”
The students nodded politely.
“I’d first like to commend your dedication and thank each one of you for staying on in these lessons. You’re dismissed.—Ah, but if Miss Granger, Mr Longbottom and Mr Potter could stay behind a moment, I’ve something to discuss with you.”
As the small group began to disperse, Harry and Neville stayed where they were, curious, while Hermione lingered a little behind, her head lowered and shoulders slumped. She was trying to look indifferent, but McGonagall immediately noticed the dejection in her posture.
“Miss Granger,” the professor began, her tone softening slightly, “I know you feel you haven’t achieved the results you were hoping for. But that is precisely why I want to speak with you.”
Hermione looked up timidly.
“I... I don’t think I’ve got anywhere, Professor,” she murmured, her voice so quiet it was barely audible. “I tried everything, but it just feels like I can’t make any progress.”
Harry and Neville exchanged uneasy glances, but McGonagall kept her gaze fixed on the girl.
“Never underestimate the value of the effort you put into your studies, Hermione.”
Her voice was firm, yet gentle, laden with a wisdom only time and experience could bestow.
Hermione looked at her, searching for guidance.
“You were, by far, one of the most dedicated. You studied more than anyone, persevered when many would have given up, and that in itself is already an extraordinary achievement. I’ve never seen anyone master magical sensitivity in a short time without dedication, and I’ve no doubt that, with your commitment, you’ll reach the result you’re after. I followed that path myself—endless hours of study and training. And believe me, it took longer than it seems for me to get the results I wanted.”
The woman’s eyes shone with a rare blend of understanding and pride.
“It’s part of learning. And regardless of what you may think, your determination is already something this House can be proud of.”
Hermione flushed slightly but looked unconvinced.
McGonagall then turned to Harry and Neville.
“I needn’t ask—it’s clear you’re great friends.”
“Definitely,” said Harry without hesitation. He cast a sympathetic glance at Hermione. “And she’s brilliant, Professor. She just... well, sometimes pushes herself too hard.”
“That’s true,” Neville agreed with a nod.
Hermione felt faintly flattered, but there was still a trace of doubt on her face.
“Excellent,” said McGonagall, her lips curving into a faint smile as she observed, with a warmth in her chest, something in Harry and Hermione that no one else seemed to notice—something only very trained eyes could spot. “Then I believe you can help each other. I know Hermione has a habit of helping you in various subjects—and I know she enjoys doing it.”
Neville gave a sheepish grin.
“If it weren’t for her, I’d be lost in Potions,” he said quietly.
“Well then,” McGonagall continued, leaning slightly towards them, “I think it’s time to return the favour. Neville, you’ve developed a solid grasp of the basics of magical sensitivity, and Harry already handles the fundamentals of concealing his aura very well. Working together, you can teach each other. And Hermione,” she added, looking straight at the girl, “I’m certain that with your friends’ help, you’ll find a way to overcome the difficulties you’ve encountered.”
“But... wasn’t the process meant to be individual?” Hermione asked hesitantly.
“Yes,” McGonagall admitted with a small nod. “But sometimes, things are easier when done alongside friends. Who knows, they might explain something in a way that makes more sense to you?”
Hermione bit her lip, still sceptical, but after a moment, she nodded. “I suppose it’s worth a try.”
“Exactly,” the professor replied, satisfied. “I hope you’ll take this advice seriously. You’ve done very well in this subject, and it would be a shame to let go of what you’ve learnt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve other matters to attend to. Think on what I’ve said, hm?”
They nodded, and with that, McGonagall gathered her things and left the room, leaving the three of them looking at one another.
After a brief moment, Neville broke the silence.
“Well... where do we start?” he asked with a hesitant smile.
Harry laughed.
“I reckon that’s up to you,” he said, looking at Hermione.
She shot a suspicious glance at the two of them, but there was a small smile hiding on her lips.
“Best start by identifying the auras, Nev,” she said, “if you can help me with that afterwards...”
Neville nodded with a smile—he looked excited at finally being able to contribute to her studies, after all the help she’d given him.
“Anything I can do to help!” he said brightly.
On a cold Tuesday morning, Professor Flitwick prepared to make an announcement during breakfast—Dumbledore was not present.
It was rare for Flitwick to address the Great Hall, which immediately sparked everyone’s curiosity. Climbing onto a small platform to be better seen, he adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a quick word, if I may,” he began. “According to my calculations and climate-monitoring equipment, a heavy snowstorm will hit Hogwarts in the coming days. Therefore, Headmaster Dumbledore—who unfortunately cannot be here today due to unforeseen circumstances—has declared that the final Hogsmeade visit of this term is cancelled due to transportation difficulties and shop closures in the village, as well as the suspension of broomstick outings within school grounds for safety reasons.”
A chorus of murmurs and grumbles rippled through the Hall.
Harry and Ron exchanged glum looks.
“First they cancel Quidditch, now we can’t even use brooms?” Ron complained, helping himself to a generous portion of scrambled eggs as though it might soften the blow.
“It’s a bit of a pain, but I reckon it makes sense,” Neville shrugged.
“Oh, it makes sense, sure, but bloody hell, can’t even fly?” Ron said. “I’m in the air, the snow’s under me—what’s the fucking problem?”
“Language!” Hermione frowned.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Harry ventured, though the tone of his voice wasn’t exactly convincing. “The weather might improve, and they could change their minds.”
Neville lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret.
“Don’t want to be a downer... but I think it’s going to be bad. Heard a couple of Ravenclaws talking.” They glanced towards the Ravenclaw table. “Apparently, Professor Flitwick had already warned some of the students who help him with weather experiments. They say it’ll stay overcast for more than a week.”
“Awesome, really awesome” Ron muttered through a mouthful of eggs. “At least no more Astronomy at midnight—that’s a win, at least.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head—skipping lessons was not a win, not by a long shot.
However, any further complaints were forgotten once the storm arrived.
Winds howled through the corridors, and even the warmest corners of the castle seemed laced with cold.
Students bundled themselves in extra layers—hats, gloves, and scarves in House colours became an essential part of the uniform. Some, like Malfoy, strutted around in cloaks lined with fine furs, while Neville, more modestly, wore a cloak lined with black wolf fur—a gift from his gran. Harry, Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, made do with stacking jumper upon jumper.
The fireplaces, supervised by Filch, burned constantly, and Hagrid made regular trips to Madam Hooch’s storage to thaw out the brooms—even though no one dared use them.
The harsh weather kept the students inside the castle, which only added to the general sense of boredom.
And it was boredom mixed with cold that led Fred and George to attempt an experiment—feeding a fire salamander fireworks in the common room, which sent it skittering around the space shooting tangerine-coloured stars in every direction.
The salamander eventually dashed back into the common room fireplace, looking a bit startled but thoroughly satisfied by the fireworks.
“But they eat fire!” George protested, while Percy was giving them a right telling-off.
“Yeah! Don’t see what the problem is,” Fred added. “It’s not like we’re in a zoo where you’re not allowed to feed the animals.”
“That’s not the point! Hogwarts is not a zoo!” Percy retorted, his ears bright red. “You don’t test fireworks in the common room, for Merlin’s sake! Do you want me to call Professor McGonagall?”
Fred and George exchanged a glance. They’d heard that threat a million times.
The look only seemed to irritate their older brother more, and he stormed off muttering about a patrol.
In a rare lull between the snowstorms battering Hogwarts, Harry and Ron seized the chance to organise an epic snowball fight in the main courtyard.
What had once been neatly-kept lawns were now a white, uneven battlefield, with makeshift snow forts and trenches stomped out by eager boots. The icy air rang with shrieks and laughter, as snowballs zipped through the air like misfired jinxes, leaving flushed faces and hair dusted with snow powder in their wake.
Notably absent were the Slytherins, who preferred the warmth of their dungeon common room to such “childish” games.
Meanwhile, in the cosy warmth of an empty classroom, Hermione and Neville were practising a very different exercise.
Seated cross-legged on the wooden floor, with flickering magical candles between them, they worked on Magical Sensitivity. They’d started practising almost daily, and some progress was beginning to show—albeit stubbornly.
“Try not to force it,” Neville suggested gently, watching the way Hermione’s brow furrowed. “It’s more like... smelling a flower, not solving an equation.”
Hermione let out a frustrated sigh, but made a visible effort to relax her shoulders.
“I can’t feel your aura anymore,” she muttered.
“That’s normal. Don’t get stressed about it—you’ll get there.”
She only nodded quietly and returned to her concentration.
Neville smiled encouragingly, a rare satisfaction blooming inside him.
After so many times needing extra help with Potions, trailing behind while Hermione patiently repeated basic concepts, it felt invigorating to finally give something back. Even if she insisted he owed her nothing, for Neville, being able to help was a sweet relief.
After a particularly productive session—during which Hermione finally managed to faintly identify Neville’s aura with her eyes closed—they made their way to the Great Hall for lunch.
The atmosphere was surprisingly lively, given recent events. Colin Creevey’s petrification still hung in the castle’s quieter corners like a shadow, but most students seemed determined to make the most of the final days before the winter holidays. The hall buzzed with cheerful chatter, the clinking of cutlery, and the comforting aroma of pumpkin soup and fresh bread.
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” said Neville, helping himself to a bowl of soup.
“Honestly? I couldn’t concentrate at all,” sighed Hermione. “My mind feels like a bubbling cauldron.”
“But you did manage to think of the apple pie I described, didn’t you?” asked Neville, eagerly.
“I did... but now I want apple pie!” Hermione retorted, with mock frustration, making Neville laugh. “And, of course, they don’t serve that in the castle.”
“I’ll describe a pudding next time, then,” Neville joked.
He’d discovered an odd little way to help her.
Instead of trying to clear her mind entirely—which Hermione stubbornly claimed was impossible—he suggested she focus on a specific scene he described in detail.
It was an odd method to train the mind, but it seemed to be working. It could be a flower-filled field, a green valley, or, like this time, an apple pie.
“I must admit, you’re a brilliant teacher,” said Hermione with a smile. “Ever thought about doing it for a living?”
Neville blushed.
“Oh, not really... never… never actually thought about it, to be honest.”
Before he could say anything more, Harry and Ron arrived at the table at a run, faces flushed from the cold, hair soaked with snow and noses red. Both were panting, but laughing.
“Let me guess,” said Hermione, raising her eyebrows with a smile. “You lost.”
“Blimey, I thought you were meant to cheer us up!” Ron laughed, piling roasted potatoes and meat onto his plate.
“We almost took the left side of the courtyard,” began Harry, trying to sound serious. “But naturally, we sacrificed ourselves for the good of the team.”
“The other cowards didn’t want to take on Hufflepuff,” Ron grumbled. “We did the lot ourselves.”
“You and who else?” Neville asked.
Harry rolled his eyes.
“Who d’you think? The twins, Seamus, Dean, Lee Jordan. And the rest of the house who were out there too.”
“So, only Gryffindors on the front lines,” Hermione pointed out. “Which is the House of bravery? I wonder why the clever House left you to do the dirty work?”
“’Cause they’re cowards,” Ron shrugged. “I’m with Hagrid on this one—‘too many books, not enough action,’ right?”
“Maybe so, but to answer your question, Hermione, they didn’t let us do anything,” Harry shook his head. “We took on Ravenclaw too, once we saw they weren’t going to help us.”
“So, after all that effort, you still lost?” Hermione pressed.
Harry and Ron exchanged glum glances before replying in unison: “Yeah.”
Neville and Hermione burst out laughing.
“Oi! It’s not funny!” Ron protested, pretending to be offended. “Is this the sort of support Gryffindor gives its brave warriors in a fair and noble snowball war?”
“It was Hufflepuff’s fault, they went all defensive,” Harry admitted, casting a look over at Cedric Diggory, who was seated at the Hufflepuff table looking rather pleased with himself.
Cedric noticed the look and gave a mocking gesture, pointing at Harry’s wet hair.
“Bit of a mess, your hair, Harry!” he called from his table. “Best get near the fire before you freeze solid!”
The Hufflepuffs laughed while Harry shook his head.
“Yeah, laugh while you can,” Harry shot back with a competitive grin. “We’ll see whose hair’s full of snow next time!”
Still smiling, Harry began helping himself to food. Ron narrowed his eyes slightly and gave him a peculiar look, raising an eyebrow.
“Mates now with Hufflepuff’s golden Seeker, are you?” asked Ron, mouth full.
“Cedric and I got to know each other flying last year,” Harry replied. “We’ve had a sort of friendly rivalry since then—he winds me up, I wind him up. He’s actually pretty decent.”
“Decent? He’s always surrounded by Hufflepuff girls,” said Ron, wrinkling his nose as if the very idea offended him.
“Jealous, Ron?” Hermione asked sweetly, sipping her pumpkin juice.
“Me? Jealous?” Ron’s face went as red as his hair. “What’s so great about being surrounded by girls all the time? They only talk about fashion, gossip and... and... I dunno, girly stuff!”
“And you only talk about Quidditch, and no one complains,” Hermione retorted, arching an eyebrow.
Harry winced.
“Blimey,” he laughed. “That was below the belt.”
“I agree with her,” Neville said mildly, with a cheeky tone. “You do only talk about Quidditch.”
“And you ought to keep quiet, Montrose Magpies fan!” Ron muttered, jabbing his fork at Neville.
Neville just shrugged.
“Shall I remind you of the score from our last match against the Cannons? 345 to 55, wasn’t it?”
Ron turned to Harry with a look of desperation.
“Harry! I’m under attack here! Bit of help would be nice!” He pointed accusingly at Hermione and Neville, as if they were plotting against him.
Harry raised a hand in a peace-making gesture, taking a sip of juice.
Everyone waited as he set the goblet back down.
“All right, let’s be fair to Ronald here.”
Ron grinned in triumph.
“Ron doesn’t just talk about Quidditch,” Harry continued, with a mischievous smile. “He also talks about the Cannons losing. What was it again, Nev? 345 to 55? Harsh defeat for the orange shirts...”
Neville and Hermione burst into fresh laughter as Ron muttered something that sounded like “traitors,” stuffing a whole roasted potato into his mouth in mock outrage.
“Anyway, there’s one thing we can all agree on,” said Neville, leaning slightly across the table. “Hermione was the one who saved our team in last year’s snowball war. Without her, you lot are doomed.”
“We’re like a bunch of headless chickens without her,” said Harry. “That’s why the soldiers of the Gryffindor nation are missing Captain Granger.”
Hermione snorted.
“Captain Granger, seriously?” she crossed her arms.
“Sounds good, or are you going to say you wouldn't like to be like Wonder Woman?” Harry joked.
“Who?” Ron and Neville asked at the same time, looking baffled.
Harry nearly spat out his juice, laughing to himself as Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Never mind,” Hermione replied.
The conversation remained lively, laughter echoing across the Hall until near the end of lunch, when a distinct sound of cutlery being set down on plates drew everyone’s attention.
Dumbledore had risen from his chair, a twinkle in his eye and a serene expression on his face. The Great Hall gradually fell into silence.
“Oh, I can see that snowball fight was quite the spectacle—shame that back in my school days I had terrible aim, always ended up trudging back in completely soaked,” he said, eyes twinkling with amusement and a warm smile as the students chuckled. “Well then, before we conclude this marvellous lunch, I have a small announcement to make.”
Everyone’s attention was instantly captured. Dumbledore’s calm tone always seemed to promise something intriguing, and curious faces turned towards him.
“Today, during a conversation with Professor Lockhart, the idea arose to establish something rather different: a Dueling Club. This club shall be an opportunity for you all to practise and refine your practical skills in Defence Against the Dark Arts—something I’ve been considering for quite some time, and which I am certain may prove useful to you all.”
A murmur swept through the Great Hall as students exchanged excited and curious glances.
“Do you reckon it’s got to do with Colin?” Neville asked in a low voice, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“I’m sure of it,” said Harry, his face darkening as he recalled the night he saw Colin frozen in terror in the Hospital Wing. “Why else would they introduce this now? Apparently it’s open to everyone, and first-years barely know how to conjure soap bubbles.”
“We’re in second year and we can’t conjure soap bubbles...” Ron muttered.
Hermione bit her lip, thoughtful.
“Do you think they’re trying to train us to defend ourselves?” she suggested.
Dumbledore raised his hand slightly, and silence returned.
“For those concerned about your already demanding schedules, let me reassure you. This is an optional, short-term activity, and will not interfere with your regular lessons—it shall begin this very evening, in fact. Nevertheless, I would strongly encourage your participation. I am quite certain you will find the lessons valuable and, perhaps, even enjoyable. And I know that Professor Lockhart will be more than happy to share his... vast knowledge and experience.”
He cast a sideways glance at the staff table, where Lockhart, as usual, beamed with delight, clearly pleased with the mention. Some students exchanged knowing smiles, while others simply looked disheartened.
“Those interested in participating may sign up on the parchment posted on the noticeboard just outside the Great Hall,” Dumbledore concluded, folding his hands before him. “That will be all. Thank you, and have an excellent day.”
Excited chatter once again filled the Great Hall as Harry settled into his seat.
Neville, who had been nervously twisting the edge of his robes, finally released the question that had clearly been burning on his lips.
“Do you lot reckon we should actually go?” his hesitant voice barely rose above the surrounding noise.
“You’re kidding, right? Of course we’re going!” Ron burst out, his blue eyes shining like the floodlights in the Quidditch Stadium. “Finally, a proper Defence lesson! Bill always says a real wizard’s got to learn to duel early on!”
Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“Even with Professor Lockhart leading it?” she asked dubiously. “I thought you couldn’t stand him.”
“I can’t,” Ron admitted bluntly, grimacing as if he’d swallowed a Liquorice Wand. “I wish it were someone else—someone who actually knows what they’re doing. But I suppose we can’t have everything in life.”
“He’s not incompetent!” Hermione protested, straightening in her chair like a bristling cat.
Harry raised his hands before the argument could escalate.
“Alright, enough fighting over Lockhart. I think we should go. Might learn something useful. A wizard can’t live off Flipendo and Depulso alone, you know.”
“We’ve learnt Petrificus Totalus too,” Hermione added quickly, crossing her arms defensively. “A spell Professor Lockhart taught us, by the way. If it weren’t for him, you lot wouldn’t even know it existed!”
Ron let out an indignant huff.
“No one could actually do that spell! First off, he didn’t let us practise it properly, second, that spell’s hard as anything, and to top it off, the wand movement he showed us was completely wrong!”
“Harry managed it!” Hermione shot back immediately, pointing at their friend. “If he can do it, so can you!”
Ron rubbed a hand down his face.
“By Merlin, Morgana, and Circe...” he muttered in a tone that sounded like a desperate plea for patience.
Harry intervened again, lowering both their hands like a duelling referee.
“That’s enough, you two! Before you actually start flinging hexes at each other!” he said firmly.
The pair folded their arms at the same time, pulling nearly identical faces like sulky children.
“I don’t know if I’ll go...” Neville murmured, staring down at his plate as though it might contain answers in the mashed potato.
“Oh, come on, Nev!” Harry encouraged, giving his friend a gentle nudge on the shoulder. “You don’t even know what it’s going to be like yet!”
Neville shrugged with a defeated air.
“My wand barely works properly... I muck things up in every lesson. It only listens when it feels like it.”
“Maybe you ought to consider getting a new one,” Hermione suggested in her most practical tone. “It might make all the difference, you know.”
Neville flinched as though he’d been doused in cold water, his face going several shades paler.
“Professor McGonagall’s already said that to me...” he murmured glumly. “But you know this was my dad’s... imagine what my gran would say if she found out I was even thinking of replacing it?”
Ron nearly choked on his slice of pie.
“Hang on—she doesn’t know?” he asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “You never told her?”
“No...” Neville mumbled, shrinking even further into his seat. “I don’t want to let her down. And I’m almost certain she’d turn me into a toad if she found out...”
A heavy silence fell over the group.
None of them had personally met the formidable Augusta Longbottom—save for a brief chat at King’s Cross Station and a few hours in Diagon Alley buying school supplies—but the way Neville spoke about her was proof enough that she wasn’t a woman to be trifled with. She was strict in discipline, though with a hidden grandmotherly sweetness tucked away somewhere.
But by the look of pure terror on Neville’s face at the mere mention of the exchange, it was clear he’d rather keep his grandmother in complete ignorance about the wand business.
Ron cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“Look, I reckon you should go anyway, mate,” he suggested gently. “Might do you good. And who knows, you might not even have to duel? Just watching’s something, innit?”
“There are studies that say observing and listening accounts for half of all learning,” Hermione pointed out academically. “Practising brings it to eighty per cent, and teaching others is practically a hundred.”
“That’s it,” Harry encouraged, giving his friend a light nudge with his elbow. “What’s the harm?”
“Not going’s the real harm, that’s what!” Ron added.
Neville sighed reluctantly.
“Yeah... All right... I’ll go,” he said resignedly, as Harry and Ron exchanged looks of people who’d won an argument.
The room designated for the Dueling Club was full, with all the registered students already present.
Some, like Harry, Ron, Seamus and Ernie Macmillan, looked eager for the experience. Others, like Hermione, Mandy Brocklehurst and Daphne Greengrass, wore expressions of obvious curiosity. There were also those radiating arrogance, like Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, while a few—Neville among them—could barely conceal their nerves, practically dragged and pushed into the room by friends.
Gilderoy Lockhart was already positioned at the centre of the platform, resplendent as ever in extravagant robes—this time a vibrant yellow—and sporting a cloak clasped at only one shoulder, which he made a point of announcing as “the latest trend among professional duelists.”
With hands on his hips and chest puffed out, he gestured theatrically across the platform, which was draped in a purple cloth embroidered with a sunburst constellation.
“Right then, class, right then!” cried Lockhart, his smile gleaming nearly as brightly as his robes. “Today shall be a memorable day, no doubt! For I, Gilderoy Lockhart, shall have the privilege of teaching you one of the most noble and ancient cultural arts of our world: duelling!”
Several girls sighed audibly, Hermione among them.
Ron, meanwhile, rolled his eyes and exaggerated the girls' swooning in an over-the-top imitation, earning a stifled snigger from Harry and Neville.
“I shall now invite Professor Snape up to the duelling platform so that we may proceed!” Lockhart announced, waving grandly toward a dark corner near the Slytherin group.
From the darkest shadow, Snape emerged, moving like a living wraith.
His black cloak billowed as he stepped onto the platform, his face as unreadable as if carved from stone, arms crossed. It was painfully clear he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Professor Dumbledore kindly asked Professor Snape to assist me in this demonstration,” Lockhart continued. “We shall show you how civilised wizards duel!”
Lockhart drew his wand with an exaggerated, almost comical flourish, while Snape remained still, watching him with an expression that could melt steel.
“Professor, do draw your wand so that we may begin!” Lockhart said brightly.
“Perhaps it would be prudent, Gilderoy,” said Snape slowly, his voice icy, “to explain the basics to your students first.”
Harry, Ron and Neville exchanged amused glances, while Hermione looked visibly uncomfortable along with several of the other girls.
“Oh—yes, of course, of course...” Lockhart cleared his throat, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “Well, duelling is an essential part of our culture, as you surely know! It can be practised formally, as in tournaments, or... well, through other means.”
Snape narrowed his eyes, clearly unimpressed with the vagueness. A few students frowned, puzzled.
“In any case,” Lockhart went on, “the concept is simple, two wizards face each other. Professor Snape, if you please, a demonstration! Remember: the goal here is only to disarm your opponent. We don’t want anyone getting hurt, do we?” He laughed, but it echoed awkwardly around the room.
Snape and Lockhart faced each other on the platform, every eye fixed on them in anticipation.
“Duelists draw their wands while maintaining eye contact. This builds trust that neither will betray the other during the formalities,” Lockhart explained, raising his own wand in front of his nose. “Then they lower their wands to their sides and bow as a sign of respect.”
Snape executed a perfect bow. Lockhart’s attempt looked more like someone picking up something from the floor, bent-backed and visibly unskilled.
“He’s gonna make a fool of himself,” Ron whispered gleefully to Harry.
Harry nodded, a mischievous grin forming on his face.
“He is, and I want to see it,” he replied.
Hermione—like some of the girls—seemed oblivious to the poorly explained lesson.
“Now, the duelists turn and take five paces,” Lockhart said, stepping away from Snape, back to back.
Snape assumed a flawless combat stance, feet firmly planted, eyes sharp, while Lockhart contorted himself into an absurdly theatrical pose, chest inflated and smile unfocused.
“Right, on the count of three, Professor Snape, we begin the duel!”
Snape merely inclined his head, unblinking.
“One... two... three!” Lockhart shouted.
Snape spun with terrifying precision, wand whipping in a blur as he dropped into a tactical crouch and cast again in rapid succession.
“Depulso! Expelliarmus!”
Lockhart’s eyes went wide as the two spells—one a yellow light, the other red—shot from Snape’s wand and struck him squarely, catching him entirely off-guard. He was hurled backwards by the force of the Depulso, his wand flying from his grip with the Expelliarmus before he even hit the ground.
Lockhart blinked, dazed, taking several seconds to realise he’d already lost.
“Yes!” Harry and Ron whispered together, just low enough that Hermione wouldn’t hear.
As much as they despised Snape—and the feeling was passionately mutual—there was something deeply satisfying in seeing Lockhart humiliated.
As the old saying went, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”—even if only for a fleeting moment.
Neville, meanwhile, was shaking like a leaf, eyes wide in terror and mouth hanging open in shock.
The ease and speed with which Snape had disarmed Lockhart only confirmed his worst fears: the man was dangerously skilled, and the idea of facing him under any circumstance was enough to make his stomach churn.
Harry noticed even Malfoy and the other Slytherins were grinning broadly—a mixture of pride in seeing Slytherin power on display, and the sheer joy of seeing Lockhart made to look a fool.
Hermione bounced on her heels.
“Is he all right?” she asked anxiously.
“Who cares?” Harry and Ron replied in unison.
“I do...” Neville mumbled back, swallowing hard.
Lockhart sprang to his feet, trying to maintain his wounded pride.
“Of course you would do that, Severus!” he declared, gesturing like some grand authority. “Do not be alarmed, students, that manoeuvre was left as a demonstration—of what not to do in a duel! Honestly, losing to a Depulso and an Expelliarmus would be far too obvious. If I may say so, beginning with such basic spells, professor, might not be the most inspired choice. But never mind, we shall now proceed properly, into position!”
Lockhart attempted to ready himself in another of his strange stances. Snape didn’t move a single muscle, arms still folded.
“It would be wise to teach the students basic defence,” said Snape slowly, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “rather than an unnecessary, meaningless rematch.”
Lockhart cleared his throat again, smoothing his hair with an uneasy smile.
“Ah, yes, yes!” he gave a dry laugh. “I only meant to demonstrate what might happen if you’re caught unprepared without a Shield Charm, that’s all!”
“Shield Charms, as we actually call them, the Protego Charm,” Snape corrected icily, “which, incidentally, they will only learn in sixth year. Far too advanced. Before that, it would be wise to teach them to dodge something as basic as a Banishing Charm and a Disarming Charm cast in a straight line.”
“Yes... yes, excellent point!” Lockhart tried to compose himself, though the strain in his voice was obvious.
Lockhart carried on with the lesson, though it was impossible to ignore Snape’s piercing gaze fixed on him—an oppressive presence, thick as a thunderstorm ready to break.
Under such relentless scrutiny, Lockhart didn’t dare narrate his “great feats” or boast of heroic triumphs. The lesson, as a result, proceeded more directly, though it was evident that Lockhart hadn’t the faintest idea what he was doing. Snape, with an air of disdain, ended up taking it upon himself to explain how to dodge basic spells and reinforce the simple offensive spells they already knew.
And the girls again seemed oblivious to the fact that Lockhart didn't explain it very well, because he always managed to make a joke or simply divert the subject when it was clearly clear that he didn't know much about it.
And though he subtly took over the class, Harry noticed something odd in Snape’s black eyes—a peculiar glint, as he taught Defence Against the Dark Arts.
“Maybe he’d be less bitter teaching this subject,” Harry thought, though he wasn’t remotely convinced by it.
He, for his part, paid close attention to what Snape was demonstrating, surprised by the effectiveness of the Disarming Charm the professor was using as an example—Expelliarmus.
It was impressive. And he made a mental note—disarming someone was actually useful after all.
“Well, I think we’ve covered the basics,” Lockhart announced, sounding strangely pleased with himself. “Now, on to the practical part! Time to choose our first volunteers for a duel! In these duels, you must disarm or stun your opponent. So, uh... Potter! You, if you please, come on up here!”
Harry felt a wave of discomfort as every eye in the room turned to him.
He sighed deeply, climbed onto the platform, and tried to ignore the whispers spreading as he went.
“Longbottom!” called Lockhart with the same enthusiasm. “Join us as well!”
Neville froze in place. His face went pale, and he looked ready to protest, but Snape stepped in before he could utter a word.
“Longbottom?” Snape dragged the name out with a cutting tone. “The boy can barely hold his wand without causing a catastrophe that wipes out half the castle’s Potions supplies.”
Neville shrank back as a few students burst into sniggers.
“Don’t listen to them,” Ron whispered.
“Might I… suggest someone else?” Snape asked, sounding like he was bartering.
Harry felt a strange unease.
“And who do you suggest?” asked Lockhart, curious.
Snape gave a malicious smile and paused for effect.
Everyone tensed, glancing at one another.
Draco leaned forward with a pretentious smirk, stepped up, and puffed out his chest. He was the most prominent Slytherin boy in their year, he knew full well he’d be the obvious pick if the professor wanted to see Harry humiliated.
The blond’s grey eyes locked with Harry’s green, and the two stared each other down with barely contained loathing—hatred built on a rivalry carved in stone.
They both had scores to settle, and Snape clearly wanted someone from his House to—
“Granger, up on the platform,” Snape said at last.
Everyone blinked, stunned.
The entire room turned to look at Hermione, and Harry’s eyes widened in horror.
He turned immediately to Snape, exclaiming:
“I’d rather duel Malfoy!” he said quickly.
Snape gave a sarcastic smile and raised an eyebrow.
“I quite understand your desire, Potter, but you see, I’ve simply chosen the top two students in Defence Against the Dark Arts, according to Professor Lockhart himself,” he said, dripping with sarcasm, enjoying Harry’s panic. “After all, Gilderoy, you must agree it’s best to demonstrate this with the two best, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well they really are the top two,” Lockhart said, hands on his hips. “Yes, thinking about it like that, makes perfect sense.”
“Quite so, then,” Snape gestured.
“I’m not going to duel Hermione!” Harry exclaimed, nervous.
“And why not, Potter?” Snape raised an eyebrow.
From the professor’s face, it looked as though he already suspected part of the reason—perhaps one even deeper than Harry himself could see or explain.
Harry hesitated, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on him, his cheeks burning under the strange attention.
The memories of his wild aura returned—killing the troll, what happened with Voldemort and Quirrell, the uncontrolled bursts when he nearly destroyed the entire chamber protecting the Philosopher’s Stone.
Swallowing hard, he finally muttered:
“I don’t want... to hurt her...”
The silence that followed was deafening. It was as if the words echoed off every wall in the room.
Hermione stared at him, wide brown eyes now full of sadness.
Harry realised too late what he’d done—he opened his mouth, then shut it again, unsure how to fix it.
He had basically just called his best friend and the best student in the class “weak”, right in front of everyone. He felt his own aura shift uncomfortably inside him, ashamed.
“No doubt you will, Potter!” Malfoy jeered from the back of the room, joined by the cruel laughter of the Slytherins.
Lockhart stepped up beside Harry and, lowering his voice, said with a conspiratorial smile.
“Oh, Potter, just let her win! The publicity would be marvellous—she’s a lovely girl to include in it. And who knows, maybe on Valentine’s Day you’ll get something special, eh?”
“What?” Harry looked at him, incredulous, wondering if he’d heard that right, but Lockhart merely winked, as though part of some grand scheme.
But Harry barely heard him, desperately trying to think of a way out—though there wasn’t one.
“No more nonsense, Potter!” Snape cut in, his voice cold as steel. “Miss Granger, up on the platform! I won’t repeat myself.”
Hermione blinked rapidly, banishing any trace of hurt, and adopted a resolute expression.
“Of course, professor,” she replied quietly, her voice clear and icy.
She lifted her chin and walked to the platform with steady steps.
Harry froze as he saw the determination in her gaze. It wasn’t the warm, reassuring look of his best friend, but something far more intense—almost defiant. Hermione was there to prove something, and he knew she wouldn’t accept anything less than victory.
She calmly adjusted the sleeves of her jumper, her brown eyes locked on his.
Harry swallowed hard.
Hermione was brilliant. She knew more spells than anyone in the room and could probably leave him in nothing but his pants, dangling upside down from the Astronomy Tower, if she wanted to.
But still, Harry knew there was something inside him he didn’t fully control—even with all his Sensitivity training.
He was afraid of doing something he’d regret.
Lockhart clapped his hands loudly, cutting through the murmuring students.
“Right, follow protocol! First face each other, wands at the tips of your noses, then turn back to back and take five steps!”
Harry stepped forward and raised his wand slowly, eyes fixed on Hermione’s. He tried to convey an apology with just a look, but she merely narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t you dare throw the match,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, serious.
Harry felt a rush of emotion sweep through him.
His aura shifted—from uncomfortable and ashamed—to something more restless, almost… electric, as it reacted to something he couldn’t name. It was as if he could feel her breathing even from a distance, as if the rhythm of Hermione’s heartbeat was echoing alongside his own.
Perhaps, if he got just a little closer, he’d even catch the familiar scent of the green apple shampoo etched into his memory.
Hermione, meanwhile, remained focused, her eyes shining with concentration—but she felt it too. It was as though every emotion and movement between them was in perfect harmony.
“Five steps!” Lockhart instructed, breaking the loaded silence.
They turned their backs and began to walk.
He knew Hermione would kill him if she found out he’d let her win. She had already made that crystal clear. On impulse, he imagined making her laugh with a spell would be enough to win her over.
“On my count,” Lockhart raised his hand, “One… two… three!”
Flicking his wand in a quick motion, Harry shouted,
“Rictusempra!”
Hermione instinctively dodged right, the silver light passing mere inches from her head.
With unwavering focus, she wasted no time and retaliated with a swift U-shaped motion of her wand.
“Depulso!”
Well, there went his meticulously crafted five-second plan. Panic surged.
Harry had no chance to react.
The spell hit him squarely in the chest, sending him flying backwards. He landed flat on his back atop the duelling platform, the wood cushioning part of the blow—but not enough to stop the air from bursting out of his lungs in one sharp gasp.
Eyebrows rose across the room in surprise—no one had expected that.
“Bloody hell!” Harry gasped, still registering the fall.
“Swearing’s not a spell, Potter! Respond!” Snape said, arms folded, pacing the side of the platform as he watched the duel.
He tried to recover, but barely noticed the next attack.
Hermione cast a Stunning Spell, and Harry rolled to the side at the last second, the red blast exploding against the platform beside him.
No pause—another spell flew past his legs, and another nearly clipped his shoulder.
She was relentless, firing off spell after spell without letting her wand rest for even a moment. At times, she stammered nervously, missing a motion or misnaming a charm, and at the pace she was casting, actually landing a hit on Harry wasn’t easy either.
He looked more like he was dancing—rolling and scrambling backwards across the platform—than duelling. He needed a distraction, and seized the moment when Hermione, her hands trembling with nerves, mixed up a wand movement and spell name, resulting in nothing.
Still on the ground, Harry twirled his wand gracefully in a bird-like arc, conjuring a shimmering blue light.
“Avis!”
A sky-blue bird with a white chest burst into existence, chirping melodiously as it fluttered in circles around Hermione’s head, its radiant wings obscuring her vision.
“Go away! Shoo!” Hermione shrieked, flailing with her free hand as she kept her wand levelled in the other.
Harry used the distraction to leap to his feet—but hesitated at the critical moment.
He could attack now—but what if he hurt her?
That fleeting doubt was all Hermione needed.
With a precise flick of her wrist and a firm command.
“Avis Evanesca!”
The blue bird dissolved into silvery smoke.
“Don’t grant your opponent the advantage, Potter! Attack!” Snape’s cutting voice rang through the Great Hall, making several students flinch.
Harry shot the professor a look that could have melted lead—but that second of distraction cost him dearly.
“Stupefy!” Hermione cried, launching another ruby-red jet in his direction.
Harry barely ducked in time, feeling the heat of the spell graze his ear.
He knew exactly why Hermione was fighting with such ferocity. She wanted to prove herself, show that she could outmatch anyone. And after his earlier comments—well-intentioned or not—she certainly wasn’t going to grant him mercy.
But he wasn’t going to make it easy either.
“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry intoned, but Hermione had already spun to the side, letting the spell pass over her like a harmless breeze.
The duel raged on at breakneck speed, spells streaking between them like lightning bolts.
Harry felt he could almost predict every move, every counter—he suspected Hermione felt the same strange synchronicity. Their bodies moved like dancers in a dangerous ballet, each one anticipating the other’s steps with near-telepathic accuracy.
Of everyone present, only Snape looked thoroughly unimpressed by the display. His black eyes followed every movement with a mixture of disdain and something deeper—something that might have been reluctant recognition.
As if what he wanted was the opposite of what was happening.
The crowd of students watched in tense silence, fascinated by the skill being shown by the two second-years. Spell after spell ricocheted off the stone walls behind them, leaving colourful, fleeting marks.
For second-year students, their performance was remarkable, though still tinged with inexperience—a poorly executed wand movement here, a stammered incantation there.
But Hermione, in particular, showed a fierce determination, her brown eyes blazing with unwavering focus as she searched relentlessly for an opening to land the decisive blow.
Harry did his best to keep up, but the fatigue was starting to weigh on his shoulders.
He dodged another spell, breathing heavily.
“How does she remember so many spells?!” he thought, exhausted but utterly impressed.
It had already been more than six minutes—an impressive length for a duel between completely novice wizards.
Hermione and Harry were sweating, their hair plastered to their faces. Their duelling stances had started to sag, movements slowing, shoulders drooping with exhaustion.
Hermione raised her wand with effort.
“Petrificus... Totalus!” she panted.
Harry felt a final surge of adrenaline and ducked left at the last second.
Shifting his weight onto his left foot, he bent his knee and shouted:
“Flipendo!”
Hermione hadn’t expected such a quick response.
Her eyes widened as the spell hit her.
“AH!” she let out a sharp cry as she spun through the air before landing with a thud at the far end of the platform.
“HERMIONE!” Harry shouted, running towards her.
But before he could reach her, Hermione—still on the ground—lifted her wand with determination.
“Levioso!”
Harry felt his legs lift abruptly off the floor. He floated, helpless, as Hermione, panting, slowly got to her feet.
“I still... wasn’t... defeated,” she said between short breaths.
With a final motion, she pointed at him and cried:
“Expelliarmus!”
The spell struck Harry’s arm, and his wand flew from his grip.
Hermione ended the Levioso with a crisp, “Finite!”, and Harry crashed to the duelling platform with a dry thud.
“Ouch...” he groaned on the floor.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Hermione offering her hand to help him up.
She looked like she’d run a marathon, her face shining with sweat, but her brown curls glinted in the sunlight streaming through the high windows.
Her eyes, once dark with the intensity of the challenge, had lightened again to that soft look she had—like a sweet mix of honey and chocolate. There was a victorious smile on her lips, and her outstretched hand seemed to signal that she had accepted the apology he’d tried to give her with his eyes before they started.
“Sorry for catching you off guard,” she said, with a tired smile.
“What? You were brilliant!” Harry replied, a wide grin spreading across his face. He took her hand and stood up.
Hermione looked down at her shoes, suddenly shy.
“Thank you... You were a great opponent too,” she said softly.
The two turned to face the crowd, which clapped and murmured excitedly. The loudest applause came from the girls—except for the Slytherins, who looked disappointed, save for Daphne Greengrass, who gave a subtle smile.
“Granger wins,” Snape announced flatly. “And Potter, perhaps you should worry less about hurting her and more about your own safety.”
The Potions Master cast a disdainful look at their hands, his lips tightening.
It was only then that Harry and Hermione looked at each other again and realised they were still holding hands.
They released each other immediately, as if they'd touched something scalding, their faces flushing for some reason both chalked up to the adrenaline from the duel, and returned to where Ron and Neville were sitting.
Lockhart, with Snape’s reluctant help, conjured another duelling platform.
All the remaining students would have a chance to face an opponent, drawn at random by the two professors.
Snape’s partiality became evident rather quickly.
Whenever a Slytherin was in the duel, he provided precise coaching, explaining the best posture and how to perform spells more effectively. However, if the duel involved students from other houses, Lockhart took over as instructor—which usually meant little to no actual help.
When Snape oversaw a duel without a Slytherin, he offered minimal guidance, more often mocking than instructing, such as when he grumbled that Terry Boot looked like he was “tap dancing” on the platform, or told Ernie Macmillan he ought to learn to hold his wand the right way round.
The students watched the matches attentively, but none came close to the level of intensity or skill shown by Harry and Hermione.
Most looked thoroughly lost.
Some, frustrated by their magical failures, resorted to brute force. Millicent Bulstrode, upon realising she’d exhausted her already meagre spell repertoire, grabbed Susan Bones in a headlock. Justin Finch-Fletchley had to intervene to free his classmate from Millicent’s grip.
Some duels, however, turned out to be comical.
Dean Thomas beat Michael Corner by casting a spell that made him dance clumsily while clapping. Seamus, on the other hand, lost to Theodore Nott when he was struck by a Flipendo he failed to dodge in time.
Theodore, however, seemed uncomfortable with Millicent Bulstrode’s constant praise. Not only did she gush about his “technique”, she also seemed determined to follow him wherever he went.
Nott spent most of his time trying to avoid her, moving constantly from one side of the room to the other while watching the remaining duels.
When Padma Patil defeated her twin sister Parvati with a Jelly-Legs Curse, leaving her with completely wobbly legs, it was Ron’s turn to face Mandy Brocklehurst.
And the redhead was clearly not pleased.
“A girl, seriously? Why not Michael Corner?” he muttered to himself, trudging up onto the platform in low spirits.
Mandy, however, looked nervous, gripping her wand with both hands and not daring to meet his eyes.
To everyone’s surprise—except Ravenclaws, who knew of Mandy’s cleverness—she was extremely quick at dodging spells, while Ron had real trouble landing any.
In less than a minute, having exhausted every jinx and spell he knew, Mandy disarmed him.
“How’d it go, then?” Neville asked with a mischievous grin, clearly hoping for some excuse.
Ron turned as red as his hair.
“Shut it,” he snapped.
“You let her win, didn’t you, mate?” Harry said, laughing.
“Obviously. Can’t imagine why you’d think otherwise,” Ron replied with outrageous cheek.
Hermione wasn’t about to miss her chance to tease.
“Oh, but of course Ron’s a true gentleman,” she said in an overly grand tone, eyes sparkling with amusement. “He’d never hurt a lady, would he, Ron?”
“It’s different up there, with everyone watching!” he shot back, ears glowing red.
Before he could defend himself any further, a voice icy as frost cut through the air.
“Longbottom,” called Snape, his gaze piercing. “Step up. You’ll duel with Malfoy.”
Neville froze.
The world around him seemed to come to a standstill. His mouth opened, but no sound came out as he stared at Malfoy, who was watching him with a cruel smile, like a predator who’d spotted easy prey.
“I-I-I wasn’t here to duel, sir,” Neville stammered, voice barely a whisper. “I’m just... just here with Harry, Ron and Hermione—”
“If you’ve come to class, you’ll take part in it,” Snape said coolly, eyes flashing with impatience. “Up. Now.”
Harry placed a reassuring hand on Neville’s shoulder.
“You’ll be fine, mate,” he said with an encouraging smile.
“Easy for you to say...” Neville muttered, still pale.
“What are you waiting for?” Malfoy goaded, his tone dripping with contempt. “Going to stand there until morning?”
With a trembling sigh, Neville began climbing onto the platform, clutching his broken wand as if it might somehow transform into something useful.
They stood facing each other, wands raised, tips near their noses.
Draco smirked arrogantly, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Let’s go back to how it was at the start of last year, shall we, squib?” Malfoy muttered, low enough that only Neville could hear.
Neville was tired of being Malfoy’s favourite target, even before he’d ever met Harry.
He stared at the blond boy and sighed, exasperated.
“If you need to puff up your ego by humiliating me, your life must be pretty pathetic.”
Malfoy froze, eyes wide, before his face twisted with fury. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected from someone like Neville.
“That’s enough waiting,” Snape cut in, his voice cold and impassive. “Bow.”
Neville bowed just as Snape had bowed to Lockhart; Malfoy, for his part, gave the bare minimum, doing it more out of obligation than any form of respect.
They stepped back five paces, and at the count of three, the duel began.
No one besides Harry, Hermione and Ron was particularly interested in the match, assuming it would be over quickly. Lavender Brown versus Ravenclaw’s Lisa Turpin was far more entertaining to watch.
Neville held his wand in shaking hands.
On the other side of the platform, Malfoy moved with predator-like grace, confidence oozing from every step.
He stepped forward firmly, a malicious grin on his face, ready to strike.
“Locomotor Mortis!” the Slytherin shouted, his voice echoing across the hall.
Neville instinctively dodged to the side and threw his arm over his eyes, as if that could shield him from the spell.
“Get your arm down, Longbottom!” Snape’s cutting voice rang out, heavy with scorn.
Draco wasted no time. His wand sliced through the air with a precise arc.
“Langlock!”
Neville gave a muffled cry and ducked just in time to avoid the spell.
He tried to retaliate, pointing his wand at Malfoy and muttering a spell meant to make things slippery—but his wand refused to cooperate.
Nothing.
Only an uncomfortable emptiness.
“What a surprise… your wand’s still useless,” sneered Snape, a cold, poisonous smile on his face.
“What a git,” Ron muttered through clenched teeth, low enough that only Harry and Hermione heard him.
“He did it on purpose,” Harry said, fists clenched. “Picked Neville just so Malfoy could humiliate him.”
Hermione sighed, worry etched across her face.
“Why doesn’t Neville just get a new wand?” she asked, though she already knew the answer—and didn’t think it good enough to count as an excuse. “It’s obviously awful for him!”
“You know why,” Harry replied, casting a sympathetic glance at Neville.
On the platform, the duel raged on.
Malfoy was far too quick, landing a spell squarely on Neville’s knee.
Neville hit the ground with a grunt of pain, as if he’d been kicked. Even so, he refused to give in.
He kept muttering spells with dogged determination, but his wand seemed either stubborn or cursed. Nothing hit its mark—and some didn’t work at all. Still, at least he was dodging the incoming jinxes.
Malfoy sighed with boredom.
“That’s enough!” he exclaimed, lifting his wand with theatrical flair. “Serpensortia!”
A king snake burst from his wand, slithering across the platform in sinuous waves. Its black scales and white stripes gleamed under the hall’s light. It hissed softly, eyes locked on Neville, who was still on the ground, pale as a ghost.
Neville scrambled back, dragging himself on his elbows as the snake crept closer.
“Conjured snakes aren’t venomous,” Harry murmured, more to himself than anyone else, “but they can bite...”
Snape, however, made no move to step in.
Arms folded, eyes fixed on the scene, his icy composure was unnerving.
Hermione raised her hand to her mouth.
“Oh no...” she breathed.
Murmurs rippled among the students, and soon all eyes were on the platform.
The snake hissed, slowly gliding toward Neville.
“Strike… shall I strike you…” Harry clearly heard the snake’s voice.
He blinked, startled.
He could understand it—just like the snake at the zoo, that time with the Dursleys.
Lockhart, ever opportunistic, seized the moment. In a clumsy leap, he clambered onto the platform behind the snake, arms raised like some overconfident hero.
“Don’t worry! I’ll handle this!” he cried with that bright, rehearsed grin.
Raising his wand, he shouted: “Alarte Ascendare!”
A jet of red light hit the snake from behind, launching it into the air.
But rather than being of any help, it simply thudded onto the platform with a dry smack—dazed for a moment, before shaking its head and hissing furiously, unaware Lockhart was behind it.
“Who did that?!” the snake hissed, glancing around with narrowed eyes. “Someone’s going to pay for that!”
Then it locked eyes with Justin Finch-Fletchley, menacingly.
“It was you, wasn’t it?!”
Justin’s eyes widened as he slowly backed away, the snake’s stare fixed on him.
Harry blinked again.
No one else seemed to understand what the snake was saying, just like Norbert. He stepped forward slowly, feeling the weight of every stare.
“It wasn’t him!” Harry called out, defending the Hufflepuff.
Everyone turned to him—confused, alarmed, and watching closely. Even the snake.
The snake tilted its head, fascinated.
“By sacred scale… you... are you a Speaker?” it asked, as if beholding something holy.
“I... I think?” Harry replied, uncertain. “Please don’t hurt anyone,”
“Of course, of course I won’t,” the snake said with a soft hiss. “Whatever the Speaker desires, I obey. Forgive my temper—I just don’t like being tossed around.”
“That’s fair—I wouldn’t like that either,” Harry agreed.
The snake slithered towards him across the platform.
“May I climb your arm?” it asked. “I won’t hurt you. I’d simply like to ask the Speaker to take me away from here, if possible.”
“Er... sure, that’s fine. I can take you out to the grounds.”
“That would be lovely.”
Instinctively, Harry held out his arm, and the snake gently coiled itself around it. She was cold, as a reptile ought to be—but not unpleasant. Just... odd.
She wasn’t evil—quite the opposite, in fact. A gentle creature, simply frightened.
“How come I can understand you?” Harry asked.
“Because you are a Speaker, sir. A rare gift.”
“All right... I’ll take you out, I just need to ask Professor—”
“Vipera Evanesca!” Snape barked at Harry’s arm.
A cloud of black smoke engulfed the snake and dissolved it within seconds. She vanished as if she’d never been there.
Harry took a step back, startled and unsettled.
When he looked up, he realised everyone was staring at him—not with curiosity, but with fear. Some even backed away, as if he were dangerous.
Snape, expression unreadable, looked directly at Harry.
“You are all dismissed.” He said firmly. “Class is over.”
Chapter 27: Fur-midable Fail
Notes:
Yeah, another long chapter this time 19k. Had a lot to cover, don’t judge me! 😅
Chapter Text
The sky outside was so dark and heavy it looked as though it had swallowed the sun that very morning. The thick clouds, like an oppressive grey shroud, pressed down on the castle of Hogwarts, and the library—usually filled with whispers and the gentle turning of pages—was eerily silent, as though even the books had decided to hold their breath.
Only a day had passed since Harry had been “discovered” as a Parselmouth—someone who could speak to snakes—and already the air around him felt different, heavier, as if even the magical candles burned with less vigour in his presence.
The four friends were huddled at a table near other students, all buried in dusty books and scrolls. The assignment on wizarding life in the Middle Ages, set by Professor Binns, was due by the end of the afternoon, but the tension between them was unmistakable.
“This isn’t good at all, mate,” said Ron, frowning as he scribbled something on his parchment with a quill that seemed determined to smudge all his words. “Talking to snakes… that’s stuff of dark—”
He hesitated, exchanging a look with Hermione, who shook her head to stop him from continuing.
“It’s a trait associated with… er… old bloodlines, so to speak,” Neville offered cautiously, as though afraid his words might spark something worse.
Harry felt a chill run down his spine, as though an invisible hand had trailed along his vertebrae. He gripped his quill so tightly it nearly snapped, keeping his aura in check, though it stirred restlessly within him.
Hermione, always the fountain of knowledge—sometimes at rather inconvenient moments—leaned forward, her eyes shining with the urgency to share what she knew.
“Well, Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth,” she whispered, quietly but with such clarity that it made Harry flinch. “It’s an extremely rare inherited ability—”
“I get it! Alright? I get it,” Harry shot back, keeping his voice low but laced with such controlled fury that all three blinked. “No need to keep repeating it.”
The others recoiled, startled by his sharpness.
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Harry was already back to his parchment, writing with such force the quill nearly tore the paper. The silence that followed was so uncomfortable that even the ticking of the library clock sounded like a hammer strike.
But, of course, the rumour had already spread like wildfire.
Harry Potter was the Heir of Slytherin.
He was the one behind everything terrible that had happened in the castle—or so the whispers claimed.
His presence at the scene where Mrs Norris had been Petrified didn’t help, nor did the fact that, even in his first year, some had speculated he was a “threat”—especially given the power of his aura, which wasn’t just unusually strong, but rare.
And now, talking to snakes?
That was the final proof. Even the blood-written message on the wall—which Filch had scrubbed at furiously for days—seemed to confirm everyone’s suspicions, now tying him to the one who had written it.
At another table, Hannah Abbott leaned in towards Susan Bones, eyes wide with the thrill of sharing something forbidden.
“Did you see him hissing at that snake?” Hannah murmured, casting a quick glance at Harry, as though afraid he might hear her through the hush of the library. “I bet he was trying to set the snake on Justin but backed off when he realised he was being watched.”
Susan sucked in a breath through her teeth, hesitant but curious.
“Do you really think it’s him?”
“Obviously,” said Hannah with conviction. “He’s always been odd, hasn’t he? Last year, you could already tell there was something off about him—everyone could—but now? Now there’s no denying it.”
Harry, who had been trying to ignore the murmurs, snapped his quill against the table with a dry click and began packing up his things with abrupt, jerky movements, making the chair creak.
“Harry—” Hermione tried, reaching out.
“Going for a walk,” he cut across her, standing up so quickly the chair nearly toppled over. “See you later.”
Neville let out a muffled sigh, while Ron scratched his arm, unsure whether to follow or leave him be. Hermione remained frozen, torn between her duty as a friend and the desire not to make things worse.
Harry left the library under the disapproving gaze of Madam Pince, who watched with narrowed eyes as his footsteps echoed across the floor more than strictly necessary.
The fearful and suspicious stares Harry thought he’d left behind last year had returned in full force, like a thick fog of doubt trailing him down every corridor. It was an invisible weight, but no less real—something pressing on his shoulders with every step, turning even the simple act of walking into an exhausting task.
As he wandered through the castle, cold despite the gloves he wore, his thoughts drifted back to the brief conversation he’d had with his friends after that Dueling Club lesson, when he had still been trying—in vain—to explain the inexplicable.
“I swear, I only ever talked to a snake once!” he’d said, more defensively than he’d meant to, facing Ron, Hermione, and Neville.
“And when was that?” Hermione asked.
“At the zoo, before I knew I was a wizard. I didn’t even remember it until now.”
Neville had furrowed his brow, trying not to look nosy.
“But… why?” he’d asked in a low voice.
“Yeah, I’d definitely remember bumping into a talking snake,” Ron had said, raising an eyebrow.
Harry had looked away, his fingers tightening involuntarily.
“It was a bad day,” he’d replied, offering no more.
Hermione read his face and clutched her books closer to her chest, as if she had a hunch why he preferred not to remember.
Back then, his life had already been a nightmare. He’d spent more nights crying silently in the cupboard under the stairs than any child ever should, always hungry, always afraid, always curling in on himself to avoid the fury of those who preferred to forget he existed.
His friends didn’t seem to judge him—which brought him fleeting relief—but the discomfort lingered, like a shadow clinging to his heels.
Now, alone, Harry kept wandering the corridors, avoiding eye contact with anyone he passed
Finally, he sat on a stone bench near the lakeside, ignoring the snow against his shins, staring at the melancholy landscape under the leaden sky.
The Great Lake was so dark and still, a thick layer of ice preventing anything from emerging—the magical creatures kept quiet and hidden, as they did every winter.
Then a white shadow cut through the air—almost blending into the pale surroundings, landing softly beside him. Hedwig tilted her head, her amber eyes fixed on him with an expression that seemed almost human in its concern.
“Hey, girl,” Harry murmured, stroking her soft feathers.
She nipped his finger gently, as if to say, “I'm here.”
“Didn’t tell you, did I?” He let out a bitter, humourless laugh.
The owl stayed quiet, merely adjusting her claws on the stone bench, as if prepared to listen to whatever he needed to spill.
“Apparently, I’m the monster behind everything happening in the castle,” Harry said, his voice laden with a weariness that went beyond the physical. “The great Heir of Slytherin. Perfect, isn’t it? Everyone looking at me like I’m about to spit venom any second. What’m I supposed to do, Hedwig?”
The owl had no answers—nor did she need to.
She simply stayed by his side, a silent, loyal presence, as the icy wind whipped over the lake’s surface, carrying away any hope that things would get better soon.
And Harry had the sinking feeling that they wouldn’t.
The next morning brought with it a biting cold that seemed to have seeped even into the thickest walls of Hogwarts.
After an especially tedious Potions lesson—in which Snape, with his usual sadistic pleasure, had deducted points from Gryffindor because Harry, in his words, “displayed the attentiveness of a drenched sloth”—the group was making their way towards the Great Hall for lunch when Harry broke off with a brief, “Back in a mo,” and veered towards the loo.
Upon exiting, however, he noticed something odd.
The corridors were unusually quiet, despite more students than usual milling about—probably because the previous night’s blizzard had rendered the grounds impassable, forcing everyone to remain inside the castle once again.
The air smelled of hearth smoke and damp wool, and the muffled footsteps on rugs and cold stone echoed with a strange caution, as though everyone were treading on eggshells.
That’s when he saw her.
Luna Lovegood was perched on the windowsill overlooking a small courtyard, where the gathered snow had transformed the statue of a scholarly wizard—normally holding a hefty tome—into a ghostly figure, its hands now bearing what looked like frozen mounds of cotton.
She swung her legs idly, humming a tuneless melody, her feet encased in nothing but multiple layers of brightly striped socks. Her Butterbeer cork necklace had a Sickle strung in the middle, glinting faintly in the torchlight, perfectly matching her radish earrings, and her turquoise jumper looked as though it had been knitted by someone with a very particular concept of fashion.
Harry was about to walk straight past—after all, Luna had a habit of starting conversations that left him more confused than a mermaid’s riddle—but she looked up before he could slip away.
“Hello, Harry,” she said in that airy tone of hers that always made it sound as though she already knew he’d be there, even without raising her eyes.
“Er... hi, Luna,” he replied, halting abruptly.
She regarded him with her large blue eyes, which always seemed to see far more than most people ever noticed.
“Did something happen?” she asked, tilting her head like a curious bird.
Harry hesitated, unsure whether she was being ironic or genuinely unaware of the frenzy gripping the castle.
“Haven’t you heard? Everyone’s talking about... well, about what happened at the Dueling Club.”
“Oh, yes,” Luna murmured, as though recalling the lunch menu. “You speak to snakes. People seem to find that rather frightening.”
Harry frowned.
“But they’re saying I’m the Heir of Slytherin,” he confessed, waiting—almost anxiously—for some sign of shock or fear.
Luna merely blinked slowly.
“Of course you’re not,” she replied, as if he’d just claimed that Hogwarts was ruled by a giant squirrel.
Harry frowned deeper, but she simply went on.
“I’ve tried speaking to snakes a few times, but I could never understand what they were saying back. Pity, really—they must have some very interesting things to tell. You’re lucky to be able to talk to them like that.” She tilted her head the other way. “And you’re a good person, too—your aura’s blue with swirls circling around it. Bad people have auras that are purple and spiky. I’d say like Professor Snape’s, but he always hides his. You can’t feel it.”
How exactly Luna “senses” colors was something Harry didn't want to discuss. He opened his mouth, closed it, and ran a hand through his messy hair, avoiding her piercing gaze.
“I just... don’t like the way people are looking at me,” he admitted, voice rougher than he intended. “Like I’m some kind of monster.”
Luna hummed another note, distracted.
“You’re not a monster,” she said, with the same casual certainty one might use to declare the sky blue. “People are just cruel when they’re frightened. Or when they can’t see obvious things, like Snaklaps—they clearly exist, but no one believes in them, even when they pull at children’s ankles on full moon nights.”
Harry didn’t know what a Snaklap was, and decided not to ask either.
“Well... thanks, I suppose,” he muttered, thrown.
“Your friends know the truth,” Luna continued, now gazing at the snow-covered statue as though it might come to life at any moment. “So why worry about the rest? Most people believed that Healer Toad cured warts with spit—and look how that turned out. Obvious rubbish.”
The duality in what Luna believed and didn’t believe was something curious.
Harry stood still, unsure how to reply. There was a strangely convincing logic to her words—a simplicity that sliced through all this bloody hysteria like a hot knife through butter.
But even so...
Being accused of something you weren’t, being seen as a threat when all you wanted was to be normal for once in your life—that burned him up inside like a quiet fire.
It was like being called a coward.
No one likes being called a coward—it makes your blood boil, your hand itch for your wand, just to prove them wrong, no matter the cost.
Luna, however, seemed to have already moved on from that train of thought, humming softly to herself while watching the flakes still drifting gently from the sky.
When Harry took his leave after that peculiar conversation and finally pushed open the doors of the Great Hall, the conversations died as though someone had cast a powerful Silencing Charm—just as they had ever since the rumour spread.
Hundreds of eyes turned towards him at once.
Dumbledore, seated at the staff table, regarded him with those bright, understanding eyes, calmly stroking his beard. McGonagall looked worried, her thin lips pressed tightly together. Snape, on the other hand, wore an unreadable expression—no surprise there.
Harry felt the weight of all those stares like an invisible cloak—suffocating and heavy—as he walked across the Hall, scowling to himself, meeting the eyes of a few students who immediately looked away.
Each step seemed to echo in the absolute silence, until nervous whispers began to spread like wildfire. He avoided the students nearby, keeping his eyes fixed on his seat at the Gryffindor table.
Fred and George, as ever, seemed oblivious to the tense atmosphere, laughing and swapping jokes as though nothing had happened. Fred even shot Harry a look of solidarity—a gesture that brought him a small measure of comfort.
Ron told Harry he’d spoken with the twins about what had happened—what had actually happened, not just the increasingly absurd rumours doing the rounds.
They’d supported Harry without so much as a question, clapping him on the back and trying to coax a laugh out of him. Of the two, Fred had seemed the most fervent in his support, masking a serious expression with smiles when he remembered the cat-flap in his bedroom door, and his state when he rescued him from Privet Drive.
Sitting beside Neville, across from Ron and Hermione, Harry sank into silence. Even so, it was impossible not to feel the back of his neck burning under the weight of all the stares.
He pushed the porridge around his plate and folded his arms on the table, appetite long since gone.
“Don’t mind them. They’ve no idea what they’re talking about,” said Neville, his voice low but firm with conviction.
“That’s easy for you to say,” muttered Harry, without looking up.
Hermione sighed, putting her porridge aside for a moment and leaning closer to him.
“You’re not what they’re saying,” Hermione insisted, her gaze steady and full of understanding. “We know you. That’s what matters. Just ignore them, Harry. You’re not... you’re not a threat.”
It was hard for her to say that, remembering last year as well.
Harry nodded without replying, stirring his porridge with his spoon.
“Just don’t tell us you speak Arabic as well, mate,” Ron joked, trying to lift the mood. “Bill might need your help with the mummies. They get properly stroppy when they come out of their tombs. One even gave him the finger, can you believe? ’Course, Bill ended up blasting it to bits. But it’d help to know how to answer back!”
“Mummies speak Egyptian, Ron, not Arabic,” Hermione corrected, rolling her eyes.
Ron shrugged, as though that detail were entirely beside the point.
“Same difference. Wouldn’t understand either of them anyway. And you got what I meant. If Harry’s already chatting with dragons and snakes, who’s to say he doesn’t speak other languages too?”
While Ron and Hermione began debating the languages of the Middle East—Hermione nearly tearing her hair out at Ron’s ignorance and maddening indifference, while Neville watched on silently—Harry stayed quiet, drawing circles in his porridge with his spoon.
The voices in the Great Hall had risen again, and he couldn’t help but catch fragments of the conversations around him:
“Potter,” “Parseltongue,” “Heir.”
“Any of you seen Ginny?” Ron asked suddenly, looking around. “Didn’t really see her yesterday, and not this morning either. She’s been keeping to herself loads... and that’s not like her.”
Harry, Hermione and Neville all shook their heads.
Ron sighed, clearly worried, and returned to his breakfast. Even as he ate, he kept glancing towards the entrance of the Hall, as though hoping his sister would appear.
Neville seemed lost in thought as he finished off a bowl of milk pudding.
He often complained about being overweight, but couldn’t resist puddings—often sneaking sweets into the dormitory and stuffing himself in secret. Harry had even caught him pinching a box of jelly slugs from the secret stash in the wardrobe, pretending not to notice.
The silence at the table was broken when Neville nudged Harry discreetly with his elbow, drawing the attention of him, Ron, and Hermione.
Leaning forward, his round face had gone pale with worry as he turned something over in his mind, and his usually kind eyes looked troubled by something deeper than his usual nervousness.
“I… I didn’t say anything about it yesterday, but...” Neville hesitated, glancing furtively around, as though afraid the very walls of the Great Hall might overhear him. “Something really odd is going on. Something that... well, it made me feel sick.”
“Lost your Remembrall again?” Ron tried to defuse the mood with a joke, but his grin faded when Neville shook his head gravely.
“No. It’s... well, if you add it to the Petrifications, and the way Filch was acting this morning—it wasn’t just some daft prank—I was hoping it was, but now it seems like there’s something properly nasty behind all of it.”
Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged looks, curiosity and concern thickening between them like fog.
“What is it, Neville?” Hermione asked, instinctively lowering her voice.
Neville swallowed hard before continuing, his fingers twisting at the edge of his knitted jumper.
“Last night, after helping Professor Sprout trim the Mandrakes—she asked me because I don’t wear gloves, and they seem to like that—I was running late because... well, uh… never mind.”
He blushed slightly, remembering how he’d spent ages rummaging through pots for his concave pruning shears, which he’d eventually found inside an empty pot sitting right on his workbench.
“The point is, I was heading back to the common room alone, just before curfew. When I got near the marble staircase, I heard Hagrid talking to Filch near the Entrance Hall, tucked in that little corner by the fourteenth-century suit of armour. And I... I stopped to listen.” He blushed even more, looking genuinely ashamed. “I know it’s wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. I was curious. Hagrid’s never in the castle at that hour—he stays in the cabin, especially with the blizzard yesterday.”
“Let me guess,” Ron interrupted, trying to mask his unease with humour. “Filch finally admitted he wears owl-print underwear?”
“Thanks for that image from the depths of hell,” Harry muttered.
Hermione tutted and shot them both a disapproving look.
“Don’t be childish,” she scolded, before turning back to Neville. “Go on, Neville. What were they saying?”
Neville took a deep breath, as if preparing to jump off a cliff.
“Hagrid was talking about... roosters.”
“Roosters?” Ron repeated, frowning.
“Yeah,” Neville confirmed, his fingers now gripping his pumpkin juice glass like it was his only anchor. “I reckon Hagrid handles some of the supply deliveries for the castle, including the roosters and chickens that go to the kitchens—at least that’s what it sounded like. And yesterday, the shipment came late because of the snow on the Hogsmeade road, so he left the cages inside his hut due to the cold. But when he got back from the Forbidden Forest with Fang after... well, doing whatever it is he does out there, all the roosters were dead. Their... their throats were slit.”
“WHAT?” Harry, Ron, and Hermione exclaimed in unison, causing several students at nearby tables to turn and stare.
Neville shrank back but pressed on, his voice now little more than a whisper.
“That’s what I heard. Hagrid said there were footprints in the snow, leading from the hut up to the castle, and that the hut’s door was left open. He looked... scared. And Filch said something like, ‘If it was the same bastard who petrified Mrs. Norris, I'll find it.’”
Harry felt a knot form in his stomach.
“What did Hagrid say?” he asked, though he already suspected the answer.
“He swore on Merlin’s name it wasn’t him,” Neville replied, eyes wide. “And said they needed to tell Dumbledore straight away. It was... it was gruesome, y’know? Just thought you lot ought to know.”
Hermione brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes glistening.
“Oh, those poor things...” she murmured, ignoring Ron’s bewildered look.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from darkly remarking that the roosters would’ve ended up in a stew anyway—but something about this story made his blood run cold.
It wasn’t just the violence; it was the intent behind it. Who would do that? And why?
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, pale. “This year’s really determined to be the weirdest one yet, isn’t it?”
Harry didn’t answer.
A shiver ran down his spine, like someone had dragged an icy finger along his vertebrae. Something was very, very wrong—and by the looks of it, it was only just beginning.
Two days had passed since the business with the roosters, and not a single word had been spoken about it. It was as if the incident had been swallowed by the deliberate silence of those who knew—if Filch or Hagrid had told anyone besides Dumbledore, that is.
The castle carried on with its routine, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something sinister was lurking beneath the surface calm.
As he stepped into the greenhouses that evening, Harry’s footsteps landed muffled on the flagstone path, nearly lost amidst the whisper of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig.
Outside, the sun had already dipped beneath the horizon, leaving behind a blanket of glittering stars and distant constellations. The great green glass dome that arched over the greenhouses seemed to catch the light from the floating magical lanterns, turning it into a golden shimmer that danced across leaves and petals, as though each plant were bathed in liquid honey.
The snow piled up outside formed a white, silent frame, but within the greenhouses, the enchanted warmth kept the cold at bay. Hermione had once said that the temperature charm was difficult and expensive to cast—especially over such a large area—but necessary if the school didn’t want to cancel Herbology lessons during the harsher seasons, letting the plants perish in the extreme cold.
The air was thick with the perfume of exotic flowers and aromatic herbs—a perfect balance of sweetness and earthiness. The stillness of the space was almost hypnotic, as though time itself moved more slowly in there. The trees, with their leaves in shades of emerald, ruby, and amber, formed a living mosaic, and the pristine lawn looked so soft that Harry had a fleeting urge to lie down on it. It was strange, he thought, that such a beautiful place went so overlooked outside lesson hours.
“There must be an explanation somewhere,” Harry reflected, as he wandered between the rows of plants.
Perhaps it was the fact that the greenhouse was, at its heart, simply a vast green glass vault, with its internal partitions forming a kind of botanical labyrinth—two layers of protection between the outside world and this hidden sanctuary.
Upon reaching the greenhouse where Neville usually worked, Harry paused at the entrance, watching.
His friend was there, humming softly under his breath, wearing a gardening apron stained with earth and a pair of sturdy gloves. With practised movements, he was applying an anti-pest potion to the Mandrake pots, so absorbed in his task that he didn’t even notice Harry’s presence.
Neville was using the gardening kit Harry had given him last Christmas. The tools—a long-handled pruner, a delicate trowel, and a small hand rake—showed clear signs of frequent use, with dried earth on the handles and tiny scratches that told stories of hours spent tending to the plants.
A smile appeared on Harry’s lips without him meaning it to.
It was comforting to see that his gift hadn’t only been well received, but was being used with such care. Neville, unlike many others, had never been afraid to get his hands dirty—literally—for something he loved.
“How are the Mandrakes doing?” Harry asked, gently breaking the focused silence of the greenhouse.
Neville jumped, nearly dropping a small bottle of powdered valerian root which he just managed to catch in time, but his alarm quickly gave way to a warm smile as he recognised his friend.
“Harry! Didn’t see you there.” His cheeks prickled slightly, flushed with embarrassment. “They’re, uh… doing all right, considering they’re in their adolescent phase. Not to be rude, but it’s definitely their worst.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Harry said with a laugh, recalling the shrill screams of the small humanoid plants during lessons.
“Don’t get me started,” Neville agreed, brushing the excess dirt from his gloved hands. “But what brings you down here? Finally taken a liking to Herbology? I’ve got a spare apron behind the door, if you fancy it.”
He gestured towards the corner of the greenhouse with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Harry noticed, not for the first time, how completely Neville changed when surrounded by his plants. There, far from the bustling corridors of Hogwarts, he wasn’t the timid boy who tripped over his own feet—he was confident, enthusiastic, almost radiant.
The greenhouses were his domain, and Neville, its unflinching prince.
“I think I’ll stick to Potions,” Harry replied with a crooked smile. “Not that I make many, considering Snape… well, is Snape. If I told him I wanted to practise outside class, he’d probably chuck me off the Astronomy Tower or make me clean cauldrons till I retired.”
Neville let out a genuine laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve taken to Potions,” he said with real sincerity. “Me, I prefer to keep a healthy distance from anything involving Snape and bubbling liquids. But… I know it’s important to you, and that’s what matters.”
Harry felt a sudden warmth in his chest at those words.
He rarely spoke about how this academic path connected to his mother’s memory—with Ron and Hermione, the topic only came up in rare moments.
But it was different with Neville.
Perhaps because he too bore the weight of a family legacy, or perhaps because he understood—better than anyone—what it was like to long for something you didn’t truly remember having, but desperately wished you had.
“Yeah, it’s been… interesting,” Harry murmured, glancing absently at a Mandrake buried in its pot, its leaves swaying slightly. “I keep wondering what it was that made my mum fall in love with Potions.”
“‘Interesting’ is a good word,” Neville agreed, his smile softening into something more thoughtful. “My gran always says my mum loved Herbology. Says she’d go on for hours about the smell of the soil-prepping draught—that sweet, resinous scent that hangs in the air for days.”
Harry chuckled, the image forming vividly in his mind.
“I only hope my mum didn’t like Potions because of the smell of blind-worm. That’d be rather depressing.”
Neville laughed with him, but Harry swiftly changed the subject.
“Actually, I came to get you,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his cloak. “Dinner’s nearly over, and Ron and Hermione are waiting for us. You’re starting to be late again.”
Neville let out a deep sigh, as if being torn away from a pleasant dream, and began peeling off his soil-stained gloves.
“I know, I know... it’s just that I completely lose track of time in here,” he admitted, hanging up his apron on a nearby hook. “I don’t have a watch and, well, you know what I’m like with time charms...”
He waved vaguely towards his wand, which lay abandoned on a dusty shelf.
Harry felt a pang in his chest at how Neville practically ignored the magical instrument.
It was a quiet reminder that, while Harry himself was struggling with his new reputation as a dark petrifier and the Heir of Slytherin, Neville was fighting battles of his own—no less painful, though far more personal.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” said Harry, giving his friend an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “That’s why they always send someone to rescue you, isn’t it?”
“Not that I’m complaining,” Neville murmured, turning his gaze to the plants. “It’s just that...”
He swallowed hard, leaving the sentence to hang in the humid air of the greenhouse.
Harry didn’t need him to finish.
“I know,” he said simply, before forcing a smile to lift the mood. “But I reckon we should go. If Professor Sprout catches you in here at this hour again, she’ll turn you into fertiliser.”
Neville finally laughed, the sound ringing through the plants like a wind chime.
“Don’t you dare tell her, James,” he warned, pointing an accusatory finger. “Or she’ll have my hide before I can take yours—and that’d be a historical injustice.”
Harry clutched his chest with theatrical horror.
“Not even in my worst nightmares would I do that, uh... Longbottom... or Neville. You don’t have a middle name.”
“I told you it was more practical than a hyphenated one,” Neville said with a shrug and a faint smile.
The two of them left the greenhouse together, their footsteps echoing along the cold stone corridors as they made their way to the Great Hall.
The conversation drifted naturally to the Defence Against the Dark Arts essay due the following day—a piece of homework that Harry, Ron and Neville had conveniently “forgotten” about, despite Hermione’s many reminders, and her terrifying threats about having to repeat the subject.
Harry already knew it was going to be a long night, filled with writing about how Lockhart had supposedly defeated three vampires in Silesia using skills he never demonstrated in class.
Ron, however, had made it clear he wouldn’t waste his precious time doing anything for Lockhart until the absolute last minute—an opinion that, though unspoken, Harry and Neville quietly shared.
“Don’t know what we’d do without her,” Harry sighed. “If Hermione didn’t actually care about schoolwork, I’d probably have Troll marks in everything. She’s the one who reminds us about all this random homework. Imagine if she’d ended up in Ravenclaw instead of Gryffindor? Or if she’d decided not to hang out with us?”
Neville gave a short laugh.
“If that had happened, we’d probably still be in first year. That’s why it’s always worth saying thank you. I’ve noticed she gets really pleased when we do. She tries not to show it, but she does.” Neville then seemed to consider something to himself. “But oddly enough, I think she looks even happier when you compliment her, for some reason.”
“It’s because my compliments come from the heart, Nev,” said Harry, as though it were self-evident. “Unlike saying thank you just for doing what you’re supposed to.”
Neville smiled, shaking his head.
“Well, if you follow that logic, then I reckon Ron only says thanks out of relief that she’s still helping him... not obligation.”
“Even so, he needs to take it easier,” said Harry, frowning. “He knows she gets upset when he goes on about Lockhart. Even if Lockhart is a complete idiot, I don’t say that sort of thing around her.”
Neville raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry rolled his eyes.
“Fine, I try not to say anything—but seriously, the whole taking-the-bones-out-of-my-leg thing still pisses me off when she defends him,” Harry said. “But besides that, you know I keep quiet and don’t say anything.”
Neville looked like he was about to reply, but Harry didn’t hear him.
The air around him suddenly turned to ice, as if every window in the castle had been thrown open at once. He stopped dead in his tracks, unable to move his legs. Time seemed to freeze.
A familiar voice, low and menacing, slid through the empty corridor.
“This one will be next... I will get you all... kill you one by one... your blood will be my triumph...”
A chill climbed Harry’s spine.
That voice was both a whisper and a scream, reverberating as if it echoed inside his head. His eyes widened in alarm, desperately scanning for the source.
Neville stopped beside him, his face creased with concern.
“Harry?”
Harry didn’t answer at once, his eyes searching the shadows. The corridor was empty, but the sense of threat hung oppressively in the air.
Neville stepped closer.
“Er... are you—”
“AAH!—”
A boy’s scream cut through the air, only to be silenced abruptly, as if the very voice had been torn from him.
“W-what was that?” Neville asked, eyes wide with fear.
“The voice! It’s the voice! Someone’s in danger!” Harry replied urgently.
Neville went pale.
“What do we do?” he asked, looking left and right as though the danger could leap at them from any direction. “Run—?”
“Come on! I think it came from this way!” Harry shouted, already sprinting down the corridor in the direction he thought the sound had come from.
The corridors were deserted, darkness beginning to creep into the corners, and the sound of their footsteps echoed off the walls, mingling with their rapid breaths.
As they moved forward, a thin layer of water began to pool on the floor, making their footsteps even louder with sharp clip-clops.
Harry ran as fast as he could, but Neville, breathing through his mouth and lacking stamina, began to fall behind.
“Wait!... wait…” Neville panted softly, but Harry didn’t hear and kept running—a second more and something dreadful could happen, and he wouldn’t allow it.
When Harry whipped round a corner to the right, his heart nearly stopped.
In front of him, near a portrait of wizards playing cards and banners bearing the crests of the Hogwarts Houses, was a sight that made his eyes widen in sheer shock.
Justin Finch-Fletchley, the fellow Hufflepuff in their year, was lying on the ground, completely motionless.
He looked like a toppled statue, eyes wide with terror staring downward, his expression frozen in a silent scream, arms raised as though trying to shield himself from something.
Beside him, slumped against the wall with his head hanging, was Nearly Headless Nick. His mouth hung open as though he had tried to speak, and his eyes were rolled back, giving him an even more unsettling and morbid appearance.
A large puddle of water had spread across the floor, as if someone had left a tap running, and Harry barely noticed the line of spiders scuttling frantically through an open window.
“Bloody hell!” Harry swore, running to Justin.
He knelt down beside the boy and checked his condition. He let out a sigh of relief.
From what he remembered of Madam Pomfrey’s explanation about Colin Creevey’s petrified state—overheard when she’d spoken to the professors—and based on the signs Justin showed, he was petrified too, but not dead.
Before Harry could examine Nearly Headless Nick, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.
He turned and saw Ernie Macmillan, Roger Malone, and Wayne Hopkins—all Hufflepuffs—stopping at the end of the hall.
The three froze as they took in the scene before them, eyes wide, clearly horrified.
“POTTER! HE KILLED—HE KILLED JUSTIN!” Ernie bellowed, struggling to draw his wand with a hand trembling with nerves.
Harry shot to his feet, raising his hands.
“No! He’s not dead!” he cried, desperate to clear the misunderstanding. “I just got here—”
“LIAR! We know you’re the Heir, Potter!” Wayne shouted, pointing his wand with a furious expression. “Y-you talk to snakes! A-and you spoke to that snake right in front of us!—in front of everyone! You nearly set it on Justin yesterday! Get away from him!”
Neville finally arrived, breathless, clutching his side. He was gasping, trying to catch his breath.
When he saw the Hufflepuffs aiming their wands at Harry, something seemed to jolt him into action, and he didn’t hesitate to draw his own broken wand, hands shaking, in defence of his best friend.
“He-he didn’t d-do anything!” Neville said, wheezing. “He was with me in the greenhouses just now!”
The three boys turned their nervous gazes to Neville.
“Longbottom’s in on it?!” Wayne exclaimed, voice wavering. “We knew something was off, it’s the two of you!”
Harry saw the three wands shifting their aim to Neville, and his blood boiled. He whipped out his wand and pointed it straight back at them the moment he had the chance.
“Drop your wands!” he barked, brandishing his holly wand. “We didn’t do anything!”
“It’s obvious it was you two!” Ernie snapped back. “Everything always points to you!”
“You’ve caused enough trouble, Potter!” added Roger. “There’s three of us and Longbottom hasn’t even got a proper wand!”
Harry gripped his wand tighter, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“I’m not putting down my wand!” he said stubbornly.
Only a fool would disarm himself when those three were clearly on edge, panic mingling with fear. Harry had no idea what they might try if he and Neville let their guard down.
“What’s all this racket?!” came a firm voice from behind Harry.
He turned to see Professor Sprout marching towards them.
“Professor! Potter killed Justin! It was him!” Ernie shouted, frantic.
“Wands down, all of you. NOW!” Professor Sprout ordered, her voice brooking no argument.
Hesitantly, they all obeyed.
Before anyone could speak again, voices echoed down the corridor, and a crowd of students appeared on the other side—followed by Dumbledore, McGonagall, and, lagging slightly behind, Snape.
Dumbledore looked exhausted, his eyes heavy. McGonagall stared at Harry in disbelief. Snape, on the other hand, swept his piercing gaze over the students, who shrank back at his very presence, giving him room to pass.
“Out of the way,” Snape growled, his expression severe.
The students backed off, but their eyes remained fixed on Harry, who was still near Justin’s body.
He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of every gaze on him. This had escalated far too quickly.
McGonagall and Dumbledore approached, taking in the sight of their student and the Gryffindor ghost.
“We heard the shouting from the Great Hall,” said McGonagall briskly, her voice grave. “What is going on here?”
“Mr Finch-Fletchley’s been petrified,” said Sprout at once, crouching to examine the boy’s body. “Where’s Poppy?”
“I’m here!” Madam Pomfrey burst onto the scene like a whirlwind of efficiency, her nurse’s robes billowing as she ran.
Without pause, she knelt beside Justin, her sharp eyes making a rapid assessment with the air of someone who had seen far too much.
“No time to waste,” she declared, already casting a non-verbal levitation charm with a precise flick of her wand. “He’s going straight to the Hospital Wing. The sooner I run diagnostic spells, the better.”
As Justin floated down the corridor, carried by the charm, the students nearby couldn’t help but whisper nervously in Harry’s direction, who stood silently beside Neville—both of them now receiving the accusatory stares of the three Hufflepuff boys—stares that marked them not as suspects, but as condemned traitors.
“Seems Mr Nicholas has experienced… another form of death in the afterlife,” said Dumbledore calmly, his eyes settling on the frozen ghost. “Do not worry, he cannot truly die. He’ll be able to speak with us again soon, though I fear he will forget everything that happened before this incident. It’s a consequence of dying when one is already dead, I’m afraid.”
Professor Sprout then turned to the pale boy quivering beside Harry, her tone softening slightly.
“Mr Longbottom,” she called, in a voice that, though firm, was nonetheless kind. “You were in the greenhouses, I know. Can you tell us what happened?”
Neville swallowed hard, his fingers twisting together nervously as his brown eyes avoided those of any professor.
“Harry came to get me so we could go to dinner, but then…” He faltered, feeling the weight of their stares pressing down on him like stones strapped to his back.
Telling them about the strange voices Harry had heard would only pour oil on the fire—he was certain of that.
“Then?” pressed Professor McGonagall, her square spectacles reflecting the torchlight as she fixed Neville with a piercing gaze.
“We heard a scream,” Neville finally admitted, the words emerging in a whisper. “And we ran over here. Harry's faster than me, so he got here first. When I turned the corner, they were already… well, already fighting.”
Sprout then directed her attention to the three Hufflepuff boys, who seemed to be feeding off one another’s indignation.
“And you three? What do you have to say?”
Wayne spoke first, his eyes darting nervously between Harry and the professors. What followed was a rapid exchange between them, their anxious words spilling faster than their mouths could keep up.
“Justin stayed behind to chat with Nick,” he explained, wiping sweaty palms on his robes. “So we went on to the Great Hall. But then we heard a scream and came running back—”
“That’s when we saw Potter on top of Justin!” Ernie cut in, his accusing finger trembling as it pointed at Harry. “He petrified him! And he probably killed Nearly Headless Nick as well!”
“You just said I’d killed Justin!” Harry exploded, his face burning as though he’d been left out under desert sun. His chest was rising and falling rapidly under the weight of the injustice. “It’s all lies! I’d only just got here! You lot were the ones who pointed your wands first!”
Roger Davies let out a sneer of a laugh.
“Everyone knows you talk to snakes, Potter!” he spat, the words like venom. “It was looking straight at Justin before you started hissing at it during the duel—”
As Roger spoke, Harry felt each accusation strike like a physical blow. The looks—so sure of his guilt—burned hotter against his skin than any spell. A hot, bitter fury bubbled in his chest, indignation so intense it nearly choked him.
Roger pressed on, fired up: “—you were controlling—”
“I DIDN’T CONTROL ANYTHING!” Harry roared, his voice echoing through the stone corridor like thunder.
Before he could stop himself, a wave of raw magical energy burst from his body, making his black hair whip around as though caught in a storm. The nearest students instinctively stepped back, a few swallowing hard at the sudden rush of warm air emanating from Harry.
“See?!” Ernie shouted triumphantly, his finger now shaking even more. “He’s—”
“ENOUGH!”
Dumbledore’s voice cut through the air like a blade, so powerful even the torches seemed to flicker.
The Headmaster stepped forward through the crowd with a presence that demanded immediate silence. When he reached Harry, his wizened hand came to rest gently on the boy’s shoulder, like a bird landing on a branch.
Harry blinked several times, as if waking from a trance, the fury within him vanishing as swiftly as it had come. His shoulders sagged slightly, and he lowered his eyes, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. He didn’t dare look at anyone, knowing he wouldn’t like what he saw on their frightened faces.
But Dumbledore did not scold him.
Instead, his grip on Harry’s shoulder remained firm, yet comforting—a silent communication as clear as words: “I’m here. You are not alone.”
“Please, everyone, calm yourselves,” said Dumbledore now, his voice gentle, though his blue eyes remained unwaveringly serious. “Let us not be hasty, Mr Macmillan, Mr Malone, Mr Hopkins. Do you possess concrete evidence against Mr Potter and Mr Longbottom? Or merely accusations based on assumptions drawn from what you saw after the fact?”
Ernie opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated, the certainty once written across his face now crumbling.
“Well… we don’t have evidence exactly,” he admitted at last, shoulders drooping beneath the weight of the confession. “But it’s obvious they did it, sir!”
Dumbledore raised one silver eyebrow, his penetrating gaze seeming to see far beyond the young Hufflepuff’s words.
“And this ‘obviousness’,” he asked with a calm at odds with the corridor’s tension, “would that be enough to condemn someone without evidence? Professor Binns, I believe, has already taught you about the horrors our community once faced due to baseless accusations, hasn’t he, Mr Macmillan?”
Harry grasped the reference instantly—the medieval persecutions, the bonfires that had consumed so many innocent witches and Muggles, all born of unfounded suspicions. The message was crystal clear.
The three Hufflepuffs exchanged uncomfortable glances, their feet shuffling nervously against the stone floor. None of them dared argue with the Headmaster.
“Then let us remain calm,” Dumbledore continued, his voice firm but not harsh. “And please, put your wands away. This is not how we resolve conflict.”
He then turned to a nearby portrait showing a group of wizards playing cards—though they had now upturned the table and were cowering behind it—and addressed the painted figures politely:
“Noble sirs, forgive me for disturbing your game this evening. But might you tell us what you witnessed here?”
Two of the wizards cautiously raised their heads above the overturned table.
“We only heard the scream and… well, we hid!” confessed one, his painted eyes wide with fear.
“Yes, didn’t see a thing!” added the other, before both ducked back down.
Dumbledore gave a soft sigh, as though he had expected as much.
Then, a translucent figure shot out from the wall with a sudden swoop—Peeves, the poltergeist, though in a state Harry had never seen before.
The normally manic spirit was now gnawing frantically at his own nails, his eyes bulging like marbles trapped in sockets.
“I—I saw it, Headmaster! I saw the whole thing!” Peeves cried, his shrill voice uncharacteristically serious.
“Excellent, Peeves,” Dumbledore encouraged, making a welcoming gesture. “Do us the honour of being our witness in this darkness.”
Peeves floated to the centre of the corridor, his usually jittery form now visibly trembling.
“It was… it was huge! Like, massive!” He gesticulated wildly, arms flinging wide. “And it moved fast! Like those fireworks I dropped on that grubby student last week! There were already puddles on the floor but this thing left a trail even bigger all over it!”
“Huge, you say?” Dumbledore tilted his head, blue eyes narrowing beneath silver brows. “Peeves, can you describe exactly what was so large?”
The poltergeist shook his head violently, eyes wide.
“It all happened so fast! But it was awful! Had horrible, slimy green skin!” He shuddered. “I was about to play a prank on that distracted Hufflepuff, but then I saw Nick being… being attacked, and I heard the boy scream, and that sound—like something dragging… I legged it! Hid in the first vase I could find! That Chamber of Secrets stuff, n-no-no, I-I-I don’t mess with that, Headmaster! I was here when Salazar himself made it clear what it was for, and nothing—nothing—good’s ever come of it…”
They said Peeves had existed since the earliest days of Hogwarts, a living witness to the castle’s every secret.
Harry had never seen him so genuinely terrified—the spirit who normally revelled in chaos now looked as if he’d come face-to-face with something even he feared.
As they say, a madman only becomes sane when he meets someone madder still—for Peeves, that someone might well have been Salazar Slytherin himself.
Dumbledore gave a slow nod, his face as unreadable as ever.
“Thank you, Peeves. Your courage is commendable.”
He then turned to the crowd of students gathering in the corridor and raised his voice:
“Now, all of you. To your beds,” he said clearly. “Dinner ended some time ago. Professors McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, and Snape—please escort your respective Houses and ensure all students remain in their common rooms tonight. I shall expect the four of you in my office before ten o’clock.”
There was no room for argument in his tone, and even Snape offered only the smallest of nods. The corridor still thrummed with the energy of what had just occurred, but the Headmaster’s authority imposed a temporary calm, like oil over troubled waters.
As the professors and students began to disperse, muttering and exchanging nervous looks, Harry spotted Ron and Hermione in the crowd, their faces tight with worry.
He wanted to run to them, but Dumbledore caught his attention.
“Harry,” he said kindly. “Would you accompany me? I need to speak with you in private. Mr Longbottom, you may return directly to your common room—Professor McGonagall will see to it that you’re given something to eat, as you missed supper.”
Harry and Neville exchanged a glance, as though each were searching the other for a strength neither of them felt. The weight of suspicion hung over them like a thick, choking fog.
Dumbledore’s words, however reassuring, would not be enough to dispel the doubts now circling them.
To the rest of the school, Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, and Neville was merely his accomplice. More than ever, they felt like Hogwarts’ new outcasts, no matter what they said.
It all started at the entrance, facing the gargoyle, where Dumbledore said his secret password: "Lemon Sherbet."
It couldn't have been more comical.
So, of all the places Harry visited at Hogwarts, the Headmaster's office was by far the most fascinating. The oval-shaped room had an air of grandeur and mystery
In the far corner, an imposing chair that resembled a throne stood behind a desk cluttered with unfurled scrolls and curious magical instruments. Several contraptions emitted puffs of smoke or strange noises, as though they were alive. The bookshelves lining the walls were filled with ancient tomes, surprisingly well-preserved. A cluster of portraits adorned an entire wall, depicting former Headmasters and professors of Hogwarts.
At the centre of it all, a magnificent portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw stood out, her eyes seeming to follow Harry’s every movement with silent curiosity.
Harry noticed a magnificent bird perched on a stand beside the chair.
It was large, with crimson and gold feathers that shimmered gently in the office light. The creature tilted its head at him, letting out a rough, melodic trill, its dark eyes seeming to pierce straight into his soul.
“Ah, I see Fawkes has taken to you already, just from a single chirp. That’s a good sign,” said Dumbledore, a gentle smile lighting up his face as he watched the interaction. “He’s always had a certain knack for people.”
“Fawkes? The phoenix?” asked Harry, his green eyes shining with curiosity as he studied the majestic bird.
“Oh?” Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You know him already? Well, I suppose he’s rather hard to mistake. Phoenixes aren’t exactly common creatures. In fact, he might be the only one for several miles. Sadly, their healing properties have long made them targets for greedy wizards, and now there are few of his kind left.”
“I’d heard of him, but only by name,” Harry explained. “Ollivander mentioned him when I bought my wand. The core came from one of his feathers.”
“Did it now? Might I have a look?” Dumbledore asked. “I must admit, my curiosity often gets the better of me—I suspect it’s the academic in me.”
He took his wand from his pocket to show him, and Fawkes observed closely.
Dumbledore paused for a moment, examining the wand, his face turning serious and contemplative, as though pondering something profound. His eyes sparkled behind his half-moon spectacles, and for a fleeting instant, Harry felt the Headmaster was seeing far more than he could ever guess.
“That is... interesting, to say the least,” Dumbledore said at last, his voice soft and thoughtful. He reached out and gently stroked Fawkes’ head, who leaned into the touch, letting out a soft trill. “I suppose you’ve never seen the result of your donation, have you, my friend?”
Fawkes let out another chirp, this one louder, almost as if laughing. Dumbledore laughed as well—a warm, comforting sound that echoed through the office.
Harry continued to survey the room.
In the opposite corner, a fireplace glowed with lively flames, casting dancing shadows across the chamber. Upon a nearby dresser, the Sorting Hat rested, completely asleep in a deep magical slumber.
Ron had once wondered aloud to Harry, as they wandered aimlessly through the castle, what on earth the Sorting Hat did during the rest of the year, outside of the Sorting Ceremony.
“Apparently, it naps,” Harry had mused.
To this day, he still didn’t understand what exactly the enigmatic hat had meant during his Sorting. It had implied he resembled someone it had placed in a House before.
Now, who that was? That was a very good question.
If he went by one of Hermione’s theories, she’d likely suggest it was Merlin, simply because, according to her, he’d spoken to dragons. But Harry rejected that idea flatly.
He only hoped it hadn’t been someone terrible or wicked—but since he could speak to snakes... he feared it might’ve been Salazar himself.
Setting that aside, he also noticed a dim, violet crystal orb perched on a simple stand in one corner of the office. Harry stared at it for a few moments, wondering what on earth it might be used for.
Dumbledore, who had been quietly observing Harry surveying the room, smiled faintly. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a well-cushioned chair before his desk.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward the chair.
Harry sat down and watched Dumbledore—clearly with some effort, due to his age—lower himself into the ornate chair across from him.
“Would you like one? Do help yourself,” Dumbledore offered, pointing to a small dish of Sherbet Lemons on his desk.
Harry hesitated but took one.
“Thank you.”
The flavour combined a sharp lemony tang with a sweet, zesty edge that tickled his tongue. Harry had to admit—this was a far better welcome treat than Hagrid’s rock cakes.
“These sweets are something of a guilty pleasure of mine, I must confess,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Not terribly common in the wizarding world, but I’ve always had a fondness for Muggle sweets. No unpredictable flavours or unexpected explosions, like in Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. These, at least, are... reliable, shall we say.” He chuckled lightly. “And there’s something comforting in that, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yeah, I usually have bad luck with the beans,” Harry admitted.
“Oh, I feel your pain,” Dumbledore remarked lightly. “It’s terribly disappointing to crave something sweet after tea and end up with worm flavour—or worse, vomit.”
He pulled a slight face, though his expression made it clear he was enjoying himself.
“I’ve had that happen more times than I’d care to admit,” the Headmaster said.
Harry bit into the sweet and laughed.
“That’s a good one.” He nodded. “I’d never tried it before.”
“Oh?” Dumbledore arched his eyebrows, curious.
“We had them at home, but...” Harry looked away, hesitant, cursing himself for speaking. “I never... never really felt like eating them.” He lied.
Dumbledore remained silent for a moment, his expression one of quiet, melancholic understanding.
He sighed softly, then resumed in a lighter tone.
“Well, now that we’re far from prying eyes, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you, Harry. No rush.”
Harry nodded, a bit nervous, but listening intently.
“I’ve heard a few rumours...” Dumbledore began, his voice as calm as ever. “That you’re a Parselmouth. Is that true?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Uh... well, I think so,” he replied hesitantly.
Dumbledore raised a pacifying hand.
“No need to worry—I’m not here to judge. In fact, I must confess, I studied quite a bit of the snake language myself,” the Headmaster said serenely. “Though I never managed fluency—not even close. My pronunciation of certain words, like schsss and salschhh, leaves much to be desired.” He gave a small laugh.
Harry relaxed slightly and allowed himself a shy smile.
“Yes, sir... I think I understand what they’re saying, but... I don’t know how or why.”
The Headmaster murmured in agreement.
“Fascinating,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s a rare gift, academically under-explored and, sadly, often misunderstood. But tell me—why did you pick up that snake?”
“I... I felt something from it,” Harry explained, surprised by his own honesty. “It wasn’t evil—it actually asked me to help.”
“Oh? With what?”
“To take it outside. I could tell it was scared and felt threatened, but when it spoke to me, it seemed to calm down.” Harry frowned. “It just... felt like the right thing to do, and I didn’t think anyone would see a problem with it. But then Professor Snape destroyed it before I could do anything.”
Speaking the words aloud made him feel the weight of Snape’s cruelty. The snake had seemed gentle, and the Potions Master had vanished it without a second thought.
“I understand. Even a conjured animal has feelings, instincts, emotions—it is still a creature, after all, despite being magical,” Dumbledore mused. “And had you spoken to snakes before?”
“Yes, just once when I was younger, at a zoo.” He nodded. “But both times, they called me... a speaker. I don’t know what that means.”
“Ah, that stems from your nature as a natural Parselmouth,” Dumbledore explained, interlacing his fingers on the desk. “I can’t speak to a snake—not really—though I can roughly understand some of what it says. But it’s very hard to interpret, and they wouldn’t respect me for it. A natural Parselmouth, on the other hand, instinctively draws snakes to them—and they might even show loyalty, depending on the individual case.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Harry nodded.
Dumbledore paused, reclining slightly in his comfortable chair as his long fingers stroked his silver beard thoughtfully. His blue eyes glinted behind his half-moon spectacles, as if seeing something far beyond the office walls.
“Ah, how careless of me,” he murmured, more to himself than to Harry. “I forgot to ask—have you had supper? I don’t recall seeing you in the Great Hall this evening.”
“Oh, um... no, Professor,” replied Harry, surprised by the unexpected question. “I was on my way when... well, when everything happened.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling with understanding. “In that case, allow me to remedy the situation. I must admit, amidst all the commotion, my own snack was left quite neglected.”
With a gentle snap of his fingers, the sound echoing oddly in the circular room, a house-elf appeared with a small pop, carrying a tray of turkey sandwiches and two glasses of peach juice, which gave off a sweet, fresh aroma.
“I’ve developed something of a fondness for peach juice lately,” Dumbledore remarked, offering Harry a glass, his eyes twinkling as though sharing a private joke. “After so many years of pumpkin juice, it’s refreshing to discover there are other options. I should read the fine print on the menu for alternative drinks more often.”
Harry couldn’t help but smile as he accepted the unexpected snack.
As they ate, Dumbledore asked about his lessons with genuine interest, occasionally sharing stories from his own days as a Hogwarts student—some so absurd that Harry nearly choked on his juice from laughing.
“When I was in my fourth year, I was caught out of bed—a grave mistake, of course,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I had to scrub the entire fifth-floor corridor whilst singing, no less. Our caretaker was far grumpier if you didn’t sing while you worked.”
It was a strangely comforting feeling—knowing that, amid all the mysteries and dangers unfolding, there was at least one adult who simply... cared about him being there.
There was Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, of course, but adding Dumbledore to that list only strengthened the feeling.
“Now, to change the subject slightly, might I ask you a favour?” the Headmaster asked politely, once they’d eaten in peace.
“Of course, Professor.”
“I’ll need you to be completely honest with me,” said the Headmaster, his expression growing serious. “The petrifications have been troubling, and I need every piece of information in order to help put a stop to them. You were the first to arrive at the scene today, when Mr Finch-Fletchley was petrified—and Sir Nicholas... passed on, so to speak.”
“Yes, I was the first there when I heard the scream.” Harry nodded.
Dumbledore considered this for a moment before asking,
“And was it just the scream that drew your attention, as Mr Longbottom reported, or was there something more?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
The last thing he wanted was to seem mad—especially to the Headmaster—by admitting he’d been hearing voices.
“I ask because, on Hallowe’en,” Dumbledore continued, his tone patient, “I noticed you running down the corridor just before we discovered Mrs Norris, petrified. It was as though you already knew something dreadful had happened.”
Harry swallowed hard. The words seemed stuck in his throat, but he knew Dumbledore wasn’t someone who would judge him without cause.
Harry hesitated, trying to find the right words.
“I... I...” he stammered, looking at Dumbledore, as though seeking permission to speak.
“Don’t be afraid, Harry,” Dumbledore said calmly. “As I said, I’m here to help. There’s an old saying: ‘the one who holds the most information wins any battle’. The more we know, the better prepared we’ll be. And rest assured, what you share with me stays between us, just as it did in the case of Professor Quirrell last year.”
Harry took a deep breath, the Headmaster’s reassuring words settling in his chest.
“I’ve been... hearing voices,” he said in a low voice. “But I don’t know why. I don’t want to hear them, but they’re... they’re loud, like they’re calling me, and always right before something awful happens.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows slightly, his interest clearly piqued.
“Voices? What kind of voices, exactly?”
Gathering his courage, Harry told him everything.
From the first time he’d heard them, during detention with Snape earlier that term, to the terrifying intensity of the sound—like deafening whispers, impossible to ignore even with his ears covered. He explained how the voices always seemed to precede something terrible.
The Headmaster listened in silence, his blue eyes gleaming under the flickering light of the office as Harry spoke. When he finished, Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk.
“Harry,” he said gently, “if these voices return, I ask that you come to me immediately, all right? No matter the hour. I fear it is becoming clearer that these voices may be the very creature of Salazar Slytherin itself—perhaps, in some way, trying to warn or announce its actions. What intrigues me is why you, of all people, seem to be the only one able to hear it.”
A shiver ran down Harry’s spine.
It was bad enough being the subject of rumours, being accused of petrifying people and leaving messages in blood on the walls. Now, it seemed he’d become the chosen target of some ancient monster.
He swallowed hard, trying to shake the unsettling thought.
“Do you know anything more about the Chamber of Secrets?” Dumbledore asked, his eyes studying Harry intently. “Any visions, or perhaps the voices have said something important?”
Harry hesitated before replying.
“Well, there’s a house-elf who’s been acting strangely around me since before I came to Hogwarts, Dobby.”
Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled with interest.
“Dobby?” he repeated thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I don’t know him. He certainly isn’t one of ours—I'd know if he were. Please, go on.”
Harry explained everything he knew about the elf—from his desperate attempts to stop Harry returning to school to his constant warnings of danger. He also mentioned Dobby’s peculiar behaviour, how he seemed to punish himself constantly for disobedience.
“He was odd,” said Harry, recalling the little elf. “He kept hitting himself or doing something to punish himself—I think for telling me things he wasn’t supposed to.”
Dumbledore nodded, thoughtful.
“If he’s doing that, it’s likely he’s clearly violating his master’s orders. His punishment was probably set by whoever he serves. It would seem Dobby isn’t quite as loyal as his master believes—a rare thing, indeed. Most house-elves carry out tasks without hesitation or complaint. At least, that’s how they appear to us—they do seem to enjoy serving.”
Harry nodded as well, though he couldn’t shake his curiosity about who Dobby’s master might be. Whoever it was, they seemed to know a great deal about what was going on—and were determined to stop Harry from finding out more.
After a moment of quiet reflection, Dumbledore offered a warm smile.
“I know you’ve had to face far more than anyone your age should. I’m deeply sorry you’ve had to endure such dark times.”
“It’s all right...” Harry sighed and nodded.
“But do understand—no darkness lasts forever,” said the Headmaster. “The light always finds its way into even the darkest corners. So know this—I have full faith in you. So does Professor McGonagall, and many others on the staff. We know who you are, Harry. So don’t let cruel rumours dim your light. Agreed?”
Harry felt a warm glow stir within at those words.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, a shy smile forming on his face.
“Good.” Dumbledore nodded, seemingly satisfied.
The Headmaster adjusted his posture, adopting a more relaxed air—though his blue eyes still watched Harry with that piercing perceptiveness that always seemed to see beyond the surface.
“Now, before I let you rest—for I imagine you’re exhausted, and I shan’t interfere with your precious sleep—allow me to touch on a lighter subject.”
“Of course, Professor,” Harry replied, his shoulders easing slightly.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Dumbledore went on, rubbing a finger thoughtfully along his chin, “that you’ve been spending a great deal of time with Messrs Longbottom, Weasley, and Miss Granger. It appears you’ve formed quite a special bond with them.”
A warmth spread through Harry’s chest at the thought of his friends.
“I don’t know what I’d do without them,” he admitted, his green eyes shining with sincerity. “We do practically everything together. They’re... they’re my best friends.”
“How wonderful. Good to know your friendships are strong.” Dumbledore inclined his head, and Harry could’ve sworn the half-moon spectacles caught a special glint. “And how are things with Miss Granger, if I may ask? If memory serves, you were... a little distant at the start of last year. But from what I’ve observed, you’ve mended that quite admirably?”
Harry knew the Headmaster already knew the answer—after all, who could forget how Hermione had sat beside him for hours in the hospital wing after the troll incident? Still, a spontaneous smile crept onto his face at the memory.
“Yes, after Hallowe’en we got on better than ever,” said Harry with a shy grin. “We’ve never had a problem since. Honestly, I don’t know what Neville, Ron, and I would do without her. Hermione’s brilliant. And seriously talented—I wouldn’t want to be caught between her and her wand in a duel again, that’s for sure.” He chuckled.
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard about your memorable duel,” Dumbledore commented. “Six minutes is an impressive length for second-year students. Do pass along my congratulations to Miss Granger when you see her—you demonstrated remarkable agility in dodging spells, even managing to conjure a perfectly formed bird, a feat many older students haven’t yet mastered. Meanwhile, Miss Granger, according to Professor Snape’s assessments, displayed an impressive knowledge of non-lethal spells.”
Harry blinked, surprised.
Snape, praising them? That was rarer than a tamed dragon. But on second thought, perhaps they were simply professional observations the Potions Master was obliged to record.
“Will do,” promised Harry, imagining how Hermione would react—she’d likely recite every spell used in the duel with surgical precision and analyse each movement for hours, her eyes alight with satisfaction.
“Excellent.” Dumbledore nodded, stroking his beard, gazing into the fire for a moment, the lenses of his glasses catching the flickering light in golden glints. “And tell me—how do you explain lasting so long in that duel? A formal platform duel is notoriously difficult—there’s nowhere to run or hide; it all depends solely on spellwork and a wizard’s judgement.”
Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to put into words what he’d felt.
“Well, I can't quite explain it,” he admitted. “But while we were there… it was like I just knew what to do. I'd look at Hermione and somehow I knew how to dodge, or where her next spell would come from. I think that’s why it dragged on—we both kept doing the same thing, really. I nearly wore her out, but… well, in the end she won when I stopped the duel to check if she was all right after she went flying from a Flipendo. Then she levitated me and disarmed me.”
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed brightly at this, as if Harry had said something deeply significant. His smile turned distant for a moment, before returning his full attention to the present.
“Fascinating,” he murmured. “Might I offer a piece of advice from an old wizard who's done his fair share of duelling in his day?”
“As if anyone in their right mind would turn down advice from the wizard who defeated Grindelwald,” Harry thought.
“Of course,” he said, leaning in, eager to hear what the Headmaster had to share.
“Treat every duel you have with Miss Granger as… how shall I put it? Special,” said Dumbledore, his enigmatic tone making Fawkes lift his head in interest. “That connection you felt with her, that ability to anticipate her moves and instinctively know what she'd do... I assure you, you won't experience it with other witches or wizards—not in quite the same way.”
“Oh… uh… right, understood,” Harry nodded, trying to mask the flicker of disappointment.
He’d hoped for tips on advanced spells, defensive manoeuvres, or at least clever ways to open an attack. Harry was so disappointed that he did not ask any more questions about this strange advice.
Noticing his puzzled expression, Dumbledore smiled kindly, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling with warmth.
“I'm truly glad you’ve found such loyal friends,” he said at last, his voice tinged with rare emotion. “Friendships like these, Harry, are the foundations upon which we build our lives. These bonds shape us and give us strength in our darkest hours. Keep them close to your heart, will you promise me that?”
Harry felt a warm knot form in his throat as he nodded firmly.
“Yes, Professor. That's exactly what I intend to do.”
He would never abandon his friends.
They were his safe harbour—Ron, with a sense of humour that could brighten even the darkest day; Hermione, with her brilliant mind and even bigger heart; Neville, with a quiet bravery that never stopped surprising him.
Each one unique.
Each one irreplaceable.
Sometimes, on the loneliest nights in the dormitory, Harry wondered whether he deserved such friendship from them.
“Probably not,” he almost always concluded.
Which only made him feel even luckier to have them by his side, facing whatever the future held together.
Dumbledore drew his wand from the sleeve of his robes and cast a silent Tempus Revelio, a silvery clock appearing in the air before him.
Upon seeing the late hour, he sighed.
“My time has slipped by faster than I expected. Looks like these old bones will pay the price tomorrow—and my night is not yet over. Well, occupational hazard, isn’t it? In any case, it’s time for you to get some rest. I suggest you turn in early. Tomorrow’s a full day of lessons, and we both know Professor McGonagall doesn't tolerate lateness.”
Harry chuckled.
“That’s true.”
“Then off you go,” said Dumbledore, with a warm smile.
Harry rose, feeling the weight of the conversation still lingering.
“See you soon, Professor,” he said, offering a small wave.
Dumbledore smiled behind his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes twinkling in a way that gave away nothing.
“Until next time, Harry.”
When the door closed with a soft click, the air in the office seemed to warm, and Dumbledore let out a long, weary sigh, as though centuries of fatigue had suddenly caught up with him.
He sank further into his chair, long, knotted fingers stroking his silver beard as his gaze drifted into nothingness for a moment.
Then, slowly, his eyes came to rest on the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw, whose stately figure regarded him with quiet curiosity.
“So this is the miracle you've spoken of so often?” asked the founder, her voice drifting softly through the room like a whisper from another age.
Dumbledore smiled, a mischievous gleam brightening his lined face.
“I suspect you pay far too much heed to the ramblings of an old Headmaster, my dear founder,” he replied, as he slowly opened the drawer of his desk, filled with peculiar trinkets and mysterious artefacts.
From within, he retrieved a simple silver ring, gleaming beneath the flickering candlelight—the very one that had changed everything on that stormy Hallowe’en night.
“You’ve a habit of talking to yourself at times, that’s all,” the portrait responded serenely. “But you still haven't answered my question.”
Dumbledore turned the ring over in his fingers, studying it with a mix of nostalgia and concern.
“In that case… yes. That boy is the miracle.”
“Interesting…” Rowena said slowly, her sharp eyes fixed on him.
“What is?” Dumbledore asked, raising one eyebrow.
“The Heir is so young… and you truly believe he’s already found the right girl?”
“Ah, Miss Granger?” Dumbledore gave a soft chuckle, as if the question amused him. “On that matter, there is no doubt. And I don't mean just in terms of the duel. It’s impossible not to see all that surrounds those two—at least for trained eyes, of course.”
Rowena tilted her head, expression calculating.
“So you believe she will be worthy? That he will grow worthy enough in time?”
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, a shadow of sorrow lingered there.
“That, my dear, only time can tell,” he said, with a deep sigh. “And frankly, I fear to imagine what he’ll have to face in order to become worthy. It's far too heavy a burden for such young shoulders...”
A pause fell over the room, the air in the Headmaster's office seeming to thicken. Even Fawkes appeared to feel it, letting out a faint, sympathetic trill.
Dumbledore responded with a tired smile.
“They're all so young,” the Headmaster murmured, more to himself than anyone, his long, knotted fingers tapping lightly on the oak desk. “And I hate it—more than I can say—that I must place such weight upon them. Which is why I’ve decided… to keep them in the dark. For now, at least.”
“And you truly think that’s wise?” Rowena arched a sceptical brow. “Keeping someone like him entirely ignorant?”
“I understand that you are the mistress of knowledge, founder. Your lost diadem never lies. You sought understanding in all things during your life, and perhaps understanding me is agony from your point of view. Entirely fair,” Dumbledore said, with calm deliberation. “But I want Harry to have the chance to live his life fully—to be as happy as he can, for as long as he can—without this extra weight on his back. He already carries enough, as you heard tonight.”
The founder pondered for a moment.
“I read your eyes when he spoke about the Sherbet lemon. You may fool others, Albus, but I saw regret.”
Dumbledore did not respond directly, instead steepling his fingers thoughtfully.
“I shall pose you a scenario, and I would like you to think it through with me for a moment,” he began. “Imagine a newly-hatched bird, fragile and blind, whose nest has been destroyed by the storm. You find it fallen to the ground, surrounded by predators. What would you do?”
“Take it to safety, of course,” she said, her mind open to following his logic.
“But what if the only safe place were an iron cage, cold and unyielding, far from the skies it was meant to one day conquer?” asked the Headmaster. “Would you place it there, knowing it will beat its wings against the bars, never understanding why it cannot fly?”
“If the alternative were to watch it devoured... yes.” Her portrait frowned. “But that doesn't absolve the guilt, Albus.”
“It never has.” His eyes flickered, suddenly ancient. “Now, however, the bird is under my wing, here at Hogwarts. And while it learns to fly among books and laughter, I shall let the iron of the cage be forgotten for as long as I can manage... until the day the sky demands more of it than wings. Until the day flying is no longer a choice, but... a sacrifice.”
“You're preparing him for the abyss.”
“No.” Dumbledore shook his head. “I prepare him for the heights, and I'm letting him fly as far as he himself dares to want.”
A silence hung between them, as thick as the secrets they shared.
“For his sake, I hope you're right,” the founder said at last.
Dumbledore brought a hand to his face, rubbing his tired eyes—eyes that had seen too much, yet still refused to close against the pain that lay ahead.
“And when do you think he and Miss Granger will realise the bond they share?” Rowena asked, breaking the quiet.
Dumbledore closed his hand around the ring, as though drawing some hidden strength from it.
“If I try to predict it, I’ll surely be wrong. But one thing I can say: it will happen when it is meant to.”
“And you know,” Rowena continued, voice low but firm in her advice, “not just the girl—those other two friends of his are equally important.”
“Oh, how I know, my dear founder… how I know...” Dumbledore agreed, shaking his head. “But right now, I can barely think straight, can I? The recent events in the Chamber of Secrets are draining me. I must protect these children. Protect the school. You know what it will lead to, if nothing is done.”
“I do,” replied the portrait, her tone grave. “I saw it with my own eyes the day Salazar made that dreadful prophecy before us all. Have you a plan in mind? Or shall we call a meeting of the Council of Headmasters?”
She gestured towards the portraits of the past Hogwarts heads, now visibly paying attention—some frowning, others whispering among themselves.
Before Dumbledore could answer, hurried footsteps echoed up the staircase. The anxious voices of professors filled the corridor. He looked up, a spark of determination lighting his eyes.
“I believe I’ve something in mind,” he said, his voice firm and resolute.
Harry and Neville had to forcibly grow accustomed to the piercing, wary looks coming from much of the student body.
The seventh-year wizards, especially, seemed even more threatening when they fixed them with intense stares and kept their hands dangerously close to their wands—these, in particular, they both agreed to keep their distance from.
Hermione and Ron had decided that from now on, they wouldn't let either of them out of their sight. If another incident occurred, they couldn't afford to have their friends blamed again—especially Hermione, a Muggle-born, in an already precarious situation.
Nearly Headless Nick returned to normal shortly after, complaining through the corridors with the Fat Friar that if he had to die again, the least the monster could've done was finish the job properly.
“I could've easily joined the Headless Hunt!” he lamented to anyone who would listen.
After what happened to Justin, news of the two mysterious petrifications—both involving only Muggle-born students—reached the Ministry.
It didn’t take much to imagine the reaction: no one was pleased.
Ministry workers with children enrolled at Hogwarts were in an uproar, fearing for their safety, and some demanded the Christmas holidays start immediately.
“It might only be Muggle-borns being targeted now... but what about half-bloods? What about my children? Could they be petrificed next? Killed?”
That was the main debate, whether in a dingy pub, drowning the sorrows of a miserable life, or among the powerful wizards who controlled the wizarding world. It didn’t matter—the unease was the same, even if tinged with prejudice against those from the Muggle world.
“My mum’s thinking of not letting me come back after the holidays,” said Seamus, fidgeting restlessly. “I want to return, but she insists it might be too dangerous... says she’ll only reconsider if something changes.”
“My gran’s worried too,” Neville added. “She’s on the Board of Governors, and at the last meeting, they said she was furious nothing was being done. Lucius Malfoy, oddly enough, didn’t react negatively at all—not a word...”
“Course not, his son’s the heir, isn’t he?” Ron replied tersely. “He wants everything to stay as it is, for the school to shut down. And from what Dad’s said, Lucius is raising Malfoy to be just as much of a git as he is.” He pulled a face. “That layabout’s never worked a day—the whole family coasts on their fortune, meddling in politics, making connections. If he dropped dead, whoever stood to inherit would be furious, and the rest... well, the rest would throw a party or just not care.”
“I’d celebrate now,” Harry muttered darkly, glaring at a snickering Slytherin across the Hall—likely laughing at something as foul as his expression.
A few days before the Christmas holidays, as Hagrid was already hauling in twelve freshly cut pine trees to decorate the Great Hall, everyone was startled by the unexpected arrival of a short, stocky man in a bowler hat, followed by several men and women in long overcoats and stern expressions.
When the entourage strode through the Great Hall’s massive doors, silence fell instantly, magnifying the tension already thick in the air. A handful of students with relatives among the newcomers sighed in relief.
“Judging by the robes, I think they’re Aurors...” Neville whispered to Harry.
Harry blinked.
“Aurors?”
Ron nodded, leaning closer.
“They handle security in the wizarding world,” the redhead explained. “Y’know, the ones who catch and kill Dark wizards.”
Dumbledore and the staff didn’t seem surprised; they’d known exactly who would arrive that morning.
The Headmaster rose first, followed by the other professors, and extended his arms diplomatically to greet them.
“Welcome, welcome,” said Dumbledore, walking to the podium facing the staff table. “It's an honour to have you here at Hogwarts, Minister Fudge, and all you distinguished Aurors in this delegation.”
“The honour is mine, Headmaster Dumbledore,” replied the Minister, greeting the Headmaster.
The other Aurors ascended the steps and positioned themselves before the students, hands nearly glued to their sides, ever vigilant.
Dumbledore cleared his throat softly and swept his gaze across the room before speaking with the gravity the moment demanded.
“I, together with Minister Fudge and the school's Board of Governors, have decided that some temporary changes will take effect at Hogwarts starting today. I ask everyone to remain calm, and now I shall let the Minister take the floor to explain these measures in greater detail—Cornelius, if you please.”
Fudge nodded with a strained smile and stepped forward to address the students.
His greying hair was dishevelled, and his pinstriped suit with purple tie stood out, but what drew the most attention was the thick black cloak he wore—clearly a concession to the bitter cold outside.
He composed himself, squared his shoulders, and began speaking with the practised ease of a politician.
“First, allow me to introduce myself to those who may not know me. I am Cornelius Fudge, current Minister for Magic of Great Britain.” He paused briefly, as if weighing the gravity of his next words. “It was with great sorrow that I learned of the horrific events taking place at this beloved institution. It pains me to see what you're all enduring. I myself, along with everyone present here,” he gestured to the Aurors beside him, “once sat at these very tables, eating and chatting just as you do. That's why it's unthinkable we should do nothing about this so-called Chamber of Secrets conspiracy.”
The mention of the Chamber of Secrets drew a collective murmur that echoed through the Hall. The sound was quickly silenced as Fudge resumed speaking.
“Therefore, I've decided, in consultation with the Head of the Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour, that the best course of action—with each of your safety in mind—is to station a contingent of Aurors here at the school. Purely as a security measure. They will be led by Mr Kingsley Shacklebolt, who will take charge of the investigation.” Fudge made an elegant gesture toward the man at his right.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was Fudge's opposite in every way.
A man in his thirties, tall and Black, with broad shoulders and a bald head, he carried an imposing presence. A single gold earring and stern expression made it clear to all around him that he was not to be trifled with.
He didn't need to speak; his bearing said everything.
“These brave witches and wizards will remain here indefinitely,” Fudge continued with a nervous smile, “at least until this situation is resolved. They will patrol the corridors and ensure everyone's safety! So I ask you to trust them, just as they will trust you. If you notice anything suspicious, or have any information related to these events, report to one of them immediately.”
At that moment, nearly every student's head turned toward Harry.
He felt the weight of their stares, a wave of discomfort and judgment crashing over him. He hunched his shoulders, wishing he'd stayed in bed where at least the blankets offered some comfort and the canopy shielded him from prying eyes. The Hall seemed to be closing in around him.
“And don't worry!” Fudge laughed with attempted levity that sounded more forced than reassuring. “None of them bite!”
Harry, however, wasn't so sure he wouldn't be these wizards' prime target—and if he was honest with himself, he knew that was a terrifyingly real possibility.
He sighed and raised his eyes from his plate of half-eaten toast and cold scrambled eggs.
Hermione's gaze met his immediately—compassionate and silent—offering some calm. Then he turned to Ron and Neville, who gave him unwavering support.
He felt slightly less alone, knowing that despite everything, they'd stand by him.
The days following the Aurors' arrival at Hogwarts passed without major incident.
At first, the Ministry witches and wizards maintained a professional and impartial stance, patrolling the corridors with calculated neutrality.
However, as time passed, some began to stand out for their warmer approach—particularly those who had siblings or close relatives among the students, who tended to chat more freely.
Of them all, Nymphadora Tonks, the youngest member of the Auror Office and a proud Hufflepuff, quickly became the students' favourite. Her hair changed color with every joke she told, winning over even the most suspicious students.
“Just don't call her Nymphadora!” the Hufflepuffs warned each other in excited whispers. “She hates the name and might turn her hair red!”
While most Aurors established cordial relations with the students, Harry noticed he was treated differently. Heavy stares followed him through the corridors, and certain Ministry wizards seemed to make a point of checking on him with suspicious frequency.
It was Hermione who first noticed the more troubling pattern in their movements.
“They're searching the castle,” she murmured to Harry, Ron and Neville during a rare moment of privacy. Her brown eyes darted nervously, tracking a group of Aurors meticulously inspecting a nearby tapestry. “They're looking for the entrance to the Chamber. What if they decide to search Moaning Myrtle's bathroom?”
The four huddled in a secluded corner of the Gryffindor common room, where firelight cast dancing shadows that seemed to eavesdrop on their secret conversation. Hermione, who had just hidden the finally completed Polyjuice Potion, gripped the hem of her jumper tightly.
“If they find the remains of my cauldron, we're done for!” she whispered, eyes wide with panic. “They won't know immediately it was us, but if they discover Professor Snape's stores were robbed... What if they use Magical Trace Spells? I used my wand to brew it! We could be expelled, or—”
“That won't happen,” Harry interrupted firmly, making a calming gesture with his hands. “No one goes in that bathroom. It's been out of order for decades. And the potion's already finished, right?”
“But it's still hidden there!” Hermione insisted, biting her lower lip. “They're professional Aurors, Harry! If they decide to search, they'll find it. Then what? What do we do if they discover we made Polyjuice?”
“We laugh,” Harry replied with an easy smile that made Ron blink in confusion.
“Laugh?” Ron repeated. “Have you seen the size of those blokes? They might seem friendly, but if one of them interrogates me, I swear I'll soil myself. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.”
“I... I'd be the same,” Neville murmured, examining his own hands with unusual intensity.
Harry looked at each of them before continuing, his voice low but brimming with conviction.
“Look at us. Four second-years successfully brewing Polyjuice Potion? They'd never believe it! Even knowing you're the best in our year, Hermione, no one would expect—”
“You're suggesting we play incompetent?” Hermione cut in, eyes wide with indignation.
“Is that difficult for you?” Harry asked with a wink. “Because I wouldn't even need to try.”
Ron raised his hand with a mischievous grin.
“Nor me.”
“Well... everyone knows how I am at Potions,” Neville added in a tone that was almost a sigh of resignation.
“Three against one. Democracy prevails,” Harry declared with a goofy smile.
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she might have been examining her own brain, but couldn't suppress a resigned sigh.
“At least the potion's nearly ready,” she murmured, more to herself than the others.
“Nearly?” Ron frowned. “Thought it was done already.”
“We just need the final ingredient,” Hermione explained, lowering her voice further. “Hairs from the people we want to transform into, remember? Once we add those, we drink it. The book says the effects are nearly immediate.”
“So we wait until Christmas holidays,” Harry decided, his tone now serious and calculating. “With fewer students in the castle, it'll be easier.”
The Christmas holidays arrived quicker than any of them had expected, though the usual cheer of the season was noticeably subdued.
Those who were going home to their families and escaping the castle's tension were more animated. But the minority—those staying at Hogwarts—were gloomy, restless and nervous. The Aurors' presence helped provide some sense of security, yet everyone feared being the monster's next victim.
Beyond this unease, the quartet had spent days planning how to obtain the potion's final ingredients and exactly whose hairs they needed.
The first choice was undoubtedly the most obvious.
Crabbe and Goyle.
They agreed this needed to be done as discreetly as possible, to avoid raising suspicions or causing trouble.
“We could brew a Sleeping Draught,” Hermione suggested, flipping through a potions book filled with various options.
“And how would we administer it?” Neville asked. “I mean, we can't exactly force them to drink it, can we?”
Hermione looked up from the book with a triumphant gleam, as if she'd solved some ancient riddle.
“I've thought of that,” she said, instinctively lowering her voice. “They're like two walking food vacuums. Haven't you noticed how they linger at feasts, eating like they're preparing for a long winter? If we leave some poisoned sweets—I mean, laced with the potion—in their path, they'll devour them without a second thought. Then we just hide them somewhere until it wears off.” She nodded to herself, satisfied with her flawless logic.
“Let me handle the potion,” Harry cut in, pulling the book toward him decisively. His green eyes rapidly scanned the ingredients and instructions, absorbing every detail.
Hermione hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly as if resisting releasing the book.
“Are you sure? I could do it”
“I'm not completely useless at Potions, you know,” Harry said, sharper than intended. “I do study.”
“'Study' is stretching it,” Hermione retorted, pursing her lips in a mix of concern and disapproval.
“Told you I learn better by doing,” he repeated his mantra. “Like in Transfiguration—I'd rather practice spells than just read theory.”
“Fine,” Hermione relented reluctantly, though her eyes still shone with doubt. “Just remember—more than two measures of blindworm mucus makes the potion acidic. Instead of sleeping, they'd spend the day on the toilet.”
“Be hilarious watching them shit themselves,” Ron muttered, sharing a mischievous grin with Neville, who covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.
Hermione sighed deeply, as if bearing the weight of responsibility for them all. Though she'd much rather brew it herself, she understood Harry's need to prove his competence—especially after Snape's humiliations. But she also knew it had something to do with his mother, though he never elaborated.
With corridors constantly under Auror surveillance, they decided Moaning Myrtle's bathroom would be the best place to ambush Crabbe and Goyle.
They'd noticed the duo always visited the boys' bathroom right after lunch.
Before Harry entered with Ron—Neville following hesitantly—Hermione stayed outside for obvious reasons.
They gulped when two Aurors passed the bathroom, eyeing them suspiciously before moving on.
They exhaled shakily, relieved.
“We haven't got much time,” Harry whispered, meticulously applying the Sleeping Draught to two chocolate éclairs that glistened temptingly in the bathroom's dim light.
When the moment came, Harry and Ron cast in unison “Wingardium Leviosa!”, making the treats float strategically near the mirror.
The wait was brief.
The moment Crabbe and Goyle emerged from the stalls, their conversation immediately turned to the only subject they truly understood:
Food.
“Shall we get more of that sweet and sour pork?” Goyle asked in his adolescent croak, licking his lips. “Merlin... that was divine.”
“That's 'cause you haven't tried Friday's pasta,” Crabbe retorted, speaking as if his mouth was full despite being empty. “The white sauce is the best I've ever had. Unbeatable.”
Goyle made a disgusted face.
“I hate pasta. Looks like a bunch of dead worms...” He squinted. “And white sauce? Really?”
“What?” Crabbe frowned, his small eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“It's a bit dodgy, Vincent,” Goyle teased, a malicious grin stretching his broad face. “White sauce makes me think you fancy the other sort.”
“OI!” Crabbe exploded, his face turning red as a pepper. “I like witches, alright? Witches!” His voice echoed through the bathroom as Goyle doubled over laughing.
From their hiding spots, Harry, Ron and Neville had to bite their own fists to stifle their laughter.
“Course, course,” Goyle continued, still shaking with mirth. “Can't wait to tell Draco! The great Crabbe heir and his love for white sauce, your favorite... Always knew there was something off about you.”
“You pillock! My favourite's the red pepper sauce!” Crabbe huffed, but his protest died when he spotted the floating éclairs. “Blimey... chocolate éclairs!”
“Merlin, you're proper bipolar,” Goyle grumbled, but didn't hesitate to grab his prize. “This one's mine!”
They devoured the éclairs in three bites, suspecting nothing.
The effect was instantaneous.
Before they'd even swallowed the last bite, their eyes rolled back and they collapsed like sacks of flour, the thud making the hidden trio wince.
“Merlin, they're even thicker than I thought!” Ron exclaimed through muffled laughter.
“Who knew eating sweets found in a loo would be normal for them...” Neville remarked, still stunned by the plan's ease.
Harry shook his head, grinning.
“Remind me to tell the twins about Crabbe's white sauce fascination.” He wiped a tear of laughter. “They'll love that.”
“Noted,” Ron replied with a mischievous smile.
But their mirth evaporated when they approached and saw Crabbe and Goyle completely motionless, eyes open and staring at the ceiling.
An oppressive silence filled the air, growing heavier by the second.
“Bloody hell... did... did you kill them?!” Ron asked, his blue eyes wide as saucers, face draining of colour.
“No! I did the potion right, I'm sure!” Harry replied quickly, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
“What dosage did you use?” Ron pressed, his voice a strangled whisper.
Neville swayed, bracing against the wall. “Think I'm gonna faint...”
Harry gulped.
“I... just wanted to make sure it worked.” He tried not to panic. “Maybe... maybe I used all the potion on the éclairs.”
“ALL OF IT?!” Ron exploded in a furious whisper. “Even I know that's enough for a troll! You could've knocked out an erumpent with that!”
“What was I supposed to do with leftovers, toss it?!” Harry retorted, gesturing wildly.
“I dunno! Flush it down the bog?!” Ron pointed at the stalls exasperatedly.
“Shut it!” Neville intervened, his face parchment-white. “Please, stop...”
They froze, and that's when they heard it—a snore so loud it might've come from a sleeping griffin erupted from Crabbe. Goyle soon joined the chorus, proving they were merely in an extremely deep, open-eyed sleep.
“Thank Merlin!” Ron sighed, wiping his sweaty brow.
“Come to think of it, they're nearly as tough as trolls,” Neville remarked, catching his breath. “Small mercies...”
“Let's just get the hairs quickly,” Harry ordered, kneeling to carefully pluck strands from each. “And help drag them back into the stalls... and please don't mention this to Hermione, or she'll panic and I'll never be allowed to brew anything alone again.”
Ron and Neville nodded in agreement.
After hiding the heavy—and still snoring—bodies in the stalls, they exited the bathroom trying to appear natural. Hermione, who'd been waiting outside tapping her foot impatiently, raised an eyebrow at their approach.
“You took ages,” she observed, arms crossed. “Everything go alright?”
Neville gulped and before he could poorly explain the situation, Ron and Harry stepped forward in perfect sync.
“Course.”
“Y-yeah…” Neville nodded nervously, and by Merlin, Hermione didn't suspect a thing.
Soon after, Harry and Hermione went to get the other two disguises.
The perfect opportunity arose when they spotted Millicent Bulstrode and Theodore Nott in the library, seated at one of the central tables. They were whispering, completely oblivious to their surroundings. Harry rushed to fetch his Invisibility Cloak while Hermione was forced to watch Millicent's clumsy attempts at flirting with the increasingly uncomfortable boy.
“Did you know I have a cat?” Millicent said, trying to make conversation.
“Er... I know. We share a common room,” Nott replied, leaning back in his chair visibly disturbed.
“But isn't it brilliant? Me having a cat... you having one too... it's practically fate, don't you think?”
“Fate for what, Millicent? I'm behind on this Transfiguration essay. McGonagall gave me until this afternoon to finish, and you said you'd help...”
“Oh, but I can help you with so many things...” Millicent said with a brazen tone that made Nott's eyes widen.
Hermione, watching from afar, felt her stomach turn.
If she were honest, she felt no sympathy for either. Both were Slytherins, both prejudiced and arrogant.
“Perhaps,” she thought, “they deserve each other.”
When Harry returned with the cloak, they put their plan into action.
Hermione carried a stack of books and “accidentally” bumped into Millicent as she passed.
“Sorry!” Hermione said quietly while subtly plucking a hair from Millicent's jumper.
“Oi, watch where you're going, you library rat!” Millicent snapped, crossing her arms irritably.
“SHHH! Quiet!” Madame Pince hissed furiously from the front desk.
Millicent ducked her head, clearly embarrassed.
Meanwhile, under the cloak, Harry plucked a hair from Nott's coat—the boy so distracted by avoiding Millicent's advances he didn't notice the floating hand.
Outside, Harry stowed the cloak, but Hermione noticed his troubled expression.
“What's wrong?” she asked.
“How many times have they called you 'library rat'?” Harry asked, frowning.
“Don't worry about it,” she replied practically without hesitation.
Too many times to count.
“If they call you that again—”
“Harry, I can handle myself, alright?” She said more sharply than intended. “Those idiots don't bother me.”
He sighed deeply, clearly frustrated, but didn't press the matter.
Neville and Ron were waiting outside the library, sitting on benches and chatting casually. Ron was attempting—with little success—to recite spells Fred and George had taught him. The idea was to make his wand shoot fireworks, but despite his efforts, nothing happened. Meanwhile, Neville watched his attempts while slowly eating a blue sugar quill.
They quickly made their way to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, passing several Aurors and students who eyed Harry and Neville suspiciously, so they checked they weren't being followed before entering—just in case.
“Right, we've got everything we need. Now's the time,” Hermione said intently as she began ladling the potion into cups.
Plup. Plup. Plup.
The sound the mixture made when poured was nothing short of repulsive—a thick, sloshing liquid that made their stomachs turn.
The three boys watched the horrible greyish concoction with disgust. It was slightly warm.
Harry knew that if he closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself it was just a particularly disgusting soup straight from the Thames in the 1800s.
“You sure you did this right? Not that I'm doubting you,” Ron said, pulling a face, “but... it looks like you, I dunno, threw up in here.”
“It's supposed to look like this, I followed the instructions perfectly,” she said without a trace of doubt in her voice.
Neville, summoning courage from somewhere deep inside, brought the cup to his nose and immediately regretted it. With an expression of pure revulsion, he clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Merlin's pants, this is going to kill me...” he moaned, trying not to turn green.
“Not just you,” Harry wrinkled his nose.
Hermione let out an exasperated sigh.
“Oh stop being such babies!” she snapped, nearly stamping her foot in frustration. “Crabbe and Goyle are still unconscious in the bathroom, and Bulstrode's keeping Nott occupied in the library. We're running out of time! After all this, you're not going to chicken out now, are you?”
“I know but it's disgusting—” Ron complained.
“It smells awful, yes,” she countered, “and it'll taste worse too, just warning you.”
Each took the hair corresponding to their target—Ron getting Crabbe's, Neville Goyle's, Hermione Millicent's, and Harry, of course, Nott's.
They exchanged one last look, took a deep breath, and dropped the hairs into the foul mixture, squeezing their eyes shut as they tried with all their might to choke down the revolting potion.
Harry held his breath and heard Neville's muffled gasp as he forced himself to keep drinking.
“Strawberry juice, it's just lukewarm strawberry juice with chunks,” Harry reassured himself.
When he finally drained his cup and gasped for air, the full force of the cowpat-flavoured aftertaste hit his tongue.
CRACK!
He dropped the glass in shock as a loud pop echoed through the bathroom.
He felt strange—dizzy and disoriented—and decided to sit on the floor. His vision swam, and he heard Hermione's sharp intake of breath before she rushed into a stall, slamming the door behind her.
“It worked!” Ron cheered, examining himself in the mirror. “Blimey, I look awful... Urgh! He's got spots on his chin!”
“Me too! Do I look like Goyle?” Neville asked, adjusting his shoulders as he got used to his new appearance.
“Spot on! Just need to gruffen your voice a bit or everyone'll know it's you,” Ron said, experimenting with his own newly deepened tones. “How about you, Har—bloody hell!”
“What?” Harry heard himself ask, still sitting dazed on the floor.
“You... you've turned into a... what the actual fuck?” Ron spluttered.
“A… cat?” Neville tried helpfully, baffled.
“A—WHAT?!” Harry's eyes flew open as an icy shiver ran down his spine.
He looked at his hands—now covered in black fur with claw-like nails.
“Oh fuck me sideways!” he cursed.
He scrambled up, letting out an involuntary yowl he couldn't control.
His glasses sat awkwardly on his now-feline features. His once-green eyes had transformed into slitted feline ones, and he felt... wrong. Humanoid but distinctly catlike.
“Shitting hell—bollocks—fuck-fuck-FUCK!” He swore vehemently, fighting panic as he touched his face.
White whiskers had grown on his face, large pointed ears twitched atop his head, and when he ran hands over himself, he found thick fur puffing out his jumper. The worst came when he felt an odd pressure at his lower back—reaching behind, he discovered a long, furry tail protruding over his trousers.
“It's gone wrong! Proper fucking wrong!” Harry wailed.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Ron said sarcastically, clearly amused. “Thought Nott always looked like this.”
“Piss off, Ron!” Harry snapped as his friend burst out laughing. “I've got paws! Actual paws!”
“And a tail,” Neville pointed out, poking at the appendage.
“Oi! Don't touch the tail!” Harry hissed instinctively, his pupils narrowed as he bared suddenly-sharpened teeth.
“Sorry...” Neville raised his hands in surrender.
It was then they heard crying from one of the farthest stalls—not Myrtle's usual wailing.
“Hermione?” Harry called out, his voice laced with concern.
“You'll have to go without me,” Hermione replied, her voice trembling with desperation. “I can't come out.”
They approached the stall, stopping before the closed door.
“I know Bulstrode's ugly as a ghoul, but it's Harry who shouldn't be seen!” Ron tried lightening the mood with a joke.
“You don't understand, I can't go out like this!” Hermione's panicked voice came through the door.
The three boys looked at each other and silently agreed, nothing could be worse than Harry's transformation.
And when they opened the door, their eyes widened to see what she had turned into.
She, too, had transformed into a humanoid cat.
But unlike Harry's sleek black fur, hers was brown and thicker, her usual bushy hair blending seamlessly into the fur covering her body. She had black whiskers.
“Y-you too?!” Hermione gasped, staring wide-eyed at Harry with feline yellow eyes before groaning in defeat. “They both had cats... we took fur from their clothes!”
Ron burst into raucous laughter while Neville looked utterly lost, settling for nervous fidgeting.
“What do we do now?” he asked, trying to remain calm.
“There's no more potion—we drank it all,” Hermione mumbled into her hands, utterly defeated.
“No no no, we're not done here. We can still fix this—none of this was wasted.” Harry insisted, wildly motioning between them.
He whipped out his wand and with quick transfigurations, altered Ron and Neville's jumpers to Slytherin green with silver trim—since no one wore uniforms during Christmas holidays.
“You'll have to go alone,” Harry declared. “Hermione and I can't be seen. We'll wait here.”
“This will go back to normal afterwards, right?” Hermione asked, her voice fragile. “B-because I don't want to stay like this!”
“The potion doesn't last forever, you even made a weaker version so we won't be like this for long,” Harry said, forcing calm into his voice while internally he was just as worried as she was. “I've brought my cloak, we'll just have to wait here until we are back to normal again.”
“Right, just, uh... don't go anywhere,” Neville said, backing away.
“Oh, right, because I was almost thinking about going outside and licking some snow right now,” Harry replied sarcastically.
As Ron and Neville left, silence fell over the bathroom. Only Hermione's quiet sniffles echoed softly off the walls as she stood frozen, hunched in on herself, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if that might bring some small comfort to her situation.
Harry exhaled heavily and slid down to sit on the cold floor, elbows resting on his knees.
Moaning Myrtle chose that moment to emerge from a stall, her eyes lighting up with malicious delight at the sight of Hermione.
“Oh my, what a marvelous sight!” she cackled shrilly. “Wait until everyone sees! You've even got a tail!”
“Go away, Myrtle! Nobody asked you!” Hermione snapped, her voice wavering between anger and frustration as tears streaked down her furry cheeks.
Myrtle rolled her ghostly eyes and crossed her spectral arms.
“My, my... tasting your own medicine. Literally!” she sing-songed before shamelessly eyeing Harry. “Oh! Hiiiii Harry! Didn't see you there...”
“Er... hi,” he coughed, uncomfortable.
“You look quite dashing with all that black fur, you know?” She eyed him up and down. “Very... wild.”
Something about how Myrtle spoke to Harry made Hermione inexplicably irritated. She pointed at the ghost.
“Leave us alone, Myrtle!” she snapped more harshly than intended, feline eyes flashing.
The ghost huffed.
“You're boring!” she shrieked before vanishing through the wall.
“Ugh!” Hermione growled in frustration. “She's impossible! You can't talk to her—she's always the victim!”
Without another word, she slumped down beside Harry, hugging her knees. She sat there curled up, still crying, face hidden by her fur.
Harry conjured a white handkerchief and offered it to her.
“Here,” he said with a comforting smile.
“Thank you,” Hermione accepted hoarsely, wiping her tears carefully and avoiding his gaze.
“Hey, if it's any consolation...” Harry began, trying to lighten the mood. “Brown fur suits you.”
Hermione looked at him, blinking through sniffs, her cheeks burning as she gave his shoulder a gentle pat.
“Idiot...” she murmured.
As she went on crying quietly, Harry just stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the boys to come back. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do when someone cried near him, and figured staying put was probably the best he could do.
For a long, quiet moment, they both found comfort in each other's company. Between them, no words were needed.
“You’re nothing like Goyle, Nev. Try to act more like him,” Ron whispered as they made their way down the stairs towards the dungeons.
Neville frowned.
“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”
“I dunno, pull a face like you’re thinking real hard... but failing. Sort of like... a melon on legs.”
“Crabbe’s the one who looks like a melon...” Neville shot back.
“You know what I meant!”
Neville cleared his throat and tried to deepen his voice: “And you think you’re dead clever, don’t you, white sauce lover?”
Ron burst out laughing.
“I am, actually,” he agreed. “Now I fancy something sweet.”
The two of them chuckled, trying to ease the tension as they walked. Neville, now in Goyle’s body, couldn’t help but notice how broad the boy’s arms were—they looked like tree trunks. As they passed a few Slytherin students, the pair attracted fleeting glances, but no one seemed to pay too much attention. Still, anyone watching closely might have noticed something was off.
“Wait,” Ron stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor.
“What is it, Ro—I mean, Crabbe... Vincent?” Neville corrected himself quickly.
“How are we going to get into the common room? We don’t know the password!”
“Merlin... We forgot to ask,” Neville muttered, already breaking into a sweat.
“Problem?” A familiar voice made them freeze.
Percy Weasley was right behind them, arms crossed and his prefect badge gleaming on his chest. He was eyeing them with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.
Ron’s eyes widened.
“No, Percy—I mean, Weasley!” he replied, stumbling over his words.
Percy frowned, clearly suspicious.
“Right...”
“There you are!” Draco Malfoy appeared at the end of the corridor, striding quickly towards them. “Where’ve you been? I’ve looked all over the castle for you!”
Neville began to stammer.
“Er... we... I mean, I... you...”
Ron cut him off with a jab of his elbow.
“Toilet! We were in the toilet.” He pointed swiftly, forcing his voice.
“All this time? That’s disgusting...” Draco looked mildly repulsed, but soon turned his attention elsewhere, frowning as he caught sight of Percy. “And what are you doing down here, Weasley? This isn’t your patch.”
“I go where I like, Malfoy,” Percy replied icily. “I am a prefect”
Draco narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
Before Ron and Neville could say anything, another presence appeared behind them.
“Is there a problem here, Percy?” The voice was female, firm and somehow amused.
A witch with short, bubblegum-pink hair was watching them with a sharp smile. She wore a reddish leather coat that looked like it had been tailored to fit.
Neville’s heart jumped.
“Does the potion attract people now too?!” He thought, exasperated.
“Nymphadora...” Draco muttered with disdain, narrowing his eyes at the newcomer.
She stared at him with such intensity that Draco actually recoiled—albeit subtly.
“No, Tonks, everything’s fine,” Percy interjected quickly, before stepping away with a nod.
Tonks gave Draco one last look, then turned her attention to the two disguised boys.
“Don’t get into trouble, Malfoy,” she warned in a serious tone. “I bet your father would be delighted to hear you’ve been stirring up mischief, wouldn’t he?”
Draco snorted and turned his back, heading towards the common room.
Ron and Neville exchanged a look and hurried after him, trying to mimic the clumsy gait of Crabbe and Goyle.
“I hate that woman,” Draco muttered to himself. “Merlin knows my cousin only exists to bring shame on our family.”
“And... why’s that, Draco?” Neville coughed awkwardly.
Draco sighed as though explaining something painfully obvious.
“My mother’s sister married a Mudblood and got blasted off the Black family tree, quite rightly, of course,” he said airily. “They had that thing that changes hair colour. A permanent stain on our name, along with that Sirius Black character, from what my mum tells me.”
Ron and Neville glanced at each other, unsure how to respond.
They were both from pure-blood families, but even Neville—who’d heard a few stories from his gran—didn’t know much about the Blacks, except that the family was divided into mad, completely mad, and pure-blood extremists. Sometimes, all three at once.
When they reached the wall concealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Draco muttered the password “Purity.”
The wall slid open, revealing the cold and imposing common room.
“Of course it had to be that...” Ron muttered under his breath, but Neville heard him and silently agreed.
The Slytherin common room looked much the same as when they’d visited last year, save for a few Christmas decorations that softened—if only slightly—the oppressive atmosphere. Neville felt a quiet sense of relief at the sight of the Christmas tree in the corner and the huge window looking out onto the Black Lake, its frozen surface bathing the room in a wintry gloom. The holiday spirit always calmed him.
Draco flopped onto the leather sofa with a weary sigh, while Ron and Neville sat opposite him, eyes twitching around the room.
“We could be home now, don’t you think?” Draco said, his tone nonchalant. “But missing all this fun because of the Chamber of Secrets would be a real shame, honestly. It’s rather satisfying seeing all those Mudbloods lying petrified in the hospital wing.”
Neville felt the tension rise in Ron, who had already clenched his fists, and nudged him gently in warning.
“But... tell me, Draco,” Neville began hesitantly, “you couldn’t be the Heir, could you? I mean, your family’s really old...”
Draco shook his head, wearing a smug little smile.
“Oh, it’d be an honour, no doubt,” he nodded, fingers drumming on the upholstery. “To do a proper cleanse of all that filth myself? A dream. But nah, my family’s got no direct ties to Salazar, and I only know that ‘cause my father made me memorise our bloodline all the way back. And let’s face it, no one knows who the real Heir is. The line’s lost—could be anyone. So when those idiots say it’s Potter for sure, I have to laugh. That prat couldn’t manage it, and you can see he wouldn’t want to.”
He paused, a malicious glint in his eyes, and went on.
“But, if I were the Heir, I’d start with a list, of course. Know who’d be first?” he asked.
“Er... no.” Neville shook his head slowly, noticing Ron had gone utterly silent and focused.
“That Mudblood Granger, obviously,” Draco replied easily. “Pansy would thank me forever for that—she hates the girl nearly as much as I do. Always putting on airs, acting like she’s better than everyone else... But I’ll tell you this: back in the day, she wouldn’t even have dared to speak, and she’d’ve learnt what true superiority looked like.”
Ron flushed a deep red, jaw tight, fists clenched so hard Neville feared he might spring up and attack.
Neville nudged him again, harder this time.
Draco finally noticed the tension and raised an eyebrow.
“You alright, Vincent?” he nodded toward him. “You're acting weird”
“Diarrhoea,” Neville answered quickly for him, trying to sound casual. “He... uh, overate.”
Draco wrinkled his nose.
“You should get that looked at.” He stood and headed to the dormitories. “I’m getting a deck of Exploding Snap. Better than sitting around doing nothing.”
As Draco turned to go to the table to pick up the deck, Ron and Neville exchanged panicked looks.
“What now?” Ron whispered, clearly on edge. “He’s not the Heir!”
Neville’s eyes widened as he spotted something strange.
“Your hair!” he pointed. “It’s changing colour!”
Ron reached up, and realising the red strands were reappearing, swore under his breath.
“Bugger! We need to get out of here!”
They both sprang to their feet and hurried for the exit.
“Oi! Where are you going?” Draco said, holding the deck of Exploding Snap.
“Toilet!” Neville shouted without looking back. “Uh... diarrhoea again!”
Draco stood still, watching the two of them stumble off awkwardly, a look of boredom on his face.
He sighed and tossed the deck onto the coffee table.
“Merlin, I have to admit, this generation of Crabbe and Goyle came out defective…” he muttered, eventually shrugging and heading off to find something else to do.
Chapter 28: A Purrfectly Peculiar Christmas
Notes:
It's already becoming a routine to have chapters with 20k+ words... I guess you've gotten used to this pace by now lol 😂
Chapter Text
Neville and Ron had returned from their investigation with news which, while not exactly surprising, at least ruled out one suspect:
Draco Malfoy was not the Heir of Slytherin.
Though he had admitted, with a malicious smirk, that he would love to “rid the school of scum,” a phrase he frequently used in the corridors to refer to certain students without ever being punished by the professors.
While Neville and Ron had already reverted to their normal human forms, Harry and Hermione remained stubbornly transformed into feline creatures—he as a black cat with finer fur and white whiskers, she as a furrier brown cat with black whiskers—their tails twitching nervously at every movement.
“The effect wore off really quickly,” Neville remarked, relieved they’d escaped unscathed.
“Yeah, we barely had time to leg it,” Ron agreed, leaning against the wall with a sigh. “Didn’t even know that potion had anything like ‘intensity’, but I thought it would last longer.”
“That’s fourth-year material,” Hermione explained, her voice still hoarse and low, but now without the earlier tremor. “I didn’t want us to stay in their form for too long. If someone saw us and realised we were impostors…” She didn’t need to finish the sentence.
Ron nodded, but cleared his throat, glancing between Harry and Hermione with an expression somewhere between concern and discomfort.
“Er… well, in that case, you two took the potion at the same time as us,” he said, trying to sound off-hand. “Shouldn’t you have… you know, gone back to normal by now as well?”
Hermione shrank further beside Harry, her feline eyes wide with anxiety.
Harry sighed and ran a paw—yes, definitely a paw—over his face.
“Let’s give it a bit longer,” he murmured, more to himself than to the others. “Might just be a delayed effect of the potion.”
But after an entire hour waiting in the bathroom, with no sign of a reversal, Harry and Hermione’s concern only grew.
Even Hermione, who normally had an answer for everything, was at a loss. Moste Potente Potions offered no help; the book detailed the side effects of the Polyjuice Potion, but didn’t mention the possibility of anyone being such an imbecile—or, in the book’s words, “foolish enough”—to attempt transforming into an animal, and so advised that the best course of action in case of such an accident was to find the nearest Healer.
With no other option, they decided to make for the hospital wing under the protection of the Invisibility Cloak, praying that Madam Pomfrey would know how to reverse the situation.
“She always knows what to do,” Ron said, trying to keep his tone optimistic, though his fingers drummed nervously against his leg.
Ron and Neville walked outside the cloak, passing the Aurors while Harry and Hermione followed just behind. And of all the times they had moved about under cover of invisibility, none had been quite as tense as this one.
It was almost as if the law enforcement officers could smell irregularities, passing them more often than would normally be expected.
When they finally closed the hospital wing door behind them, the four of them let out sighs of relief, feeling marginally safer in that austere white space.
Harry could barely pay attention as Ron and Neville went off in search of the matron. His mind was spinning, caught in a cycle of worries that seemed to have no end.
The hospital wing was extremely quiet, lit only by the soft glow of flickering candles. Harry tried to avert his eyes from the screened-off sections where the victims of the Petrification lay motionless, but it was impossible to ignore them completely. His eyes, almost against his will, wandered over each of those frozen faces, and a knot tightened in his throat.
None, however, affected him as much as Colin Creevey.
True, the boy could be exasperating—with his overflowing enthusiasm and that constant insistence on photographing Harry at the most inconvenient moments, as if he were some sort of circus attraction. But nothing justified seeing him lying there, petrified, eyes wide with terror, his hands still curled in the air as though, even in the final instant, he had been trying to hold his camera. The image Colin would now never capture was frozen along with him.
Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy, was also among the victims, as was Mrs Norris—and the latter, of course, explained why Filch was even more irritable than usual, stomping through the corridors like a hurricane of bitterness.
“Hope there’s no one else,” Harry thought, his fingers curling involuntarily.
It was then that Madam Pomfrey spotted them.
The matron rolled her eyes skywards with a sigh so deep it seemed to carry the weight of all the madness Hogwarts had ever witnessed. She rubbed her face with her hands, and Harry couldn’t help noticing the exhaustion etched into her features, as though she didn’t even want to think about how on earth they had ended up in this state.
“How you manage to end up like this is beyond me,” she muttered to herself.
Hermione hunched beside Harry and he shrugged, which was the best he could offer as an answer.
“One day,” he thought, “I reckon we’ll give this woman a nervous breakdown.”
While Madam Pomfrey examined Hermione with her diagnostic wand and asked a few questions about how she was feeling, Harry scratched his chin absently—only to whip his paw away as a sharp sting caught him. With a jolt, he remembered that these were no longer human fingernails, but sharp claws that extended and retracted in a strangely intuitive way, as if they had always belonged to him.
His current state was, to say the least, deplorable.
His face was completely covered by a mess of unruly black fur he had already given up trying to tame. His ears, now pointed and sensitive, swivelled independently at every sound in the room, picking up even the faintest whisper of the hospital wing’s curtains, and his white whiskers seemed to help him navigate the space, though he couldn’t quite fathom how.
And then there was… the tail. That blasted tail.
He had only just avoided having to cut a hole in his trousers to accommodate it, opting instead to lower the waistband just enough to prevent discomfort. Thank Merlin it wasn’t low enough to expose his backside, which gave him some small relief.
“At least Hermione’s got the advantage of being able to wear a skirt…” he thought, casting a sidelong glance at his friend.
His eyes rested briefly on her feline ears—far furrier than his own, probably a legacy of Millicent Bulstrode’s cat—before shifting involuntarily to her thighs, concealed beneath the trousers she was wearing, which seemed thicker and softer thanks to the fur—though she usually wore skirts more than trousers, with the cold outside it would be madness to wear one. When his gaze reached Hermione’s bare feet—or paws—where tiny claws had replaced her nails, Harry felt a strange tightness in his chest that he couldn’t name.
“Claws on her feet as well… brilliant,” he thought wryly, comparing them to his own black-furred feline feet.
But then something caught his attention—were Hermione’s paws like his as well? He couldn’t see, but most likely the soles of her feet had pads between the tufts of fur, just as his did. If she at least showed it better he could check if she really had it or—
He quickly looked away.
All of a sudden, Harry felt a strange heat rise to his ears, which twitched involuntarily against his head.
Why on earth was he staring at her legs and feet? That was hardly appropriate, and he wondered if anyone had noticed him being this weird.
Glancing at Ron and Neville, they didn’t seem to have noticed, and Pomfrey was giving her full attention to the friend beside him.
Hermione, for her part, looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown, examining her furry hands as if expecting them to turn back to normal at any moment. Her agitated tail betrayed her anxiety, moving in rhythm with her rapid breathing.
But none of these physical changes troubled Harry as much as the dark thoughts that insisted on haunting him.
Not the fur, not the claws, not even the bothersome tail. What truly consumed him was the question no one seemed able to answer: if Draco Malfoy wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin… then who on earth was?
He was so deep in speculation he barely noticed Hermione gesturing frantically beside him. It took a sharp squeak—so high-pitched it made his feline ears flatten against his skull—to drag him back to reality.
“W–WHAT?!” Hermione’s squeal rang through the empty hospital wing with such intensity that Harry was sure even the statues and portraits in the corridors must have jumped.
His feline tail fluffed up like a soaked mop, and Harry didn’t need to be an expert on cats to know that every hair on his neck was standing on end. His eyes seemed to take up half his furred, panicked face.
“You heard perfectly well, Miss Granger,” said Madam Pomfrey in that firm tone of hers. Hands planted firmly on her hips, she looked like a statue of hospital authority. “You and Mr Potter will be staying here until February. With luck, perhaps until the start of the month.”
Ron and Neville exchanged one of those pained looks typical of people who’ve just seen someone fall off a broom mid-Quidditch match.
Harry’s stomach lurched.
February?
It was almost like hearing he’d have to spend the holidays at the Dursleys’—months without flying on his Nimbus or exploring the castle; for Hermione, it was like condemning a fish to live out of water—far from the library, those enormous old tomes and, worst of all, lessons.
Speaking of lessons…
“B–but what about lessons?” Hermione exclaimed, her trembling paws clutching the edges of the bed as if it were her lifeline. “That’s going to be two months of material lost! And the practicals? The tests? Exams? How are we… how are we…”
Her voice faltered when she realised her tail was thumping nervously against the mattress, creating a frantic rhythm that seemed to echo her despair. She placed her hand over it to stop it, but found that unbearable and let it go free again, thumping hard against the bed, as if she needed to release that energy.
Madam Pomfrey sighed—that long, suffering sigh Harry had automatically come to associate with “problem students”.
“The professors will be informed,” she said with the patience of someone who had repeated this a thousand times. “Every subject will make adaptations. I’ve been through this before.” Her eyes landed on Harry with an expression he knew all too well. “Potter here could write a manual on studying from the hospital wing—he’s got more experience filling a whole shelf of records than he should have!”
“It’s not that bad…” Harry muttered under his breath.
Ron grinned cheekily and leaned towards Harry.
“Yeah, mate,” he said knowingly, “by now you ought to have a plaque with your name on your bed here.”
Harry chuckled, but the sound died in his throat when he caught Hermione’s expression—a mixture of indignation and stern reproach that would have made even Professor McGonagall back off.
Before she could unleash what would surely have been a fifteen-point protest, Madam Pomfrey raised her hand in a gesture that would silence even the angriest dragon.
“No ‘buts’, Miss Granger, this is not up for discussion!” The nurse’s voice cut the air like a blade. “I still wonder exactly how you came to be in this state, but humanoid transformations take time to reverse. And time,” she emphasised, pointing alternately at the two of them, “means patience. Not everything in magic heals overnight—even some of the simplest problems take weeks.”
With a precise movement, she drew her wand and began examining them, murmuring.
“Common diagnostic charms won’t do… we’ll need something more specialised for this case.”
Madam Pomfrey leaned in with professional focus, examining Harry’s and Hermione’s feline features—now narrow and sensitive to the hospital wing’s light. Her experienced fingers gently lifted their lips to inspect the sharp teeth as she murmured to herself.
“Almost complete transformation…” she explained in a professional tone. “Stick out your tongue and say ‘Ah’.”
They both did so while she analysed them, Harry and Hermione exchanging a nervous look over whether they might have any permanent damage. Pomfrey said nothing except about her own diagnosis.
“If it weren’t for the residual human features, I’d almost say this was a case of premature Animagus transformation.” Her eyes narrowed as she observed the gleaming claws. “This is the work of Advanced Transfiguration… or…”
The air in the hospital wing seemed to grow heavier when she stopped, slowly raising her gaze to the four students.
“A potion was used, wasn’t it?” The question hung in the air like the calm before a storm.
It dropped like lead into their shoulders and stomachs.
Ron swallowed hard. Neville seemed to consider hiding. Harry felt his feline ears flatten against his head. Hermione, on the other hand, went so pale that the colour of her fur shifted from dark chocolate to milky coffee.
“Was it a potion?” Madam Pomfrey pressed, crossing her arms in a movement that even made Hermione’s tail shrink back. “The truth, now.”
“It was…” Hermione confessed in a breath barely louder than a whisper, her little paws almost making holes in the bedsheets.
A heavy silence descended over the hospital wing as Madam Pomfrey closed her eyes for a long moment, as if counting to ten in several different languages.
“Polyjuice Potion, naturally,” she said at last, opening her eyes with a look that mixed exasperation and concern. “Serious offence to use without permission. And you knew that. I know you knew.” Her gaze rested especially on Hermione, who looked on the verge of collapse. “You especially, Miss Granger. You were the only pupil I’ve seen ask for a copy of all the school rules in the first week at Hogwarts, remember? I haven’t forgotten it since I had to hand you the hospital wing code.”
Hermione shrank like a startled cat, her bristled tail curling around her legs. Harry could almost see the racing thoughts running through her head “expulsion, disgrace, the end of all her academic dreams.”
He felt his aura yearning to reach out to her, to comfort or shield her from any harsher rebuke. It was as though she were silently begging Harry to do something, anything.
But what could he possibly do without making things even worse?
And then, as she looked at the four cowering students, Madam Pomfrey let out a deep sigh and her severe expression softened slightly.
“Look,” she said, lowering her voice to a more confidential tone, “I’ve seen enough in this castle to know you’re not bad students. Incorrigible, perhaps. But not bad.”
Her eyes glinted with a light Harry couldn’t quite read—was it exasperation? Secret amusement?
“But as the Muggles say,” she went on, tidying the pillows with precise movements, “‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions’. So, we’ll treat this as… a miscalculated academic experiment.” She raised a warning finger. “Not a word will be said. My relations with patients are confidential—I only break that in cases of life or death, or by direct order from the Headmaster if he asks questions.”
Harry felt such a wave of relief that his ears perked up involuntarily. Beside him, Hermione looked about to faint with gratitude.
“But,” Madam Pomfrey added, raising a finger, “I want your word that such a test will never be repeated. And that promise includes any other ‘brilliant’ ideas that might crop up in those turbulent little heads of yours.”
“Yes, Madam Pomfrey!” the four chorused, with the fervent sincerity of those who have just escaped by a whisker.
The nurse nodded, satisfied.
“Excellent. Now, an overview of what’s going on with you,” she went on, hands on hips. “You two will notice certain… peculiarities. Humanoid transformations like this always bring some traits from the animal. It’s normal to develop certain habits… so there may be some odd behaviours until this is completely resolved.”
“How so?” Harry asked, his ears moving involuntarily to follow the song of a bird outside.
Madam Pomfrey sighed, considering.
“Well, for instance, if you feel your claws are getting too long, you might have an uncontrollable urge to sharpen them, like cats do.” Then she pointed sternly. “Just don’t do it on the hospital wing sheets!”
“Oh, Merlin…” Hermione groaned, covering her face with her hands.
Neville, hesitant, touched her shoulder in an attempt to offer some comfort.
“It’ll be all right, Hermione,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “Madam Pomfrey, is there anything we can do to help?”
“Do what you’ve always done. As friends, come to visit—that’s quite enough.” The nurse then turned to Harry and Hermione. “And don’t worry. There’s no humanoid transformation that’s permanent… except in cases of curses, botched rituals or hereditary diseases, and those, thank Merlin, aren’t your cases. Now rest. I'll have some reversal potions prepared and I'll be back soon.”
With that, she entered her office, closing the door behind her.
“That went better than I thought,” Neville sighed in relief, as if he’d just passed a test of endurance.
Ron gave Harry a pat on the back, a mischievous look on his face.
“Well, mate, about those peculiarities… maybe best to stock up on a few bags of cat food. Oh, and you mind using a litter tray?”
“Shut it.” Harry snorted, shoving his shoulder.
Ron and Neville carried Harry and Hermione’s trunks and other belongings to the hospital wing. As they couldn’t get into the girls’ dormitory, Ron had to ask Ginny for help.
She agreed, though not without showing an unusual nervousness. There was something in her posture that seemed restless—almost as if she were being followed.
When Ron asked if something was wrong, Ginny quickly changed the subject.
“It’s just worry about the first exams,” she said, forcing a smile that did nothing to convince Ron. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
He shot her a suspicious look.
“Exams? At Christmas? When they’re, I dunno, six months away?” He looked her up and down as though he’d just seen an alien. “I’m no example, but you even less so. Since when do you study?”
“I’m not having this argument! Go and find something to do, I’m busy!” she answered nervously, before moving away from him.
Ron sighed and glanced at Percy, who was reading in the corner of the common room.
He didn’t so much as glance at Ginny, completely absorbed in his book. It was as though he’d long since grown used to the peculiar ways of his youngest sister.
Ron decided not to push the matter.
Later, as the sun began to set behind the towers of Hogwarts, Ron and Neville were gently “invited” to leave the hospital wing—or rather, practically thrown out by Harry and Hermione after Ron had spent the entire afternoon making jokes about their feline condition.
“But what about a bath?” Ron asked, backing towards the door while trying to keep a straight face. “Are you going to lick yourselves clean like real cats or—”
“Go and get something to eat, for Merlin’s sake!” Harry growled, pointing to the door with a paw that flickered between human and feline. His tail lashed irritably behind him.
“You get absolutely unbearable when you’re hungry,” Hermione huffed, her ears flattened against her head.
Together, they all but shoved Ron into the corridor.
“But what if—” Ron tried to continue, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement.
“And don’t come back tonight!” they both shouted in perfect unison, making Madam Pomfrey raise her eyebrows from the far side of the ward.
Ron pulled a theatrically offended face, then pointed over his shoulder.
“What about Nev? Can he stay?”
Harry and Hermione turned to find Neville standing a few steps back, wearing a timid smile that clearly said, I’ve nothing to do with this.
When the two sets of feline eyes fixed on him, the boy blushed and backed away so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.
“All right, I… I’ll be off, then,” he said quickly, straightening his uniform. “We’ll be back tomorrow. Oh, and Harry… I left some Chocolate Frogs on your bedside table… but you’ve got to share with Hermione too!”
“Thanks, Nev,” Harry replied genuinely, while Hermione offered a small smile—the first since they had been transformed.
“Come on, Ron,” Neville called, giving him a pat on the shoulder. As they walked off down the corridor, they could still be heard faintly, Neville asking, “D’you reckon there’s that pasta with the white sauce tonight?”
Ron’s booming laugh echoed off the stone walls.
When they were finally alone in the hospital wing, Harry noticed that, against all odds, even Hermione was letting out quiet little giggles.
It was typical of Ron—his unique knack for turning even the most embarrassing situations into something to laugh about. Meanwhile Neville, with his peculiar sweetness, always seemed to find the perfect way to comfort them, whether with reassuring words or small gestures like leaving Chocolate Frogs.
On that particularly catastrophic day, both kinds of comfort were equally precious.
As Hermione had never spent any significant time in the hospital wing—except for her regular visits to see him—it fell to Harry to explain the details of the hospital routine. Not that there was much to tell: it basically boiled down to lying in bed trying to ignore the persistent smell of medicinal potions and the other patients.
However, since their condition wasn’t exactly serious, Madam Pomfrey had allowed them to eat together at a small table between their private spaces.
Despite the dietary restrictions—far from the feast that was surely being served in the Great Hall at that very moment—they enjoyed an exceptional chicken broth prepared by the matron herself. Unlike the house-elves who cooked the usual meals, Pomfrey personally oversaw the patients’ diets, knowing exactly what each condition required.
And Harry had to admit—her broth was simply unbeatable.
“That’s all you’ll be having for now,” Madam Pomfrey announced. “I need to make sure there are no adverse reactions before I allow anything else. If all goes well, you might be able to try the elves’ food in a few days.”
“Thanks for the soup, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said, his smile unintentionally revealing slightly sharpened teeth and the more prominent white whiskers.
“It’s really delicious,” Hermione added with her characteristic politeness, though her feline ears twitched with satisfaction.
Looking at the two hybrid creatures—not quite human, not quite feline—Madam Pomfrey couldn’t help a sigh accompanied by a maternal smile.
“You’re welcome, dears. Now eat up and rest, all right?” she replied, her voice notably softer than the stern tone she’d used when they had first arrived.
As she moved away, Pomfrey cast one last glance at them.
How could she possibly stay cross with those children?
With another sigh—this one more affectionate than exasperated—she returned to her duties, leaving them to enjoy the rare moment of peace.
The silence between them as they ate was surprisingly comfortable.
Harry watched Hermione in the dim light of the ward—her eyes heavy with tiredness, her hair even bushier than usual from her constant nervous smoothing. The absence of her usual comments about books or theories was the clearest sign of how exhausted—or thoughtful—she was, even though she tended to think out loud, even if only in a murmur.
“All right?” Harry asked, his voice low, almost lost beneath the clink of spoons against bowls.
Hermione seemed to emerge from her thoughts.
“Hm? Oh, yes… all right…” She continued to stir her soup slowly, avoiding his gaze.
“It’s… about the potion?” Harry ventured, feeling his feline ears twitch involuntarily.
A sigh escaped Hermione’s lips before she could stop it.
“I was thinking… we didn’t find out anything useful, in the end.” Her voice, still hoarse, carried a weight of disappointment. “Everything we did—stealing ingredients, lying, brewing an illegal potion… And the only result was this.” She gestured to their transformed bodies. “We risked expulsion for nothing.”
Harry set his spoon aside, resting his elbows on the table. His rough tongue passed over his lips as he gathered his thoughts.
He wasn’t exactly the type to know how to cheer someone up, but seeing her so curled in on her own disappointment made him want to see her eyes brighten again.
“I reckon we can see something good in it,” he began, cautiously. “We know Malfoy’s not the Heir. And we learnt a lot from that book, didn’t we? There were loads of things I jotted down, not to mention all those other potion recipes.”
“But look at us, Harry,” pleaded Hermione, holding up her furry hands. “We were nearly expelled! We're like this now, and I know you think I'm a nag about the rules, but—”
“I don't think you're a nag,” Harry interrupted, his green eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made Hermione look away, suddenly very interested in a distant corner of the wall. “We knew it could go wrong, but it didn't... I mean, not completely wrong. And we're in this together, right? It's not just you as a cat.”
A small smile curved Hermione's lips.
“I don't think I could handle this alone,” she admitted, her tail twitching nervously beneath the table.
“You won't have to,” Harry replied simply.
There was a short silence between them before she let her tense shoulders drop.
“Yeah… you’re right,” Hermione agreed, swallowing with a thought that had just struck her. She leant forward. “But do you think… Snape or anyone will come after us over this? He’s the one who makes most of the potions for the hospital wing. He knows these complex animal-reversal potions mean something’s wrong.”
“No, I don’t reckon anyone will,” he answered softly, shaking his head. “If we were going to be in trouble, they’d have come after us by now.”
Hermione nodded, and they both went back to eating in silence.
After dinner, they each took their turn in the bath.
Hermione spent nearly an hour in there, and when she emerged, Harry couldn’t help a laugh. Her fur, now clean and dry, looked to have tripled in volume, making her resemble a giant pompom dressed in red pyjamas and fluffy slippers.
“What?” Hermione frowned, hands on her hips.
“You look like… a hedgehog,” Harry chuckled, his own whiskers twitching with amusement.
“Wait till you see yourself!” she retorted, though her tone was more playful than annoyed.
When it was his turn, Harry found the long wait made sense—washing and especially drying all that fur was a herculean task.
Returning equally fluffy, it was his turn to endure Hermione’s laughter.
The beds in the hospital wing, separated by heavy white curtains, had been left partly open between them—a kind concession from Madam Pomfrey.
Harry recognised “his” bed instantly, the same one that seemed to be reserved especially for him after so many visits—all after less than pleasant situations. The idea of putting up a plaque with his name on it crossed his mind again, this time with an inward smile.
It wasn’t intentional, but they both found a quiet comfort in each other’s presence.
More than once during the night, a furtive glance was exchanged, as if to confirm they weren’t alone in this peculiar situation—a pair of green eyes meeting yellow, and vice versa. The atmosphere between them, though still weighed down by the day’s worries, had a reassuring quality that contrasted with the hospital environment and the snow falling outside.
As the night wore on, each lost themselves in their reading—Hermione in a hefty book on Arithmancy, Harry in a Quidditch magazine he had finally—after Ron’s insistence—taken out a weekly subscription for. When bedtime came, Hermione settled under the covers, looking at Harry for a moment longer before hugging a pillow to her chest.
“Good night, Harry,” she said, her soft voice carrying a note of gratitude.
“Night, Hermione,” he replied, extinguishing the lamp with a movement of his paw, leaving only the silver light of the moon streaming through the window.
That same night, now even colder, Severus Snape cut through the corridors of Hogwarts like a living shadow, his quick steps making the torch flames flicker as he passed. His black cloak billowed behind him like bat wings, and even the deepest shadows seemed to retreat from his imposing presence.
The young Aurors who crossed his path avoided his gaze—some out of respect for the former Head of Slytherin, most because of the indelible fear their former Potions professor still inspired.
Snape, however, barely noticed their presence.
His thoughts were fixed on the urgency of his mission, as clear as the pale moonlight that bathed the castle’s stained-glass windows.
Upon reaching the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance, Snape spoke the password in his usual slow, drawling voice:
“Sherbet Lemon.”
The spiral staircase revealed itself with a grinding of stone, and Snape climbed the steps in long strides. Upon reaching the heavy oak door, he hardly needed to knock before Dumbledore’s voice invited him in.
The circular office was bathed in golden light, with Fawkes perched calmly on his stand. Dumbledore stood, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he paced back and forth. Kingsley Shacklebolt, his serious face illuminated by the soft glow of silver instruments, was seated in one of the chairs.
“Severus,” Dumbledore greeted, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.
Kingsley limited himself to a respectful nod.
“Headmaster. Shacklebolt,” Snape returned the greeting with the ceremonious coldness his position demanded, not necessarily what he desired.
“Do you have any information about the recent… incidents in the castle?” Dumbledore asked, raising a silver eyebrow. “It would be extremely useful at this time.”
“Unfortunately, that is not why I have come,” Snape replied, his thin lips pressing together slightly as he cast a meaningful glance at Kingsley. “I have a matter that requires your immediate attention. In private.”
Kingsley, understanding the cue, rose gracefully.
“I’ll take my leave, Headmaster,” he said, his deep voice resonating softly in the room. “We’ll be monitoring all deliveries arriving at the castle from now on.”
“Excellent,” Dumbledore nodded. “I suspect the roosters may be connected to the events, though I cannot say for certain why. Regrettably, the incident happened far too many days ago…”
“All information is valuable,” Kingsley replied, meticulously noting something down on a parchment with his quill. “Good evening to you both.”
When the door closed behind the Auror, Dumbledore sank into his chair, his fingers interlaced as he studied Snape with a penetrating gaze.
“Well, Severus. What could be so urgent?”
“You wanted to know who stole from my stores,” Snape began, his voice as smooth as a serpent’s glide.
“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore nodded, his eyes gleaming with understanding. “I thought it might be related to the Chamber, but it seems I was mistaken.”
A slight arch of his eyebrow was Snape’s only reaction to the remark. Unhurriedly, he drew from the depths of his robes a black-covered ledger, where he meticulously recorded every ingredient that entered and left his private stores.
“Observe,” he said, pointing with a slender finger. “On the day in question, a jar of boomslang skin and a sack of powdered bicorn horn disappeared. I taught classes for the second, fourth, and seventh years that day.”
Dumbledore murmured something lost in the air, making a vague gesture for Severus to continue his account.
That was also the day of the… vomiting incident, as some students called it in the corridors. Few could forget the scene in which Snape nearly strangled poor Neville Longbottom, accusing him to Dumbledore of having “purposefully” vomited on his shoes as a distraction for the theft of his private stocks.
Severus regarded the young Longbottom with such deep loathing that it was difficult for anyone to discern—though Dumbledore understood, even if he did not agree with his conduct.
To this day, the Headmaster wavered between believing or not believing Severus’s version of events. He knew full well that the boy—the son of Alice and Frank, heroes of the Order—faced true torment in Potions classes. But however much Dumbledore tried to intervene, Severus remained as unyielding as a steel bar smeared with a rust potion—immovable in his stance, impenetrable in his grudges and regrets in life.
“What’s curious,” Snape went on, “is that today two students—Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle—reported eating floating sweets in the bathroom, fainting, and waking up in different stalls.”
The curl of his lip clearly suppressed how much he wanted to expose the stupidity of the two, and that they hardly represented his house, but he held back and continued.
“And considering that Poppy asked me to brew some reversal potions for premature Animagus transformation…” His black eyes glinted. “We have not one, but two students in the infirmary based on the quantity she requested. Polyjuice users. Something happened today, and I’m certain Potter is involved—he must be there now, since he didn’t appear at dinner, as I noted.”
“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore agreed, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Not only Mr. Potter but Miss Granger as well was affected.”
“You knew already?” The surprise in Snape’s voice was almost imperceptible.
“I try to keep abreast of everything that happens in this castle, Severus,” Dumbledore replied, settling more comfortably in his chair. “Although, as recent events prove, not always with complete success.”
“We must act,” Snape insisted, his words cutting the office’s silence like blades. “I warned you about my suspicions regarding Potter. Not only has he managed to use the potion disastrously, he’s dragged Granger into this farce. Considering that two students were drugged, it’s likely Longbottom and Weasley are also involved, Albus.”
Dumbledore gazed at him over his half-moon glasses, his blue eyes as deep as frozen lakes.
“And what course of action do you suggest?” the Headmaster asked, fingers steepled over the desk.
Snape studied the Headmaster for a long moment before returning his black gaze to the parchment with the theft records.
“They stole school property, assaulted two students, and not only acted in secret but also used a highly restricted potion,” he enumerated, each word dripping with venom. “Expulsion would be the least according to the Hogwarts code.”
“And you know perfectly well that will not happen,” Dumbledore replied calmly, rising with the serenity of one who had weathered greater storms. “Or have you forgotten the promise you made me?”
Snape drew back slightly as the Headmaster began to pace the office, hands clasped behind his back.
“You protect them too much,” Snape retorted, his thin lips curling in a mix of disdain and frustration. “Potter and his accomplices act as though the rules do not apply to them.”
“No, I do what must be done,” Dumbledore corrected, his voice still gentle but with an undeniable firmness. “You promised me you would protect Harry. Do you truly believe expelling him from Hogwarts forever, leaving him defenseless against any threat, is the solution? Is that the best path for his emotional wellbeing?”
For the first time that night, Snape hesitated. His dark eyes shifted, fixing on Fawkes, who observed the scene with bright, unblinking eyes.
“I am only stating what should be done based on the rules we have,” Snape countered, his voice faintly indignant. “I am not using emotion for this, only pure logic regarding the mistakes he has made.”
Snape risked a glance at Dumbledore, and what he found made him look away again. It was rare to see the Headmaster with such a hard look of silent reproach, and the aura Snape felt emanating from him also conveyed control and authority.
“Do not bring me diplomatic arguments about this matter,” Dumbledore continued, now with a severity he rarely showed. “When it comes to Harry James Potter, I know well the internal battle you always face. I do not judge or condemn you—you know that perfectly well—but do not lie to me that you do not have your own pains to feed when you think of punishing this boy.”
Snape crossed his arms and wrapped himself slightly in his cloak; Dumbledore could clearly see not the current Potions Master before him, but his former Slytherin student with old grudges.
“I will not even comment on anything regarding Longbottom, Weasley, or even Miss Granger,” Dumbledore went on. “I know very well that detentions or expulsions for them matter little to you—let us be honest here.”
Snape did not reply, remaining silent in his own thoughts, returning his face to its emotionless mask and swallowing any inner feelings he might have had.
“Nothing happens by chance in this life, Severus. You will not mention this matter, much less to Harry. You will not confront them,” Dumbledore ordered. “As for the Polyjuice Potion, it will remain mere speculation without any proof. They suffered an accident, nothing more. We cannot risk the prophecy over a juvenile prank. The four have understood their mistake from what Poppy told me when I asked for more details.”
Internally, Dumbledore also did not wish to make the boy’s life even harder, but to someone like Snape, that mattered little, so he kept his emotional thoughts to himself. And also Snape didn't know what end Harry's would have to go through in Trelawney's prophecy, it was better to keep him in the dark, as much in the dark as the rest of the whole miracle.
“Potter is becoming exactly like his father,” Snape spat, his bony fingers contracting involuntarily as he stared at the marble floor, unable to contain the bitterness that overflowed. “By protecting him in this way, without teaching him about consequences, you will turn him into a spoiled, unbearable boy, and that could even influence the final outcome of the prophecy. He already forms his own group of four troublemakers, just like James Potter did.”
“I see far more of his mother in him,” Dumbledore retorted, and Snape abruptly looked up, his pale features lit by an unexpected reflection from the phoenix. “You know why he did this. We may not know the details of his plan, but they acted with good intentions. I am absolutely certain they did not intend to harm anyone. There is a creature threatening Miss Granger simply for being who she is, Severus. A fight happened in the school courtyard a few months ago because of this. Harry, without even realizing it, moves heaven and earth to protect her. They only wanted to help.”
A heavy silence fell over the office. Snape remained motionless for a long moment before briskly retrieving his ledger.
“Very well. I will not mention the matter,” he finally conceded, his voice as cold as the depths of the black lake. “I only came to update you on this case, nothing more.”
“Thank you, Severus. I will see to a new shipment of boomslang skin and bicorn horns for you, yes?”
“Of course,” Snape replied in a low, emotionless voice, leaving through the door.
Dumbledore nodded slowly, his eyes lost in distant thoughts.
Hermione was the first to wake up that first morning after they had turned into cats.
Her yellow eyes—with pupils dilated from the dimness of the infirmary—blinked slowly as they adjusted to the soft light of dawn.
Outside, the cheerful chirping of birds echoed through the castle, interrupted only by the occasional flutter of wings when a bolder bird dove into the fluffy snow covering the gardens.
She realized she had slept on her side, facing directly toward Harry’s bed.
For a moment, she remained still, fearing that any movement might make the blankets rustle and disturb her friend’s peaceful sleep, even though he was relatively far away.
She couldn’t help but notice how he slept—almost completely hidden under the blankets, with only his pointed ears and that famous messy hair peeking out from the nest of covers he had built. Harry’s slow, steady breathing made the black strands move softly with each exhale, in a hypnotic rhythm that almost made her smile. There was something deeply comforting in that scene, something that, for a brief instant, made her forget they were both transformed into half-human, half-feline creatures.
After he woke up as well, and they had breakfast together, two elegantly decorated envelopes arrived for them, each sealed with Gilderoy Lockhart’s golden stamp.
When they opened them, they found autographed letters wishing them a speedy recovery, adorned with the author’s inevitably exaggerated and flourished signatures.
I do hope you get better, Potter. I remember quite clearly a day when I went through a rather tricky patch myself, much like—
Harry skipped ahead to the end of the letter.
And so, do take care of Miss Granger, won’t you? You two are precious students—I shall miss being able to present my tales to the class together until February!
Get well soon, your favorite professor, Gilderoy Lockhart.
Harry stared at the letter for a few seconds, incredulous, before tossing it aside with a sigh of exasperation. What truly perplexed him, however, was seeing Hermione carefully sliding hers under her pillow, her eyes shining as if she had just received a special gift.
“You’re not going to keep that there… are you?” Harry asked, his stomach churning slightly.
“It’s a personal message!” Hermione replied defensively, adjusting the pillow over the letter as if protecting something precious.
Harry couldn’t hold it in.
As soon as Ron and Neville arrived to visit them a few minutes later, he leaned slightly toward them and, in a conspiratorial whisper, told them what had happened, still wearing an expression of disgust.
Hermione, distracted, kept rereading the letter, a goofy smile plastered on her face.
“Under the pillow?” Ron repeated, eyes wide in pure astonishment. “She put that under the pillow? And she’s still reading it? Sweet Merlin save us.”
Neville seemed torn between disbelief and revulsion.
“I… I’m afraid if I read it, I’ll throw up,” he muttered, grimacing.
“I thought about using it to wipe my arse, but it would get paint on it.” Harry shrugged with a laugh.
Ron shook his head, shooting Harry a knowing look.
“It’s official, mate. She’s gone.” He gestured toward her.
“I’m what?” Hermione’s voice cut through the air.
She stepped closer to the three of them, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Gone. Completely gone,” Ron repeated bluntly. “Keeping that letter of his. And you lot say I’m the crazy one in this group.”
Hermione crossed her arms, lifting her chin with dignity.
“I just thought that, since he took the trouble to send it, it would be… polite to keep it.”
Harry and Neville exchanged a glance and nearly rolled their eyes at her. Harry’s ears twitched in indignation at what he’d heard.
“Polite?” Ron retorted, incredulous. “Seriously, Hermione? Politeness is keeping that thing under your pillow? That’s your argument?”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Her tail swished in a threatening way. Harry could have sworn he heard a faint feline growl coming from her throat.
“I’ll do whatever I want with what’s mine, Ronald!” she said, her voice rising. “So don’t bother me!”
Ron raised his eyebrows, swallowing hard and stepping back.
“Alright, alright… Merlin, are you in that… you know… time when women get… sensitive?”
Harry closed his eyes, wanting to curse Ron for a moment.
Coming from him, the question was actually innocent, but the timing was utterly wrong. If he had just kept quiet, this wouldn’t have happened.
Hermione took a step forward, her paw gripping her wand, her eyes blazing with fury.
“You’d better shut your mouth right now, or I’ll hex—”
“Enough!” Harry interrupted, raising his paws between the two of them. “Let’s calm down, alright? Hermione, could you put the wand away? Thank you—you can keep the letter too, no one’s going to bother you about it anymore. Right, Ron?”
“Yeah… fine,” Ron sighed, shrugging.
“Hmph,” Hermione huffed, triumphant. “That’s better.”
An uncomfortable silence followed, which Neville, nervous, tried to fill.
“Well,” he said, with an awkward smile, “so… about the Chamber of Secrets… have you thought more about it?”
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, remembering what they had discussed earlier.
Although they hadn’t made progress in their own investigations, there was a growing sense that something would eventually happen. Something they feared might be bigger than they could help resolve. They talked for a while about it, Harry and Hermione sitting on his bed while Ron and Neville pulled up stools.
“I don’t have much hope we’ll find answers anytime soon,” Harry said with a sigh, running a hand through his messy hair.
“Let’s wait,” Hermione replied calmly. “Harry and I can’t do much from here and we don’t have a plan either—at least I haven’t thought of one yet and we can’t break the rules again, we’ve already risked too much,” she sighed. “But those Aurors… maybe they can help somehow.”
“They do seem a lot more dedicated now,” Neville commented thoughtfully. “They’re checking every corner of the castle, more than before. And from what I heard at lunch today, they’re even questioning some students. They’re not aggressive or intimidating to anyone—I think they don’t want to make the tension worse than it already is with everyone’s nerves on edge, but they make sure to press just enough to get as much information as possible. Apparently, that’s their top priority right now.”
Harry let out a heavy sigh.
“Which means they’ll probably end up saying I must be the Heir—if they haven’t already…”
Hermione extended her paw and, with a gentle gesture, squeezed his shoulder.
Because her hand was now a paw, the feeling was surprisingly even softer and more comforting. The pupils of her yellowed eyes, large in the dim light and full of concern, stared at him with silent intensity. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to.
She would be there for him, just like Ron and Neville. No one would call him something he wasn’t, much less use it against him. His friends wouldn’t allow it.
Christmas had arrived, but, unlike the previous year, Neville told Harry that the atmosphere in the castle still wasn’t particularly cheerful.
Everyone was, in some way, trying to ignore the horrors and tensions caused by the Petrifications in order to enjoy a quieter Christmas, but the shadow of danger still hung in the air.
At any moment, someone could be the next victim. Many students, gripped by fear, clutched their protective amulets.
Even in the face of the uncertainty and dread that lingered in the air, the Aurors, on a frosty morning, called for the attention of the few students present to offer safety tips for the holiday.
“There’s a pattern to the attacks,” warned Shacklebolt, his voice grave. “Every Petrification has taken place in the corridors. That means enclosed spaces, where there are more people and which are used regularly, are safe havens. Always walk with at least one friend, and don’t leave the castle without letting someone know. Don’t worry, we’ll be carrying out constant patrols, and if you’ve any trouble, come and speak to us.”
Despite the biting cold outside—which would put anyone off the idea of a carefree stroll or a picnic in the sun—the Aurors’ words carried a note of warning that couldn’t be ignored. After all, someone could easily become a suspect if they disappeared for too long; it was best to keep things tightly under control for the time being.
There was no reason not to make use of the hospital wing in such cases.
The place was well watched over by the Aurors and offered a secure environment on the first floor—enclosed, yet easy to access.
And Madam Pomfrey, as always, dedicated herself heart and soul to the students’ wellbeing.
Warming Charms were cast through the air constantly, and the hearth burned magically, radiating a comforting, homely heat. Although only Harry and Hermione were there as non-Petrified patients, the matron watched over them with the same care she gave the others. Her gaze, serious and alert, reflected a genuine concern for everyone under her charge—whether conscious or not, Petrified or not.
Of the four friends, Neville was the one who seemed most cheerful about Christmas despite the current mood. Harry noticed that the date was special to him, something that neither hidden chambers nor dangerous creatures could dampen.
“Gran’s always loved Christmas,” Neville told Harry in a rare moment alone in the hospital wing. “I reckon I picked it up from her. At least it’s one day a year when everyone’s got a reason to smile and celebrate… I think that’s important, y’know?”
“I know. I do now.” Harry nodded; he’d learnt that in his first real Christmas the previous year.
Neville hesitated for a moment, flushing faintly as though preparing to share a secret.
“She managed to convince me Father Christmas was real until I was nine. Said he used the Floo Network to deliver the presents.” He lowered his voice. “I never doubted her.”
Neville gave an awkward little laugh, but Harry only smiled. Deep down, he thought his friend was lucky to have a grandmother who cared so much for him—in her own way.
With the sort of infectious enthusiasm that only Christmas at Hogwarts could inspire, Neville and Ron decided to bring a bit of festive cheer to the hospital wing. The next morning, they ventured down to Hagrid’s hut, whose chimney was puffing out spirals of gingerbread-scented smoke into the frosty air.
Hagrid, whose enormous size made him look like a tamed dragon amidst fragile decorations, embraced the idea with such fervour he nearly knocked the door off its hinges on the way out.
With movements surprisingly delicate for someone his size, he helped carry a Christmas tree to the hospital wing—a magnificent pine which was set carefully in the space between Harry’s and Hermione’s beds, its green boughs contrasting with the white walls of the ward.
“Achoo!” Hagrid sneezed violently.
“All right, Hagrid?” Neville asked, stepping back instinctively as another thunderous sneeze shook the giant. “You look… well, you look awful. Want me to fetch Madam Pomfrey?”
“Nuh-nuh-no need, Neville,” Hagrid sniffled, his nose as red as a bauble. “It’s jus’ a silly li’l cat allergy. A-A-ATCHOO!”
Harry and Hermione exchanged guilty looks, their feline ears flattening in remorse. Hagrid, noticing their discomfort, waved his hands the size of paddles.
“Ah, don’ go pullin’ faces like that!” he exclaimed, rubbing his watering eyes. “A few sneezes won’t stop old Hagrid bringin’ a bit o’ Christmas ter yeh. A-ATCHOO!”
No sooner had the tree been placed than the four children approached Madam Pomfrey with pleading looks.
Ron led the group wearing an expression of false innocence that never fooled anyone, while Neville twisted his hands nervously behind him.
“Well, what is it now?” the nurse asked, raising an eyebrow as she organised potion bottles on a shelf.
“We had an idea, and we wanted to know what you thought,” he said, hands in his pockets as though it were nothing.
Hermione stepped forward, her feline paws making a soft sound against the floor.
“Madam Pomfrey, we were thinking… since Harry and I are spending Christmas here, perhaps we could join our areas together?” Her furry tail swished side to side like a nervous pendulum. “It would be more… more cosy.”
Harry, distracted by the finches singing outside, had his pointed ears twitching in time to the notes.
“It’s just… well…” he began, unintentionally helping as Madam Pomfrey turned to fix him with her gaze.
Ron seized the pause and sighed loudly, gesturing towards Colin and Justin.
“And to think you’ll have to spend Christmas looking at those Petrified statues at the back—”
“Ronald!” Hermione cut across him, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.
Madam Pomfrey looked from one to the other, her face shifting between sternness and resignation. At last, she sighed.
“All right,” she nodded. “So long as you behave yourselves and don’t turn my hospital wing into a circus, you may.”
“Oh, thank you!” Hermione exclaimed, her ears pricking up in delight.
“We won’t cause any trouble,” Harry promised, though his green eyes gleamed with a faint trace of mischief that reminded her very much of his father.
As the beds were drawn together with a gentle scrape and the heavy curtains of the ward were repositioned to create a shared space, Neville leaned towards Ron with a conspiratorial air.
“I bet within an hour they’ll be arguing over how to hang the decorations,” he whispered, his eyes darting between Harry and Hermione.
Ron smirked one of those roguish grins that usually preceded particularly inconvenient remarks. With a dramatic flourish, he cast a “Tempus Revelio” to check the time, golden numbers floating briefly in the air.
“I’ll do better—half an hour,” he declared, “and Hermione’ll be giving orders like a general on campaign.”
From the other side of the ward, as if she’d heard them over the bustle of preparations, Hermione shot them a look so sharp it would have made Professor McGonagall raise her eyebrows in approval. Her feline ears stood rigid and her pupils narrowed dangerously.
And, to Ron’s misfortune, his prediction was far too generous. In exactly nine minutes, Hermione was already coordinating operations with the precision of a military strategist, pointing at each bauble with her paw.
The transformation that followed was nothing short of magical.
Red and gold baubles glittered among the pine’s branches like forbidden fruit from an enchanted garden, while garlands of holly wound themselves along the curtains like decorative serpents. A red and gold carpet—borrowed from the Gryffindor common room after a quick and convincing chat with Professor McGonagall—covered the stone floor, warding off the winter chill.
Hermione commanded the decorations with the fervour of a general in wartime. Each ribbon was measured by eye, each ornament critically inspected, her subtle smile revealing a fang that betrayed the quiet satisfaction she felt as everything took shape.
Yet her “soldiers” seemed determined to sabotage her decorative campaign.
“That bauble’s crooked,” Hermione announced, pointing upward with a paw that trembled with indignation.
“Which one?” Ron asked, already running out of patience. “There’s at least thirty baubles up there, Hermione.”
“That one!” she insisted, as though its position was obvious to anyone with a shred of spatial awareness.
Harry precariously balanced a yellow bauble in his claws until he realised it would be easier if he simply gathered them up.
“Colours, Hermione,” he intervened. “Say the colour before Ron blows up.”
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard they seemed to turn white for a moment before she pointed again with renewed vehemence.
“The red one next to the yellow in the top right corner!” she declared swiftly. “It’s clearly crooked!”
Ron blinked several times, his expression shifting from confusion to puzzlement.
“Top… right?” he repeated, as if the words were in another language.
Harry and Neville exchanged one of those long-time-friend looks—a mixture of resignation and amused exasperation—before Neville gently took the bauble from Ron’s hands and adjusted it properly. For the third time.
“I knew it was that one,” Ron said casually, pointing at the now perfectly placed bauble.
“Of course,” Harry and Neville replied in unison, their voices dripping with scepticism as thick as the snow outside.
“Honestly, do I have to teach you left and right again?” Hermione folded her arms, her ears flattening against her head in frustration.
“Don’t start!” Ron protested, his ears turning as red as the Christmas decorations. “I know the difference, I just didn’t… hear you properly!”
After yet another round of misplaced ornaments, Hermione let out a sigh that echoed through the ward like the sound of a magical balloon deflating. Her golden feline eyes narrowed as she surveyed the boys’ work, ears flattening further in obvious irritation.
“It’s official,” she declared, with the authority of someone who’d read every book on Christmas décor in the library, “the three of you have no sense of aesthetics whatsoever. Neville, you’ve put two red baubles together! Swap this one for a gold one, there on the third branch to the left!”
Neville looked from the bauble in his hands to the tree, then back to the bauble, then to Harry, his expression like someone trying to solve a particularly tricky Arithmancy problem.
“But… if I do that,” he argued timidly, “there’ll be two gold ones together on this side…”
Hermione’s tail lashed like a flag in a strong wind, and she extended her paw with an imperious gesture.
“Give it here,” she said briskly. “Clearly I need to do it myself.”
Neville hesitated, biting his lip as he glanced between Hermione’s outstretched paw and her determined face. There was an unusual spark in his eyes—a rare sort of bravery that usually only surfaced during Hero Path matches or in the greenhouses.
“You… you want me to desert, then?” he asked, with an innocence so perfect it could only be feigned.
Ron burst into such loud laughter that a few baubles on the tree trembled, while Harry doubled over, trying to stifle his own. Hermione froze, her mouth opening and closing like an affronted goldfish.
“Neville Longbottom!” she exclaimed, using the tone she usually reserved for catching Ron copying her homework without permission.
“All right, all right,” Neville laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “It was just a question…”
“Unbelievable!” Hermione huffed, taking the gold bauble and fixing it in the exact spot she’d had in mind, with precise movements. “The three of you are… are…”
“Brilliant?” suggested Ron, flashing a roguish grin.
“Dedicated?” Harry added, still laughing.
“Prats!” Hermione corrected, though the corners of her mouth were twitching, betraying a laugh she was holding back.
Harry couldn’t help but notice her tail now swished more gently, signalling her annoyance was already ebbing away.
And as he watched Hermione fuss over the tree, muttering softly to herself about where each bauble should go, Harry picked up his Transfiguration book—last year’s gift from McGonagall, by now well-thumbed with its pages bulging—and conjured a small stool so Ron could reach the top of the tree to place the star.
“Cheers, mate,” said Ron, stretching up on tiptoe atop the stool. With one last effort, he managed to fit the star onto the top of the tree.
They spent the rest of Christmas Eve talking and laughing together.
They played Exploding Snap and Hero Path, as usual, between sips of hot chocolate and discreet bites of the biscuits Neville had smuggled from the Great Hall.
The calm of the ward was broken by two unexpected visitors when the doors burst open.
There stood Fred and George Weasley, each wearing a blindingly orange jumper with their initials “F” and “G” in purple letters that glittered as brightly as their false Father Christmas beards—which, to Hermione’s complete horror, sparkled with a Colour-Change Charm that shifted hue every time they blinked. Their hats—also orange—had tiny enchanted snowballs that fell continually onto their shoulders and vanished before hitting the floor.
Ron burst into laughter, nearly falling off the chair he was balanced on.
“You look ridiculous!” he pointed out, laughing.
The twins placed their hands on their hips simultaneously, their expressions of mock offence so perfectly identical it would have been impossible to tell them apart—if not for the letters blazoned across their chests.
“Listen to our younger brother, Forge,” said Fred, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment, making his hat wobble dangerously.
“Quite right, Gred,” George agreed, stroking his sparkling beard. “This rude little boy will find nothing but coal in his stocking tomorrow morning.”
Neville pointed to the mysterious bags the twins were carrying.
“What’ve you got there?” he asked. “Handing out presents?”
“More like contraband,” Harry chuckled.
Fred put a finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture of secrecy.
“Well, our dear Neville,” he began, with a smile that promised mischief, “we’ve heard rumours about a certain… hairy situation involving our friends here.”
“Yes,” continued George, examining his nails with casual air, “seems a certain Harry Potter and a certain Hermione Granger have undergone a rather peculiar transformation. The kitten sort.”
Hermione folded her arms so tightly her striped tail puffed out to its fullest, while Harry gave a sheepish laugh.
“My, what perception!” Harry exclaimed, eyebrows arching with sarcasm. “How ever did you uncover something so astonishing, dare I ask?”
“Oh, it was a red-haired little bird—” began Fred.
“—Who, coincidentally, is in this very ward—” continued George.
“—At this precise moment—”
“—This exact minute—”
“—Even this very second—”
“—Who told us everything,” they finished together, pointing dramatically at Ron, whose ears were now as red as his brothers’ hats.
“It was funny when I told them,” Ron muttered, shrinking under Hermione’s accusatory glare.
“And it still is!” George laughed, giving his younger brother a hearty slap on the back that nearly knocked him from his chair.
Hermione huffed, her eyes narrowing in suspicion while her tail lashed like an irritable pendulum.
“And what exactly does Ron’s gossip have to do with this… this ridiculous display?” she asked, gesturing at the twins’ outfits.
Fred and George exchanged one of those looks that usually heralded trouble. The simple fact they’d managed to annoy Hermione without even trying was, in their minds, a complete victory.
“Well,” George began, adopting a conspiratorial tone as he rummaged in the bag, “our red-haired little bird suggested you may have developed certain interesting features.”
“Nothing major, of course,” Fred added with false casualness. “But we thought you might appreciate some special gifts.”
With a flourish worthy of a Muggle magician, the twins tipped the contents of their bags onto the floor.
A flood of cat toys spilled across the carpet—brightly coloured balls of yarn, a stuffed mouse that ran in circles on its own, and a little ball with a bell that jingled merrily with every movement.
Harry froze, his green eyes wide as he stared at the collection of feline playthings now occupying the centre of their space.
His pointed ears twitched involuntarily, while a disturbingly catlike part of his brain couldn’t help but take interest in the moving mouse. His tail—that tail he was still trying to pretend didn’t exist—swished faintly from side to side as if with a mind of its own.
He folded his arms in solidarity with Hermione, giving the twins his best look of reproach—a look he’d learned from Madam Pomfrey herself. The effect, however, was spoiled when his ears swivelled independently towards the tempting jingle of the bell ball rolling across the floor.
Fred and George carried on their explanation with the easy patter of street traders.
“As citizens currently unavailable for Hogsmeade visits,” Fred began, stroking his glittering beard with a philosophical air, “we had to acquire these items through alternative means.” His eyebrows danced suggestively.
“Extremely enjoyable means, I might add,” George put in, his wicked grin visible even behind the sparkling beard.
“You snuck out of school?!” Hermione exploded, her tone so sharp it could have cut diamond. Her tail puffed out completely, making her look twice her usual size.
George waved a dismissive hand.
“Snuck is such a dramatic term, Hermione,” he sighed like a disappointed art critic. “Almost amateurish.”
“We prefer to think of it as a… temporary diversion from the regulations,” Fred elaborated, his eyebrows performing an intricate dance. “A strategic manoeuvre for superior commercial purposes.”
Hermione looked at the ridiculous pile of toys and rubbed her temples as though a headache were incoming.
“You two are impossible, you know that?” she said.
“They tell us constantly!” they chorused, their identical grins shining almost as brightly as their enchanted beards.
In perfect synchrony, the twins began distributing their “gifts” about the ward. Balls of brightly coloured yarn tumbled onto beds like fluffy little bombs, while the stuffed mouse, dripping with magic, zigzagged across the floor, squeaking provocatively in high-pitched bursts.
“And you honestly think we’re going to fall for this?” Harry asked, throwing Hermione a nervous glance.
His friend looked equally horrified—or at least was making a Herculean effort to seem so. But there was a suspicious gleam in her golden eyes that fooled no one.
“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Hermione declared, lifting her chin.
Yet her tail betrayed her, swaying subtly towards the nearby brown ball of yarn.
Fred and George exchanged a look that promised trouble before turning to Ron and Neville, who were watching the scene like spectators at an especially exciting Quidditch match.
“It’s only a matter of time—” began Fred.
“—It’s going to happen—” continued George.
“—Absolutely inevitable—”
“—They’re already looking—”
“—Any second now—”
“—Two Sickles says Harry’s first—”
“—Five it’s Hermione—”
“—Done.”
“I’m not touching anything!” Harry protested, though his ears swiveled treacherously towards the sound of a bell.
“Of course not,” the twins agreed with false solemnity.
Fred dangled a devil-red ball of yarn in front of Harry’s nose.
“Sure you don’t want to try it?” he asked in the voice one might use on a cute kitten. “It’s Hungarian Horntail wool.”
“How does a dragon have wool?” Neville frowned.
“Don't ask...” Ron leaned in to answer.
“We’ve got every colour of the rainbow—and even some that aren’t in it!” George added, as though this were the most sensible argument in the world. “Even this green that matches your eyes perfectly. Isn't it awesome? We even have this pink one here…”
“What really annoys me is that you know exactly how ridiculous you’re being,” Hermione growled, though her fleeting glance followed the ball George had “accidentally” rolled towards her.
“Ridiculous? Or visionary?” George pondered, stroking his false beard.
“We’re like those… what d’you call them, the Muggle animal healers?” Fred frowned in mock concentration.
“Vets?” Harry fell straight into the trap before he could bite his tongue.
“Exactly! We’re magical vets!” Fred announced triumphantly.
“Fred Weasley! I am not an animal to be examined!” Hermione exploded, her ears flattening against her head as she pointed a clawed finger.
“Oho, full name,” Fred remarked to George. “Level three on the Granger Irritation Scale.”
“Nearly a record,” George agreed solemnly.
Hermione’s jaw dropped.
They had a scale to measure her irritation?
Her expression promised violent retribution in the near future.
At that moment, the violet ball rolled to her feet.
Before she could think, Hermione gave it an instinctive bat—more out of frustration than anything else. When she realised what she’d done, her eyes widened in horror and she folded her arms so tightly she nearly hugged herself, her face flushing red beneath the furrier bits of her features than the baubles on the tree.
Fred let out a dramatic sigh and slid a few coins to George, who caught them with a cat-that-got-the-cream smile.
“I didn’t do that!” Hermione protested.
“You did,” Ron confirmed, his grin spreading across half his face.
“It was an unconscious reflex!” she shouted furiously.
“All cats say that,” Fred muttered.
George nodded sagely.
“Classic case of animal denial,” he said as if delivering a diagnosis. “Quite common in these situations.”
Harry, who had so far maintained a stance of wounded dignity, felt his tail begin to swish in a treacherous rhythm. His eyes were drawn as if by magic to that blasted stuffed mouse wriggling on the floor, and a primitive urgency rose in his mind.
Grab. Chase. Capture.
George, spotting the weakness, gave the toy a gentle kick, sending it squeaking and leaping right in front of Harry.
“Harry, don’t,” Hermione warned, but her voice sounded more like a desperate plea than a command.
“I won’t,” Harry vowed—both to himself and the others.
Then the mouse jumped again, as though mocking him.
That was the last straw.
Before his brain could process it, Harry ducked swiftly and tried to grab the toy, but it slipped through his fingers with a provocative jingle.
“Bloody hell!” he swore through gritted teeth—first because the mouse escaped, and second because he’d lost control.
The ward rang with laughter so loud Madam Pomfrey was bound to hear it—thank Merlin she was out just then.
“Knew it!” Fred yelled, doubling over with mirth.
“I’m going to kill you two!” Harry growled, hurling the mouse at Fred, who dodged nimbly.
Ron, Neville and the twins were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. The scene only worsened when Harry, in a fit of fury, folded his arms so tightly his tail thumped irritably against the bed—unaware he’d begun to emit a faint, aggressive feline hiss.
Hermione buried her face in her hands.
“This isn’t happening,” she groaned in disbelief. “Any moment now I’ll wake up in my bed in Gryffindor Tower.”
Neville, ever the peacemaker, tried to help.
“Well… at least you’re… adapting well to… feline traits?”
Harry shot him a look that could have melted snow. But any scrap of dignity was destroyed when a ball of yarn rolled under his bed, the sharp sound making his ears twitch involuntarily.
“This isn’t adapting, Neville!” Harry exploded. “This is pure humiliation! They’ll remember this until I’ve gone grey!”
Fred and George, however, looked more satisfied than a dragon with a massive hoard.
“Mission accomplished,” Fred declared, rubbing his hands with professional air.
“Think we can get a bit more fun out of this—” began George, but he cut himself off when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Hermione drawing her wand with a decidedly unfriendly look.
“Oh, I’ll show you who’s having more fun—” she began, her voice thick with threat.
“Best be off,” said Fred quickly, already backing away.
“Aim at Fred! He lost the bet!”
“No, aim at George! I trusted you more in the first place!”
“Either’ll do nicely!” she growled, chasing them to the ward’s exit.
“Merry Christmas, everyone!” they called with a theatrical wave before disappearing through the doors faster than they’d entered.
And all that remained was a room full of cat toys, Ron and Neville crying with laughter, and two feline-human friends with arms folded and scowls—this had been a humiliating day.
Harry raised a paw and pointed at the door through which the twins had fled.
“I swear, when this curse is lifted—”
“We’ll hunt them down,” Hermione finished, sitting angrily on her bed, her tail thumping against the covers.
“Harry…” Hermione’s voice drifted softly through the cosy space, like a strand of melody slowly drawing him out of the realm of sleep.
Harry let out a muffled grunt, his face still buried in the pillow. One of his paws made a vague movement in the air, in a futile attempt to ward off the unwanted interruption.
Hermione shook his shoulders more firmly this time, her voice taking on a musical note of restrained excitement.
“Harry, wake up!”
“Hnng?” he mumbled, his body still heavy with sleep.
“It’s Christmas!”
As though struck by an Awakening Charm, Harry’s eyes flew open. His green eyes, now brighter than ever, caught the soft morning light and gleamed with pure, childlike joy.
“Christmas?” he repeated, his voice hoarse from sleep but quickly gaining enthusiasm. “It’s Christmas!”
“Exactly!” Hermione laughed, her smile lighting up her face, her fangs just slightly showing.
She was dressed in lime-green button-up pyjamas, her feet—or paws, Harry still wasn’t sure which to call them—bare against the soft carpet. Her tail swished gently, betraying her own excitement.
It was the first night they’d spent in that improvised space since decorating the tree on Christmas Eve.
Still lying down, Harry couldn’t help but notice how different Hermione looked without her usual school robes and heavy cloak—it was something he was still getting used to.
It was strange—but in a pleasant way—to see her so relaxed, even in her humanoid form. There was something deeply comforting about the scene, something that almost made this Christmas in a school hospital wing feel… homely, wrapped in a nest of warm comfort. It was almost as though, for this brief moment of spontaneous joy, all the dangers outside could be forgotten in favour of the simple delight of Christmas morning.
“Come on, sit here!” Hermione called, patting the spot beside her enthusiastically. Her tail made soft thuds against the carpet. “Ron and Neville should be here any minute—just look at all these presents!”
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her claws twitching with excitement as she pointed to the base of the tree, where a pile of colourful parcels lay. Some had ribbons that untied and retied themselves, others gave off faint, mysterious pops, and one particularly large silver-wrapped box occasionally sent out golden sparks.
Harry felt a warmth that didn’t just come from the Heating Charms in the ward, but from the simple joy of being surrounded by true friends. They waited for Ron and Neville with the taut patience of people trying not to give in to the temptation of opening presents too soon.
To distract himself, Harry swung his legs nervously, while Hermione, sitting beside him, nibbled at her lip—not too hard, because of the cat teeth—and murmured speculative guesses about what each mysterious package might contain.
At last, the door to the hospital wing burst open, revealing Ron and Neville, breathless—clearly they had run through all the corridors to get there faster. Their faces were flushed from both effort and the cold, but lit with the same eager anticipation.
“Finally!” Harry exclaimed, his ears twitching with excitement.
“We thought you'd never make it!” Hermione continued, her paw scratching lightly on the carpet as her smile revealed sharp teeth.
Presents were exchanged in a happy chaos of torn wrapping paper and cries of surprise. Harry felt the same lump in his throat he’d had the previous year, realising how many people had thought of him.
Hagrid, in his own peculiar way, had given him a box of homemade chocolate truffles that looked suspiciously irregular—some seemed to contain whole hazelnuts, while others emitted a faint bluish glow Harry prudently decided to ignore.
Better not ask, he thought, taking a cautious bite of one of the smallest.
Despite his misgivings, the sweet was delicious, and coming from Hagrid, it was probably made with care.
Professor McGonagall, ever practical, had sent a leather-bound volume entitled Advanced Transfiguration: Theory and Practice. The book seemed to hum with magic—something which, according to Hermione, “only comes in rare editions. The book is definitely enchanted!”—its gilt-edged pages revealing intricate diagrams of wands in motion.
Hermione, of course, was already eyeing the volume with an expression Harry knew well—it was the same hungry look she had when she stumbled upon something fascinating in the library after trawling through countless other volumes.
Harry caught her looking at the book in his hands. Quickly, Hermione looked away, and he rolled his eyes with a smile.
“Yes, I’ll let you read it,” he said before she even needed to ask.
Hermione looked back at him with a bright smile.
“Thank you,” she murmured, shyly.
Of all the wonderful things he received, Dumbledore’s gift surprised Harry most. Not because it was expensive or dazzlingly magical, like so many other things they had unwrapped, but because of its simplicity and kindness.
It was a small lime-green bag, tied with a golden ribbon, containing enough sherbet lemons to last the entire winter.
Attached was a simple note in elegant handwriting:
To sweeten your darkest days. Merry Christmas, Harry. — A.D.
Harry smiled as the familiar sharp-sweet flavour of the sweets touched his tongue.
It was only after almost all the presents had been opened that Harry realised—or rather, realised he hadn’t realised—that nothing had come from the Dursleys. But it didn’t matter in the slightest. In truth, if he were honest with himself, any gift from his “family” would probably have gone straight in the bin.
“Might be they’d try to poison me,” he thought.
Mrs Weasley’s knitted jumpers were the highlight of the morning. Each got their own—navy blue with an “R” for Ron, honey-yellow with an “N” for Neville, and…
“Wait a minute,” Hermione frowned, holding her wine-red jumper next to Harry’s. “Ours are practically identical!”
And they were—both with a large “H” stitched on the front, in shades so similar they could easily be mistaken for each other in dim light.
“I needed a new one anyway,” Harry said, pulling the jumper on with a smile.
The soft, warm wool seemed to hold all the affection the kind woman had knitted into every stitch.
Ron let out a laugh as he looked at them both in their new gifts.
“Just don’t mix them up later,” he joked.
Harry grinned, shrugging.
“Nah, Hermione’s will probably smell a lot better than mine—no chance of confusion.”
Hermione, who had been admiring her own jumper with satisfaction, suddenly found the patterns on the carpet immensely interesting, grateful that the fur on her face hid cheeks now flushed a shade to rival the Christmas decorations. Her tail, betraying her entirely, gave a small wag of contentment.
Neville had received a truly generous supply of sweets—Ron, with the authority of someone who’d grown up immersed in that world, was whispering enthusiastic advice to Harry about what he could get that was different from traditional Muggle sweets.
“Sugar Quills are amateur stuff when it comes to Exploding Caramel Chews,” declared Ron, with the air of a convinced expert. “They actually... well, explode. But in a good way!”
“I found the pudding a bit more... calming,” explained Harry, rather hesitantly, as Neville watched, marvelling, at the magically sealed little pots he’d received from him.
Hermione, on the other hand, had chosen her own sweets for Neville with a touch of apprehension. Unlike the two boys, she’d selected them with a note of nervousness. She feared Neville might not like them, since Muggle sweets weren’t common among wizards, but felt relieved when his eyes shone at the gesture.
“These are delicious!” Neville exclaimed, smiling as he enjoyed a bar of Swiss chocolate.
“And there’s no danger of them hopping away, like those Chocolate Frogs,” Hermione laughed, relieved.
“But do they come with cards?” Ron asked, a mischievous grin on his face.
She rolled her eyes.
“No, Ron, this is grown-up chocolate,” she said matter-of-factly. “Grown-ups don’t collect cards.”
“Then it’s no fun…” he muttered, shrugging as he bit into another Christmas biscuit.
Harry chuckled quietly, almost agreeing with the redhead.
Ron had received a deluge of Quidditch presents, including a brand-new Chudley Cannons jersey gifted by his dad. He seemed utterly chuffed while holding it—chiefly because it was identical to the one worn by his favourite Chaser.
Harry, very practically and noticing he didn't own one, gifted him a high-quality Quaffle—the kind that stays stable even at top speeds. Neville, remembering the countless times Ron had complained about his tatty old gear, gave him a pair of sturdy player's boots with self-tying laces.
Finally, his eyes landed on several packets of collectable trading cards from the season, wrapped with meticulous precision by Hermione.
“I knew you'd care more about things for your album than anything else,” said Hermione, with a satisfied smile of someone who knows her friends all too well.
“Cheers, Hermione!” he said, his eyes shining as he stuck his cards into the album, the players flying on broomsticks and smiling up at the collector.
Ron was utterly predictable when it came to how much he loved cards, stickers, and anything collectable.
Hermione, as always, possessed an enthusiasm for literature that bordered on the devotional. Her collection of books—a treasure amassed through gifts from her parents and friends—had grown considerably, enough to make any librarian smile.
There was, of course, a bit of everything.
Harry, well aware that Charms was her favourite subject, gifted her a dense, entirely theoretical tome, filled with complex complementary concepts that promised hours of meticulous study. Neville, in turn, focused on Herbology, mumbling something about her having mentioned once that she wanted to delve into phyllitophilic plants with applied magic in round-base soil under a new moon...
“Whatever that means,” thought Harry, not understanding a word of it.
Ron, with the characteristic practicality of someone who chooses a gift five minutes before the party, simply pointed to the book of Ancient Runes with the longest and most complicated title he could find in the Flourish and Blotts catalogues they’d been given to buy presents from, convinced it was a foolproof choice.
And, to absolutely no one’s surprise, he was right.
“Perfect!” she exclaimed, hugging the volume to her chest. “Exactly what I needed for my research on archaic translation!”
The lack of thematic variety, far from bothering her, was a delight. Each volume was a door to a new universe of knowledge, and she was already organising them mentally, stacking them not by height, but by a complex hierarchy of academic relevance and difficulty of comprehension.
“Hermione being Hermione...” teased Ron, with a mischievous grin.
She nudged him lightly on the shoulder in mock protest, but couldn’t contain the wide, radiant smile that insisted on lighting up her face. It was pure, simple happiness.
From Ron, Harry received a magical broomstick ribbon.
“Charlie gave me one of these for my birthday!” explained Ron, his face lit up by a wide grin. “You just tie it to the base where you attach your Nimbus' freckles and they change color! I told you the white would look absolutely wicked against the handle!”
Hermione, after much deliberation, had opted for something she considered infinitely useful: a set of rubber balls with a strange consistency, which floated slightly in the air as if defying gravity. They were neither solid nor liquid, but rather a spongy, malleable thing somewhere between the two states.
“What are these?” asked Harry, curious, picking one up and dropping it to the floor.
Instead of bouncing like a normal ball, it floated gently back up to his hand.
“They're Transfiguration Practice Spheres,” replied Hermione, in a practical tone that didn't quite disguise her pride in the choice. “You mentioned wanting more practice, so I thought of these. The mutable texture allows you to magically mould them more easily before applying the actual transfiguration. It's excellent exercise for the mind and the wand.”
It was, without a doubt, a subtle gift, and Harry perfectly understood it was her way of making him study without even realising it. Even so, a warmth of gratitude washed over him.
Immediately, he drew his wand and set to work, concentrating furiously as he tried to turn the floating spheres into a simple stool, which ended up wobbly, a hamster, which had too many legs, and an eagle, which more closely resembled a Golden Snitch with feathers.
“It's particularly difficult to achieve a decent variation of Avis,” commented Hermione, observing his efforts with clinical interest, her pupils narrowing.
“Every now and then he gets obsessed with trying,” murmured Neville to Ron, watching the deformed eagle flap its wings uncoordinatedly before vanishing with a pop.
Ron nodded with a mischievous smile.
“Yeah. Right then, Harry,” he called, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You've got a bit of a thing for birds, haven't you?”
“Oh, shut it,” huffed Harry, though a faint blush crept up his neck. “It's not a thing, it's because the spell's a good starting point. I just want to try making something bigger than a budgie, all right?”
“Well, the spheres will help, certainly,” said Hermione, with a satisfied smile the boys knew well—it was the smile she reserved for when she'd proved herself right.
From Neville, Harry received something equally valuable: a copper potion cauldron, superior in quality to the tin ones most students used. It was a gift promising greater speed and efficiency in brewing—something Harry would certainly appreciate, especially in Snape’s classes.
“Since you gave me a Herbology gardening kit last year,” Neville said shyly, holding the cauldron carefully, “I thought it’d be nice to give you something like this.”
“Thanks, Nev!” Harry replied warmly as he accepted it.
He felt a genuine warmth in his chest—not just for the gift itself, but for his friend’s thoughtfulness.
Neville nodded, relieved to see Harry truly liked it.
“Hope it helps in Potions,” he added, with a timid smile.
Harry could already imagine Snape’s reaction to seeing the copper cauldron. The professor would probably make some cutting remark like: “Need an expensive set to keep up with your classmates? Pathetic.”
Snape’s sarcastic voice echoed in his mind, but Harry decided not to care. After all, it wasn’t as if Snape ever needed a reason to criticise him—he’d do it anyway.
The rest of the day passed in pleasant calm, between laughter and the excitement of exploring the new Hero Path book Neville had received from his grandmother Augusta. The hours flew as their dice rolled over the makeshift table—Harry even trying to flick one with his tail, only to fail and send them all scattering to the floor.
They sipped mugs of hot chocolate and later shared some of the sweets they’d been given. Harry noticed Neville hiding his Muggle chocolates, clearly hoping his three friends would forget about them. Harry smiled inwardly when he realised, and completely understood.
When the setting sun began to paint the snow outside with a fading orange glow, the imposing figure of Madam Pomfrey gently parted the curtain to their shared space, her usual stern air softened by a maternal smile at the sight of the children so happy.
“Now, children,” she announced in that tone that brooked no argument, “Harry and Hermione need to rest—the reversal potions take their toll. Ron, Neville, you’ll have to leave for today.”
Harry was genuinely grateful for her leniency in letting them share that space for longer.
However, when she added a meaningful “so long as you keep behaving yourselves,” he found himself puzzled.
Behave?
What exactly did she think they might do? Play wizard chess too noisily? Debate the dangers of untested potions? The warning seemed absurd—as if they were children about to cause trouble in the sitting room, not two responsible students recovering in the hospital wing.
In truth, there was little to do but endure the boredom together.
Play with their Christmas presents or talk until they drifted off—those were the only possible distractions. Any suggestion they needed supervision to “behave” seemed entirely misplaced.
Yet Harry couldn’t deny that the new arrangement had its peculiarities.
Sharing personal space with Hermione—even with the Christmas tree pushed against the wall serving as a sort of natural divider—was a unique experience. She was, after all, a girl, and Harry had never shared his daily routine so closely with someone of the opposite sex.
The separate dormitories at Hogwarts had always kept that distinction clear. Now, with her things neatly organised on the other side of their small shared area, Harry sometimes found himself hyper-aware of every movement, every word exchanged there.
And in the nights spent in that place, Harry discovered a strange gratitude for the sepulchral quiet of the hospital wing.
He’d never realised how used he was to Ron’s and Seamus’s cacophonous snores in the Gryffindor dormitory until he experienced the stillness that now surrounded him. Hermione slept so quietly that, if he really concentrated, he could barely hear her soft breathing from the other side of their space.
And, if he were completely honest with himself… Harry liked that quiet presence. It was comforting to know she was there, even if he’d never admit such a thought aloud.
He quickly learned to adapt to Hermione’s military-level organisation, too.
Their shared space had rules as strict as Hogwarts itself: clothes folded neatly in trunks, books alphabetically arranged, Christmas presents lined up with geometric precision.
In any other circumstance, Harry would have protested, got annoyed, and told her to mind her own things.
But… Hermione had a peculiar way of making her demands seem perfectly reasonable—usually with a softer, kinder look, as if she only wanted the best for him and for their place to be tidy. After all, the neater they appeared, the fewer reasons anyone had to separate their space.
So if he wanted, he could leave his clothes or maybe even underwear around their space? No.
“That would be disrespectful to her,” he thought, feeling a little self-conscious.
Harry wouldn't want her bras or panties lying around either...
Would he?
Why was he thinking about that too? Anyway...
Did she overdo it with the alphabetical ordering of his books? Yes.
Did Harry sometimes just want his own peace, without having to fold clothes and put them in his trunk? Yes.
But despite her sometimes bossy ways, Harry learned to tolerate it and saw that Hermione was right about their joint organization. It was best for them to live together in harmony after all.
Then, after organizing their Christmas gifts in the right place, and yet that particular Christmas night, after Madame Pomfrey withdrew to their quarters and the light wing lights went out, only the lamp between the beds remained lit.
Harry was absorbed in the advanced Transfiguration book when he noticed Hermione was restless. Sitting on her bed, she was nibbling her lower lip, her tail flicking in a jittery rhythm.
“Something wrong?” Harry asked, glancing up from the illustration of a transfigured pheasant.
Hermione looked up, startled.
“How did you know?”
“Your tail,” he said simply, pointing with a claw.
“My… my tail?” Hermione took hold of her feline tail, as if only now realising its involuntary movement, and began smoothing it nervously.
“It’s been swishing for five minutes,” Harry explained, turning the page to study diagrams of avian conjuration. “You do that when you’re nervous.”
Hermione folded her arms, her ears flattening slightly.
“Harry, we’ve only been like this for less than a week,” she pointed out practically. “How could you have noticed that?”
A smile escaped Harry’s lips at her defensive tone. At least now she sounded more indignant than anxious.
“I could say I’m exceptional at reading body language… or cat language, in this case,” he teased, watching her roll her eyes. “But the truth is, during our Magical Sensitivity training with Neville, you did it when you were frustrated. So, what’s wrong?”
Hermione opened her mouth, hesitated, then shook her head, making her curls sway.
“No… it’s nothing. Forget it.” Her fingers twitching in her lap told a different story.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“Definitely doesn’t seem like nothing.”
She looked away, gripping her own arm with one hand.
“If… if I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?” Her voice was small, almost childlike.
That unusual vulnerability made Harry snap the book shut instantly. He set it on the bedside table and turned fully towards her, giving her his complete attention.
“I won’t laugh.”
“Promise?” she pressed, meeting his eyes intently.
He held her gaze.
“Promise.”
Hermione took a deep breath, closing her eyes as though bracing for a difficult spell.
“I… I can’t sleep because… because…” She swallowed hard. “I need to cuddle something to fall asleep.” Her eyes opened, searching his face for any sign of mockery.
Harry frowned, genuinely puzzled.
“And what’s the problem? I always wrap myself in the blanket,” he admitted. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“It’s just… I usually sleep with a…” Hermione closed her eyes again, her face flushing even in the dim light. “A teddy.”
The silence that followed seemed to weigh heavily on her. Her claws twisted into the thick winter blanket as she fought against her embarrassment.
“I know it’s childish,” she rushed on. “We’re too old for that. I’m thirteen—I should’ve grown out of it, but…” Her tail gave an anxious flick. “I tried, only… I can’t sleep properly without it.”
Her golden eyes watched Harry warily for mockery. But he only shrugged, his face lit softly by the lamp.
“It’s fine,” he said, his voice gentler than usual.
Hermione blinked, surprised at the absence of teasing. But then again, this was Harry—not Ron or some other silly boy who’d mock her on the spot, or store away the information to use against her later.
“If I get it… will you promise not to tell anyone?” she asked, nibbling at her lip.
Harry smiled—a genuine smile, not the smirk she’d feared.
“Promise. Relax, it’s just us here.”
Hermione sighed, smoothing the fur of her tail once more.
“I know… I just worried it was silly,” she admitted.
“Hermione, seriously. There’s nothing childish about it.” He shifted on the bed to face her properly, one ear giving a faint twitch. “And who cares? You’re the one sleeping here. If I had one, I’d probably do the same.”
Hermione’s feline ears lifted slightly.
“You… you’ve never had a teddy?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Harry looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing patterns on the blanket.
“No. Not that I remember,” he murmured. “Closest I had was the blanket I slept under. But it doesn’t matter.”
Hermione sensed the change in his tone and chose not to press. Instead, she slid to the edge of her bed, opened her trunk, and pulled out a small, timeworn lion plush, its mane frayed in places.
“Does he have a name?” Harry asked, a small smile playing at his lips.
“Aslan,” Hermione replied, adjusting the toy with a care Harry rarely saw in her. “My mum used to read me The Chronicles of Narnia before bed. It was my first story about magic, before I even knew real magic existed—well, obviously it was before, but… yes.”
She smiled as if the memory itself had been conjured just by holding him.
Harry’s smile froze for a moment, something tightening in his chest with almost physical force. Suddenly, he was back in front of the Mirror of Erised, seeing reflections of a life he’d never had—a mother reading to him at bedtime, a father laughing in the background, perhaps even a teddy resting in the arms of a younger him who never existed.
With visible effort, he pushed away the melancholy.
Not tonight.
Not on Christmas.
Harry blinked, and the reality of the hospital wing solidified around him once more. With a quiet sigh of relief, he noticed that Hermione hadn’t realised where his mind had wandered off to—a small miracle, given her rather alarming knack for noticing absolutely everything.
She was apparently still too busy settling into the bed to have noticed his brief escape into those particular thoughts.
Hermione nestled deeper into the pillows, pulling the blankets up to her chin and clutching the tatty stuffed lion tightly. She pressed Aslan’s fuzzy muzzle against her own furry cheek with a tenderness so raw and unguarded that Harry could scarcely believe it—it was a vulnerability she would never, ever, have allowed anyone else to see.
A small but genuine smile touched Harry’s lips as he watched her like that, so simply herself. Then, with a precise flick of his wand, he extinguished the lantern’s light.
Their shared space plunged into a comforting darkness.
“Good night, Harry… Merry Christmas,” Hermione whispered, her voice carrying a sweetness that stirred something strangely warm in Harry’s chest.
“Merry Christmas, Hermione,” he replied, closing his eyes as a comforting silence—so unlike the oppressive quiet from before—wrapped around them like an invisible cloak.
And in the cosy hush of the hospital wing, Hermione’s sigh echoed like an unspoken confession.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around Aslan as she reflected on the extraordinary friend fortune had given her. Harry Potter wasn’t the kind of company you found just anywhere—he was one of those rare friends, the real ones, the kind the best books were always written about.
Ron, with his infectious humour that could brighten even the darkest days, and Neville, whose kindness persisted like a steady flame through adversity, both held special places in her heart.
But Harry…
Harry was different. She always told herself that, though she didn’t always know why. The reasons weren’t always the same.
And for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt she could be just… Hermione.
Not the cleverest girl of the year, not Gryffindor’s know-it-all.
Just herself, with her insecurities and small, childish habits she’d never reveal to anyone else. Her parents had always been her refuge, the only ones before whom she could truly relax—even to read children’s stories or sleep hugging a teddy. Now, inexplicably, Harry was also becoming part of that inner circle. More and more each day, she trusted him in a way she couldn’t say she’d ever trusted anyone else.
The complete darkness should have hidden Harry, but Hermione could swear she could see him—the curve of his shoulder beneath the covers, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. Every little sound from the neighbouring bed was etched in her memory with almost magical precision.
A shiver ran down her spine at the thought of being alone in that ward, transformed into this half-cat version of herself. The solitude would have been a winter inside another winter. But with Harry there, even just a few steps away, the world kept its warmth and colour.
Without realising, her eyes stayed fixed on the darkness where she knew Harry rested. She squeezed Aslan tightly, feeling the familiar worn plush beneath her soft claws, and allowed herself a small, secret smile in the dark—one she didn’t need to explain to anyone.
And that Christmas night, as the snow fell silently outside, Hermione Granger recognised a simple truth, yet one as deep as ancient magic lost to time:
In any possible universe, in any imaginable reality, Harry Potter would always—always—be the best friend she could ever wish for.
The day was bright, and the sun reflected off the gently falling snow, making it sparkle like tiny diamonds. Lunch had already finished, and the hospital wing was steeped in a peaceful, contented silence.
Hermione was seated at a small table she had Transfigured at the foot of her bed, writing a letter to her parents. The quill in her hand swayed gently as she scribbled her words with deep concentration.
On the other side, Harry was leafing once again through the photo album of James and Lily Potter.
He didn’t usually look at all the pictures—some hurt more than others—but he always returned to one in particular: his mother and father, arms around each other, rocking him in their arms as they smiled at the camera.
They looked like a truly happy family.
Harry lingered over that picture longer than usual, savouring the affection in his parents’ eyes as they smiled at him. He had often been told he looked like James Potter—and, looking at the photo, he could see why. They had identical glasses, the same shape of face, and, of course, that unruly hair that never stayed put. But, unlike his father, his own always seemed worse. Still, they weren’t completely identical.
The eyes, of course, belonged to his mother.
He noticed, with curiosity, that Lily seemed fond of high-necked wool jumpers. She always appeared wearing one in the photos, though perhaps that was simply due to the autumn weather. When the photos had been taken, most of the leaves on the trees were yellow and orange.
Harry traced his fingers—careful not to extend his claws—along the edge of the yellowing photograph, as if he could, by magic, pass through the paper and enter that frozen moment in time. Lily Potter’s green eyes shone in the picture, following him as she waved happily.
“What book are you reading?” Hermione’s voice broke the silence, as soft as the rustle of an old page. “I’ve never seen you with it before.”
“It’s not a book,” Harry replied, his voice rougher than he’d meant. He turned the album so she could see. “It’s… my photos of my parents.”
“Oh.” The sound escaped Hermione like a sigh. Her golden eyes blinked rapidly.
“Sometimes I like to look,” he added, shrugging in an attempt at casualness. His fingers traced James’s frozen smile. “That’s what albums are for, isn’t it?”
Hermione was silent for a long moment, watching the snowflakes dance outside the hospital wing windows. When she finally spoke, her voice was laced with cautious curiosity.
“I’ve never asked you this, but I’ve always wanted to know…” She hesitated, biting her lip lightly. “What were your parents like? I mean what did they really look like?”
Harry blinked, surprised.
The album was his most private treasure—showing those photos would be like opening a part of himself he didn’t fully understand.
But this was Hermione. Hermione, who never pushed about these things. Hermione, whom he trusted as he did few others.
After a pause that seemed to last an age, Harry took a deep breath and held out the album.
“Do you… want to see with me?” he offered, his voice slightly unsteady. “I can show you…”
“Of course.” Her smile was soft as candlelight as she set the quill aside and stood.
Harry made space on the bed, shifting so she could sit. Hermione settled beside him, her back against the same soft pillow, their shoulders almost touching. The album rested across their knees as Harry turned the pages with reverence.
“Merlin…” Hermione murmured, her eyes roving over the photos. “You’re the image of your father, but—”
“—I’ve got my mother’s eyes?” Harry finished, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Exactly.” Turning the page, Hermione let out a soft breath at the sight of Lily holding a baby Harry, making him laugh. “Your mum was so beautiful… and you were an adorable baby.”
Harry silently thanked the facial fur for hiding his blush.
“Yeah… I suppose so,” he murmured, glancing at another picture.
Hermione’s quiet laugh echoed in the ward as they continued flipping through the album.
At some point—neither could say exactly when—their shoulders met, creating a warm spot between them. Neither Harry nor Hermione moved to break the contact. When their tails curled together in the space between them—Hermione’s resting atop Harry’s—no comment was made.
It was simply… comfortable.
As though, in that moment, sharing those precious memories, they belonged exactly there, together.
The moment was broken when both their ears twitched at the sound of footsteps approaching the partition. Either they had been too distracted by the album to hear the hospital wing door open, or the person had arrived very quietly.
“Mr Potter, are you in there?”
The deep male voice came from the other side of the curtain.
The shadow cast on the fabric was of a tall, broad-shouldered man. Behind him was a second silhouette, smaller and more delicate—probably a woman.
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance.
“Who is it?” Hermione mouthed silently.
“No idea…” Harry mouthed back.
He cleared his throat and spoke aloud.
“Erm… yes, I am.” He kept his tone clear. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, and I’m here with my partner, Auror Nymphadora—”
They saw the man’s head turn towards the woman, who put her hands on her hips and tilted her head at him in indignation.
“Tonks.” Kingsley coughed before correcting himself. “Auror Tonks. May we come in?”
Harry swallowed, already guessing what this might be about. He felt Hermione’s hand squeeze his—quick and firm—a silent gesture of support.
She rose and went to sit on the edge of her own bed.
“Er… yeah. Come in.”
Harry closed the album and set it on the bedside table before straightening up.
The curtains were pulled aside, revealing the two Aurors. For a moment, they stood in silence, taking in the scene before them.
The private space Harry and Hermione shared seemed a world apart within the hospital wing. There was a decorated Christmas tree, its lights twinkling softly like tiny enchanted flames, and the large rug on the floor made the space even cosier. The contrast with the rest of the ward was striking—especially with the Petrified victims lying beyond the curtains. But it was understandable; spending over a month there, surrounded by motionless bodies, would be unsettling for anyone, even with the curtains always drawn.
“Or maybe Madam Pomfrey’s softened with age” Kingsley thought, remembering his own Hogwarts days, when the matron had been famously unyielding.
“Sorry to interrupt your holiday,” Kingsley said politely. “But we’d like to talk with you as soon as possible. And, as we’ve learnt you’ll be in the ward until February, I thought it best to get this done now.”
“Me as well?” Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows.
Kingsley nodded.
“Yes. Since you’re both here for the same reason, it makes sense to speak with you together.”
Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick silent conversation. They didn’t know how much the Aurors knew about their Polyjuice plan, but as they’d agreed, if asked about it, they’d act as though the idea were absurd.
Harry studied the Aurors in front of him.
They didn’t seem threatening, but there was something about them that commanded respect. Their wands were visible, holstered at their legs beneath their open overcoats. They didn’t radiate hostility, but could easily intimidate if they chose.
“Of course, sir, no problem,” Harry replied.
“Call me Kingsley,” he said. “Cutting the formalities will make this flow better. Don’t you agree?”
“Alright,” Harry nodded.
With a wave of his wand, Kingsley conjured two chairs and sat facing them.
“And call me Tonks,” added the other Auror, flopping into her chair with a grin. “If you call me ‘ma’am’, I’ll feel ancient.”
Harry and Hermione chuckled, relaxing a little.
At that moment, Hermione tried to focus on sensing the magic around the Aurors, but frowned in frustration when she couldn’t pick up much. They weren’t concealing their aura, but she still needed more practice to read anything clearly.
Kingsley drew a parchment from his coat, which began to float beside him. A quill slid smoothly over the paper, poised to write.
“This parchment is just to keep a record of our conversation,” he explained. “Don’t worry, we don’t share personal information without cause.”
Harry and Hermione nodded, slightly nervous about this “interview”.
Calm but attentive, Kingsley began his questions.
The conversation was long but surprisingly easy-going. Kingsley was calm and professional, while Tonks broke up the serious moments with light-hearted jokes.
Harry liked her almost immediately.
Contrary to his expectations, the questioning didn’t feel oppressive—it was more like a chat. Kingsley was reserved, letting Tonks handle the social side of things. Harry suspected he’d brought her along precisely for that reason.
She told them she was a Metamorphmagus—able to change her appearance at will—which made Hermione’s eyes light up instantly. Her face was alight with fascination at such an extraordinary magical gift.
The proof came moments later, when Tonks’s hair shifted from vibrant purple to electric blue in seconds.
“So it’s true!” Hermione exclaimed, impressed, her tail swishing lightly. “You really can change your hair colour—I thought it was an exaggeration.”
“Oh, I change it all the time,” Tonks said with a casual wave of her hand. “Some days I’m terribly indecisive—what can I do?”
Tonks was spontaneous and fun, with a clumsy sort of charm that made people feel at ease.
“I graduated a year before you started at Hogwarts, and last year I went straight into Auror training,” she told them. “Training was hard enough, but Merlin… I barely passed the stealth and tracking test. I’m far too clumsy! I nearly knocked over a potion outside the hospital wing before we came in.”
Harry laughed, but his expression sobered when Kingsley asked him to start from the beginning—anything that was truly odd and out of place, things that hadn’t happened last year and were abnormal—so he decided to begin before he even got to Hogwarts.
He explained everything: how he couldn’t get onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and the strange events through the term.
“There was also something about a Rogue Bludger?” Kingsley asked. “I asked Headmaster Dumbledore after hearing a few rumours, but he told me to come speak to you, as he didn’t witness any of it—he only learnt of it afterwards. It could be related.”
Harry stayed silent, thinking how to answer—he knew he could never talk about the races to anyone.
“As for the races, don’t worry about that,” the Auror said. “It’s not our job to take House points or give detentions. The professors know about the races and seem to have decided not to act on it.”
“But honestly,” Tonks crossed her arms, “cancelling Quidditch—what were they thinking? It was one of the only fun things we had to look forward to. If they take away the races as well, all that’s left is exams—Merlin forbid…”
“Alright… just don’t tell anyone I mentioned the races,” Harry said hesitantly. “I wasn’t supposed to talk about that.”
Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. She’d never fully swallowed that story of his participation in a race like that, and she couldn’t help wondering what had really happened—if these Aurors and the professors weren’t turning a blind eye, he’d be in serious trouble.
“Not a word,” Kingsley assured him, and Harry explained that odd event as well.
As Harry gave his account, he realised he might be able to trust these two. Unlike others, who were more hostile towards him, they didn’t seem to have a problem with his so-called reputation as the Heir of Slytherin.
“The platform blocked our way, like I said, then there was the griffin egg hitting our car, the broom throwing me when I was alone, and the Bludger at the end. All of it happened because of a house-elf,” Harry said carefully.
Kingsley and Tonks exchanged a quick glance.
“A house-elf?” Kingsley asked. “Do you know his name?”
“Dobby,” Harry answered without hesitation. “He tried to warn me about danger at Hogwarts. He appeared out of nowhere in my bedroom during the holidays, telling me I shouldn’t come back to school because terrible things would happen. But every time he tried to explain, he’d punish himself. His master forbade him to speak.”
Kingsley frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“We’ll look into this elf,” he murmured. “If he knows something, it’s because he heard it from his master, and that man knows something. If he comes to you again, let us know immediately. Alright?”
“Yes, sir—I mean, Kingsley,” Harry corrected.
He then recounted everything he’d seen before the first attack from the monster in the Chamber of Secrets, and the most recent events. He was as honest as possible, telling them he could speak Parseltongue and admitting how suspicious that looked, given it was Salazar Slytherin’s own ability.
However, he chose to omit the voices he heard in the corridors. He feared that would make him seem even more suspect, and preferred that only his friends and Dumbledore knew.
The floating parchment was filling quickly, the words running across it until almost a full roll of notes had been written.
“And you think we’re investigating you as a suspect?” Kingsley asked, genuinely curious.
“Well, yes. I do,” Harry answered honestly, though with clear displeasure. “The other Aurors have been giving me odd looks, so why wouldn’t I be a suspect?” He couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice.
“Those who doubt you are being guided by lack of information and rumours,” Kingsley explained. “But to me, it doesn’t make logical sense. First—you and Hermione have been friends for a long time, correct?”
“Hermione was my first friend—we met before boarding the Hogwarts Express in first year,” Harry replied.
“Harry was my first friend too,” Hermione added with a fond smile.
Tonks looked at the pair with an expression that plainly said “That’s adorable.”
Both Harry and Hermione flushed, feeling about five years old.
“You, Miss Granger, are Muggle-born, correct?” Kingsley asked.
Hermione lifted her chin slightly and nodded.
“Yes, I am,” she said with pride.
“So why would you, Harry,” Kingsley continued, “put your own friend in danger? And secondly, how could you have had anything to do with Colin Creevey’s Petrification if you were lying in the hospital wing with a boneless leg?”
Harry blinked, surprised.
“It doesn’t make sense—not as much as people claim,” Kingsley concluded. “So don’t worry. I’ve spoken to my team and to Headmaster Dumbledore. I’ve explained the rumours, and from now on, no one will be giving you odd looks. If they do, come and tell me.”
“Or me, if you like,” Tonks added warmly.
Harry nodded, feeling a weight lift off his chest knowing that at least someone else had the good sense not to doubt him.
The last day of the year arrived, bringing with it the chill in the air and promises of hope and better times ahead.
In the Great Hall, the few students who had remained at Hogwarts over the holidays were preparing for the traditional New Year’s celebration—the one night when even first-years were allowed to stay up late, watching the fireworks that would dance above the Great Lake.
Hagrid, as always, was already ready with his sleigh, prepared to sail out to the little island in the middle of the lake, from where he would orchestrate the pyrotechnic display. It was a tradition as old as the very walls of Hogwarts.
Ron and Neville had spent most of the afternoon in the hospital wing, trying to convince Madam Pomfrey to let Harry and Hermione join them to see the fireworks.
The matron, however, was immovable.
“The Great Hall is the proper place for healthy students. Besides, even with the New Year, no student is allowed to wander about alone at night—you’ll be accompanied by the Aurors,” she declared, with that look which brooked no argument. “And these two need their rest.”
Once Pomfrey had walked away, Neville sighed in defeat and Ron muttered something about “having ter shove rules in even on New Year’s.”
“Maybe we will turn in early after all,” Harry lied, shrugging with a nonchalance that even impressed Hermione. “Depends how we’re feeling.”
“Yes, have fun for us, all right?” added Hermione, her feline tail swaying gently in time with her reassuring words.
Ron and Neville eventually gave in, albeit reluctantly.
Ron, in particular, was torn—for weeks he’d been going on about staying up until sunrise, something he had never managed before. Although everyone knew that once sleep got hold of him, Ron turned into a grumpy version of himself that not even a bucket of cold water could rouse.
As the hands of the hospital wing clock crept towards eleven, Harry and Hermione were already dressed for bed—he in light-blue pyjamas which matched uncannily well with his green eyes, she in her favourite dark-purple set, completely laundered by the house-elves after an embarrassing incident earlier in the year had left a reddish mark on the back which she had never mentioned to anyone—and had no intention of doing so.
But contrary to what they had told Ron and Neville...
Harry and Hermione had no intention whatsoever of going to sleep.
The two exchanged a meaningful glance in the silence of the empty hospital wing.
“So...” Harry said, clearing his throat and breaking the silence between them.
Hermione nodded, holding one arm.
“Yes... so...” she repeated awkwardly.
They had been planning this moment for weeks, waiting for the perfect night—and this was it. Not even Madam Pomfrey, occupied with the celebrations on the Great Hall terrace, would come to bother them. The whole castle was absorbed in the New Year festivities, leaving them the much-needed privacy for their little... experiment.
“If you don’t tell anyone, I won’t either,” Harry said, his fingers drumming nervously on the mattress as he looked at Hermione across the small distance between their beds.
“I’m not going to tell!” Hermione replied far too quickly, her feline ears twitching. “And I already said I’d only do this if you wanted to as well...”
“Well, I do,” Harry affirmed, swallowing hard. “But if you think you’re not ready—”
“I’m ready!” Hermione interrupted, biting her lower lip. “I just think we could’ve tried a bit earlier in smaller steps, but... this stays between us, right? No regrets?”
Harry nodded solemnly.
“Our secret,” he assured. “I’ll take it ter the grave if you take yours too.”
Hermione began stroking her own tail absent-mindedly, a voluntary action which had become a nervous habit since the transformation.
“And if someone hears us? Or sees us?” she asked, always with too many questions. “How would we explain?”
“I reckon it’d be pretty obvious what we’re doin’ if we got caught,” Harry replied with a mischievous grin, making Hermione blush furiously.
Seeing her panicked look, Harry quickly went on.
“But no one’s goin’ ter show up! It’s New Year’s Eve—we can... get it out of our system and no one’ll ever know. Just try not ter make too much noise.”
Hermione folded her arms, her ears flattening.
“I’m not noisy!” she protested, thumping her tail on the mattress as if to emphasise her point. “You know that.”
Harry laughed, easing the tension.
“All right, Miss Quiet. But if anyone does come in, we can hear the door opening and footsteps coming closer—and who’d come to the hospital wing at midnight on New Year’s? Besides, you can see the shadows through the curtain. We’ve got three chances to stop before we’re found out.”
She considered this for a long moment before nodding slowly.
“All right...” she sighed, looking at her lap. “So, each in our own bed first?”
“Yeah, I reckon for a start, yeah,” Harry agreed, biting his lip. “But if later you fancy trying something on the floor... there’s the rug, so it wouldn’t be the cold stone... we could test if it’s comfy, if you want.”
Hermione looked away, her tail giving small nervous flicks.
“If we’re going to do this... let’s do it all at once,” she said softly, uncertain. “The floor’s fine too, I suppose.”
A relieved smile lit Harry’s face.
“Then we start on the beds. Like we agreed,” he confirmed. “But no noise—you know how sometimes you growl without realising...”
“You growl too!” Hermione protested, her tail now flicking like a metronome. “And you purr! And you make that strange noise when—”
Catching Harry’s amused expression, she broke off, hiding her face in her hands.
“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this...” she groaned, her brown curls forming a curtain for her growing embarrassment.
“The problem is we’ve been spendin’ too much time in the same place,” Harry commented, scratching behind his ear, which twitched involuntarily.
Hermione’s head shot up so fast that a few curls flew forward.
“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.
“Well...” Harry began, his fingers drumming on the mattress again. “Dunno about you, but it’s gettin’ hard ter control meself.” His green eyes glinted in the dim light of the hospital wing. “With you here all the time, stuck like me, feeling the same thing... here we are.”
Hermione crossed her arms, one eyebrow arched in challenge.
“So first you invite me, and now you want me to keep my distance because I supposedly caused these... urges in you?” she inquired, offended.
“No! That’s not it!” Harry protested, his ears flattening against his skull like a startled cat’s. “It’s just that together the urge gets stronger. I can see it in your eyes—you feel it too! I’ve done this on my own at night when I thought you were asleep, and... well, I heard you too the first time. Don’t tell me hearing me doesn’t make you want to do the same?”
Hermione blushed to the roots of her hair, turning her gaze to her feet, finding it fascinating to rub her toes together rather than admit that he’d heard her. Harry couldn’t help noticing she looked incredibly cute in that moment.
He shook the thought away when he realised he was staring.
“All right, but...” Hermione couldn’t find an argument. Harry was right, after all. “Fine.”
“What?” Harry asked, feigning he hadn’t heard, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.
“Makes sense, what you said. You’re right...”
“Merlin, I should have a camera or at least a witness,” Harry exclaimed, his ears pricking up in excitement.
Hermione frowned.
“Why?”
Harry couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he looked at her, his green eyes shining like gemstones in the faint light of the hospital wing. His tail swayed in a cheerful rhythm.
Hermione felt something strange in her chest—as if her heart had done a somersault. Sometimes Harry looked at her differently, but she couldn’t explain why.
“Why are you smiling like that?” she asked, trying to sound annoyed.
“Hermione Granger admitted I’m right...”
She rolled her eyes, letting out a small laugh.
“Idiot... and me here taking it seriously!” She folded her arms.
“But I am serious,” he laughed, dodging a pillow Hermione hurled at him.
“You’re getting far too cheeky for my liking,” Hermione said with mock severity. “I’ll have to set some limits.”
Harry laughed again, but then his face grew serious.
“Just to be clear... I can’t believe we’re doing this either.” His voice dropped lower than he’d intended. “But there’s a first time for everything, right?”
Hermione bit her lip, her small sharp teeth showing briefly.
“Would you want... to do this again later?” she asked in a tone reminiscent of a nervous first-year.
Harry shrugged, his light-blue pyjamas shifting like water.
“Only if we both enjoy it. If one likes it and the other doesn’t, we obviously stop. At least not together, if that’s all right with you,” he said practically. “When I’m in the shower, you’ve got privacy to do whatever you like, and vice versa...”
She sighed, nodding.
“Makes sense.”
Harry moved closer, hesitantly.
Hermione was sitting on the bed, visibly nervous, her fingers twisting the hem of her pyjamas.
He looked at her, his heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings.
Hermione looked as hopeful as she was scared. Her eyes were so dilated that they almost swallowed the golden iris.
The whole situation was absurd. They shouldn’t be doing this.
If anyone found out... it would be the talk of the year at Hogwarts. They might even be remembered forever because of it.
But now there was no turning back, not when the desire was consuming them like a flame that only going through with their plan together could extinguish.
Swallowing hard and running a paw through his hair—making his ears twitch—Harry held out his paw.
In his palm was a simple, fluffy ball of yarn.
Hermione hesitated for what seemed an eternity, her fingers hovering in the air like a wizard unsure which potion to choose, before finally deciding and reaching out her hand.
“This the one?” Harry asked, pulling the ball of yarn back at the last moment with a swift movement that made his ears twitch with satisfaction.
“Yes, that one—the brown one... it’s my favourite colour,” Hermione replied, the corners of her mouth curving in a smile.
Harry raised an eyebrow, examining the ball with scepticism.
“Brown? Really?” His voice carried incredulity as thick as the mist that often hung over the Black Lake.
“What?” Hermione frowned, her feline whiskers twitching slightly.
“I thought you liked pink, purple... I dunno, red,” Harry shrugged, his light-blue pyjamas rippling like gentle waves.
Hermione folded her arms with such determination that her tail bristled completely.
“Just because brown is statistically the least popular colour doesn’t mean it’s inferior,” she declared, using that professorial tone she usually reserved for explaining why Ron’s answers in Potions were wrong. “In fact, it conveys solidity and reliability, unlike those garish shades certain people—”
“Never said it was bad,” Harry cut in, his green eyes gleaming like gemstones. “But now I’m curious. Why brown?”
“I just like it!” Hermione retorted, her ears flattening against her head. “Let me guess—you like blue?”
“Well... I suppose I do.” Harry shrugged.
“How original.” Hermione pursed her lips. “Blue is the favourite colour of almost half the world’s population, which makes your choice as unique as Snape’s black robes. But brown? Less than two percent. Which proves my taste is, at the very least, singular.”
“Hermione being Hermione...” Harry muttered, laughing when she made that face which meant “you’re annoying me, but I secretly like it.”
“I don’t get it,” she said flatly, though her eyes were sparkling.
Harry then pointed at her chest with a mischievous grin. When she instinctively glanced down, he moved his finger up to tap her lightly on the tip of her nose.
“Oops.” He laughed, his tail swishing happily.
“Harry James Potter!” Hermione exclaimed, springing to her feet and trying in vain to grab the ball of yarn he was keeping just out of reach.
“Isn’t your favourite pyjamas that purple one?” he asked. “Why isn’t it brown—Plufrpt! Herm—Purflrpt!”
Before another word could escape, Hermione swiped her furry tail straight across his face.
While he spat out her hairs with an expression of disgust, she seized the chance to snatch the yarn from his hands.
“Low blow!” Harry protested, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“Do that again and I’ll give you another dose!” Hermione threatened, hugging her precious brown ball of yarn as if it were treasure, while a single loose strand danced in the air like a charmed serpent.
With a dramatic sigh, Harry picked up his own ball—an emerald green one.
With a synchronised “Engorgio!”, they both watched as the balls swelled until they were the size of giant pumpkins.
“You complained about my brown, but you chose Slytherin green,” Hermione remarked, examining Harry’s green ball of yarn with a wry smile. “Poetic, James.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I didn't complain about your brown, Miss. Green is my eye colour. You chose your colour, so don't you complain, Jean!”
“But now my eyes are yellow—”
“I didn't ask,” Harry interrupted rudely, his expression icy.
Hermione blinked in surprise at his tone, and narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw.
“Wow.” She pursed her lips. “You're being—”
“Yep,” he said.
“—extremely—”
“Mhm.”
“—rude to me—”
“Very.”
“—and stop interrupting me!” she snarled, catlike.
“No,” he replied simply, then sniffed his nose and twitched his white whiskers, utterly deadpan.
For a moment that seemed to stretch in time, they remained serious, facing each other like duelists about to raise their wands.
Then, as if moved by the same spell, they burst into laughter—the sort of deep laughter that makes your stomach ache and brings tears to your eyes.
When they finally caught their breath, they shared one of those looks only true friends exchange—a look that held secrets, complicity, and an understanding that needed no words. They cleared their throats almost simultaneously, each retreating to their own bed with a pretence of dignity that fooled no one.
The hospital wing was steeped in shadow, lit only by a single flickering lamp. In that dim light, their eyes shone like enchanted gems—Harry’s green as a shimmering lawn, Hermione’s yellow like candlelight through amber.
And then, as if some invisible curse had been lifted, they gave themselves over completely to their deepest instincts and desires.
They hugged the yarn as though it were precious treasure, tossing it into the air, nibbling at the strands, clawing with nails that now seemed to have a will of their own.
Madam Pomfrey had warned them about this—how feline impulses could become almost irresistible. The twins, of course, had turned this warning into a joke with their “gifts”. But the matron, in her wisdom, had advised them to keep the toys... just in case the need arose.
And on this New Year’s Eve, the need was stronger than any embarrassment.
On previous nights, each had given in privately—Hermione first, playing furtively in the middle of the night with a ball of yarn while she thought Harry was asleep; Harry the next night, pretending not to notice that Hermione was wide awake and listening to every movement. When the truth came out and they talked about it, instead of shame, they found relief in the shared understanding.
If they were going to act like cats, it might as well be together, without judgement.
Hermione’s soft growls echoed through the quiet hospital wing, her tail swishing like a wand under a Levitation Charm.
Between one attack and another on the poor brown ball, she panted audibly—sounds that made Harry’s ears twitch in an involuntary reaction.
There was something in that breathless sound that stirred a strange restlessness in his own aura, as though it were the most captivating melody he’d ever heard. But, with a determination that cost him more than he’d care to admit, he kept his focus on his own green yarn.
Across their shared space, Harry had declared war on his territory.
His bed looked as though it had been through a particularly nasty duel—sheets ripped by his sharp claws, pillowcases strewn like the victims of explosive spells, the mattress twisted as though under a malignant curse. His guttural growls and determined lunges at the ball created a peculiar symphony of feline noises.
Each of Harry’s grunts awakened in Hermione an instinctive response she didn’t fully understand—something between recognition and fascination at seeing him so free, so different from the usual restrained Harry, so wildly unbound.
But, following his example, she remained true to her own hunt, pretending not to notice how her feline ears turned involuntarily at every new sound he made.
And so the hospital wing, normally a temple of silence and order, was transformed into a pandemonium of cat sounds: grunts, purrs, muffled mews, and the constant scratch of claws against wool.
The balls of yarn, once perfect spheres of thread, now looked like the victims of a Devil’s Snare attack—strands everywhere, tangled in their hair, caught in their claws, wrapped around their feet.
When, finally exhausted, they fell onto their backs, panting and satisfied, the balls were reduced to glorious shreds, and they themselves looked like two victims of an especially enthusiastic Entanglement Charm. Strands of yarn covered them from head to toe, like green and brown spiderwebs glimmering faintly in the flickering light.
Harry rolled out of bed with the agility of a real cat, grabbing the enchanted toy mouse the twins had left them.
With a swift movement, he tossed the toy to the floor, where it began wriggling as though alive.
“Let’s see who gets it first!” he challenged, already crouching in a hunting stance.
Hermione didn’t need to be asked twice.
In the blink of an eye, she was beside him on the floor, her yellow eyes fixed on the prize like a hawk about to dive.
The mouse squeaked as Harry struck it with a quick blow, sending it skittering under the bed. For a moment, they both froze—sweaty, alert, ears pricked—before diving under the furniture together, leaving only their twitching tails and wriggling legs visible.
When the toy rolled to Harry’s side, he lunged with a growl—but Hermione was faster. Spinning with surprising grace, she used the paws of her hands and feet to shove him aside.
“Oi, that’s cheating!” Harry protested, but his smile betrayed his amusement.
Hermione only laughed before delivering a sharp slap to the mouse, sending it back into the middle of the room.
The toy was moving more slowly now, its magic beginning to fail, but that didn’t dampen the competition. Like two lion cubs fighting over prey, Harry and Hermione crawled across the hospital wing floor, their young bodies intertwining in an instinctive dance.
They pushed, pulled, tripped, and rolled—all in complete silence, as though sound might break the spell of the moment. Until, in one particularly clumsy move, Harry fell onto his back, with Hermione hovering over him, their faces suddenly mere inches apart.
Time seemed to stop.
Harry felt his heart give a leap that would make a Quidditch player jealous. His green eyes traced every detail of her—the rebellious brown curls falling into her face, the yellow eyes shining with intensity in her furry features, the firm hand keeping him pinned to the carpet.
A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, confusing as a mispronounced spell, but not unpleasant. Just... new.
“Get off me!” he protested, his voice rougher than he intended, trying and failing to twist away.
“Only when I’ve got the mouse!” Hermione snapped, keeping her paw on his chest while desperately reaching for the toy with her other arm.
“Oh, yeah?”
With an agility he didn’t know he possessed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Harry grabbed her shoulders and rolled, reversing their positions in the blink of an eye.
Now it was he holding her down against the soft carpet, her wrists firmly pinned beneath his hands. Hermione’s eyes widened, her rapid breathing making her chest rise and fall.
“Oh no! You’re not getting it!” Harry teased, his mischievous grin lighting up his face.
It was then that Hermione felt something even more intense.
Seeing him like that—his green eyes glowing like luminescent potions in the dim light, his black hair even messier than usual, him dominating her, the warmth of his body against hers—a wave of heat swept through her chest, stronger and clearer than Harry’s own confusion. As though a seed planted long ago was finally beginning to break the surface, even if it still lacked the strength to sprout.
All those exchanged glances, those moments of perfect, wordless synchronicity, that peculiar dance whose steps only they seemed to know... None of it made sense for two children of twelve and thirteen who barely understood their own feelings.
And even if it did, now was certainly not the time to think about it.
Because, in this moment, only one thing truly mattered: the enchanted toy mouse running between them had to be caught—and Hermione was determined to get it before Harry.
“That’s not fair!” she protested between breaths, trying in vain to free herself, but her tone lacked its earlier conviction.
Harry laughed, a rough sound, but released her wrists, pulling back to continue the chase.
Hermione, however, wasn’t about to give up so easily. In a swift move worthy of a Quidditch player, she grabbed his leg and yanked hard.
“And what’s this then? That count as fair?” Harry complained, trying to pull free.
“New rules,” Hermione replied with a grin that would make the twins proud, slipping ahead of him and using his shoulders as leverage.
For long minutes that felt like hours, the hospital wing echoed with sounds that would make any casual observer blush deeply—muffled squeaks, soft mews, low growls, panting that seemed far more intense than the game required, groans of frustration that sounded suspiciously like something else, and laughter that quickly turned into sighs.
Until, exhausted and with their bodies warm, the two abandoned the hunt, collapsing side by side on the carpet like puppets whose strings had been cut.
Their chests rose and fell in unison, the flush on their faces matching perfectly with the strands of yarn that still insisted on wrapping them like cobwebs.
Anyone walking in at that moment could easily have misinterpreted the scene—the tousled hair, the rumpled clothes, the heavy breathing, the shining eyes.
But the truth was purer and more bewildering than any filthy-minded adult supposition.
They were just two children playing without pretence, not understanding what was truly happening between them while their auras screamed the answer into the void, when neither of them had the capacity to comprehend it.
It was a feeling that, for now, manifested only as an instinctive pull and an inexplicable need to be close, to touch, to play, to smile, to share secrets and muffled laughter in that dim light.
The silence was broken only by the soft sound of their breathing—until, without realising, a low, continuous purr began to vibrate in their chests, as though their feline bodies were expressing a satisfaction their human minds could not yet name.
Harry turned his head to look at Hermione.
She was sweaty, a few strands of hair—and all that fur—stuck to her flushed face. Her eyes were closed, but her expression was one of rare serenity, as though some invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
For a brief moment, it felt as though they had both been freed from something they had carried for far too long.
“Suddenly sleepy too?” Harry asked, his voice rough with tiredness.
“Hmhm,” Hermione murmured sleepily. “What... what time is it? D’you think we’ve missed the fireworks?”
“Dunno. Reckon we’d have heard them...” He hesitated.
“Not with you mewing in my ear.” She retorted in a tired but satisfied voice.
“You were the one who wouldn’t stop growling.” He said, then added, “Enjoy yourself?”
She nodded slowly, a stubborn smile lingering on her lips.
“Yeah. Got rid of the energy I needed to,” she said matter-of-factly. “But never—ever—tell anyone.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied quickly, as though the very idea were absurd. “Our secret, remember?”
“Good.” She sighed, sinking further into the carpet.
They were quiet for a moment, until Hermione ran a hand across her furry brow and pulled a face.
“Urgh, honestly, I’m all sweaty. I’m going to need a bath—and clean pyjamas.”
“Me too.”
“I said it first, so I’m going first,” Hermione declared, as though closing the matter.
“And what’s wrong with me going first?” Harry asked, his tone clearly provocative.
“You’ve started leaving the bathroom completely drenched. I’m always the one who has to dry it afterwards.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“Ever think that happens because my whole body’s covered in fur? It’s like drying your hair all over your body.”
“So’s mine, and I don’t turn the floor into a lake,” she countered, unfazed. “You’ve no argument.”
“That happened twice,” he argued, “and only because there weren’t any towels—you know I leave everything tidy.”
“Yes, I know,” she replied easily. “But if there aren’t any towels, use the Drying Charm then, you are a wizard, remember?”
Harry lifted his eyebrows, a mischievous grin appearing on his face.
“I remember perfectly well that I am one. But you’re the one Ron’s always having ter remind,” he said with a smirk. “If it weren’t for him, we’d’ve been griffin chow that time you forgot Colloportus.”
“That was last year!” Hermione exclaimed, prodding him in the shoulder. “Literally over a year ago.”
“And what about the time you spent half an hour trying to open a jar of jam?” Harry went on, his eyes glinting with amusement as he drummed his fingers against his chest, “with your wand literally right next to you?”
Hermione looked at him and, after a brief flash of indignation, rolled her eyes when she saw his mischievous grin widen.
“That was only a few days before the Polyjuice plan...” he teased.
“You were awful!” she huffed, indignant. “You saw me struggling with the lid and sat there quiet as owls! You could have suggested the charm...”
“I asked if you needed help,” Harry reminded her, “and what did you say?”
Hermione was silent for a moment, searching her memory.
“‘I don’t need help,’” she murmured, repeating her own words with a resigned tone.
“Exactly,” Harry laughed, triumphant.
Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes, but couldn’t quite hide the faint smile.
“You’re dodging the main point,” she said, trying to keep her voice severe, though without much success.
“Thing is, I don’t know the Drying Charm,” Harry admitted with a shrug.
“I can teach you,” she offered kindly.
“All right, if you help me, I promise I’ll leave it dry from now on.”
“Fine, we’ll sort it tomorrow,” she replied, eyes bright. “But it doesn’t change the fact I’m first in the bath tonight.”
He gave a muffled laugh.
“All right, I’ll allow it.”
“It wasn’t a request, it was a statement, whether you allow it or not,” Hermione shot back with the victorious smile she wore in debates.
Harry clicked his tongue and gave her a light nudge in the arm, making her laugh.
And so they stayed, breathing deeply, curled up in their own tiredness, in no hurry to move—as though, in that moment, nothing mattered more than that carpet, that silence, and each other’s presence.
Suddenly, a soft boom echoed through the air.
Coloured sparks exploded outside, casting vibrant reflections across the window. Sleepy as they were, both awoke at once.
“It’s New Year’s!” Hermione exclaimed, leaping to her paw and running to the window. “Come and see, Harry!”
He got up and followed her. The window was small, but side by side they could still see the night sky lit up by bursts of colour. Both their ears twitched slightly with excitement, and Hermione’s face broke into a radiant smile. Her sharp canines gleamed under the intermittent light of the fireworks.
“It’s beautiful!” said Harry, his eyes reflecting the vibrant colours dancing across the sky.
He had seen the fireworks last year, but for some reason, these felt more alive, more vivid.
Down below—from the Great Hall—the sound of celebrations filled the castle, cheerful voices singing Auld Lang Syne, a song famous in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds.
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?” drifted up from the muffled voices singing loudly below.
Harry was still watching the lights flicker on the window glass when, all of a sudden, he felt Hermione fling herself at him, her arms squeezing him so tightly he almost lost his breath, rocking him gently from side to side.
“He-Hermione!” he gasped, startled.
“Happy New Year, Harry!” she said, her voice soft, filled with a genuine warmth that made his chest feel lighter.
For a moment, Harry was completely still, caught off guard, not quite knowing what to do with his arms.
Then, hesitantly, he raised them and returned the hug—awkward at first, shy, almost uncertain. But he knew that, to Hermione, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest.
She’d simply hold him with the same affection as always.
“Happy New Year, Hermione,” he said quietly, with fondness.
In the comforting warmth of that embrace, Harry felt the tension in his shoulders dissolve. Without thinking, he rested his head on her shoulder. She did the same, leaning into him as though this moment were a safe refuge from everything they were facing.
The sound of the fireworks’ booms accompanied them in that infinite moment.
Hermione’s brown curls brushed against Harry’s face, giving him a soft, familiar tickle. Not having bathed yet—instead of her usual green-apple shampoo scent, she carried her natural smell of fresh ink and parchment.
There was something in her scent that inexplicably calmed him.
It wasn’t something he could name, nor even something he allowed his thoughts to linger on for long.
It was simply there, as natural as breathing, and for that reason, it needed no explanation.
And so they stayed, entwined in silence, while the fireworks painted the sky gold and purple. The new year was arriving, but in that moment, all that mattered was the gentle sound of Hermione’s breathing and the shared warmth between them.
When they finally drew apart, Harry studied her.
She was still smiling, but there was a different light in her eyes—something thoughtful, almost hesitant.
She bit her lip, tilting her head in a way he knew well.
It was the expression she wore when she was keeping a secret or weighing up whether to say something.
“What is it?” Harry asked, frowning slightly. “You plotting something?”
Hermione laughed, a light sound that seemed to dance in the air between them, and her eyes shone with mystery, first glancing down in thought, before lifting to meet his gaze with an intensity she clearly had no intention of explaining.
“Maybe...” she replied with a mischievous smile. “Perhaps I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
And Harry was really curious to know what she was planning.
Chapter 29: The Cursed Diary
Chapter Text
January began in a quiet, monotonous way in the hospital wing.
It dragged on with a sleepy slowness, punctuated only by the swish of Madam Pomfrey’s robes and the persistent smell of cleanliness and healing potions.
On the very day after New Year’s, just after breakfast, Neville made sure to recount, with a wide and amused smile, that Ron’s grand plan of staying up all night had gone down the drain barely two hours after the last firework had exploded.
“He was so insistent that I keep him awake,” Neville said, his kindly eyes twinkling with amusement, “but once he started snoring… not even the Filibuster Fireworks the twins tossed at his feet worked. He slept sitting in the common room sofa, like a log.”
Ron, in fact, was sitting on Harry’s bed with dark circles under his eyes and an expression of deep unhappiness, his pale face standing out against his red hair.
“Better than the dormitory bed, that’s for sure,” said Harry, nudging his shoulder, trying to suppress a grin, his feline fangs slightly exposed at the sorry sight of his friend. “No better place to sleep, is there?”
Ron raised his eyes, his weary look filled with deep resentment. He seemed to want to tell him to piss off judging by his sulky face, but he hadn’t the strength.
“Bloody stupid idea,” he muttered, rubbing his face and feeling every muscle in his body protest in pain.
“Language!” said Hermione at once, her voice shriller and reproving, though the corners of her lips twitched with the visible effort not to smile.
Later, when Ron and Neville bade them goodbye and went to have lunch in the Great Hall, Harry looked with curiosity at Hermione while they ate fish stew—the hospital wing’s dish of the day for them—at a table conjured between their two beds, she sitting opposite him.
The air between them was charged with an unshared secret.
Though they spoke of perfectly trivial things—such as the weekend weather forecast or the taste of the hospital wing meals—and whispered between shy smiles and suggestive glances that promised mischief as wild and unrestrained as the previous night’s, there was a palpable silence hanging over them.
She laughed at one of his silly jokes, her face lit with amusement, yet her eyes, always so expressive, held a shadow of hesitation.
Harry thought she was deep in thought, as if drifting for a few seconds into her mind before returning to the present.
She remained silent, carefully avoiding the subject that made him curious to know what it was.
“So, are you going to tell me what you were thinking about?” Harry asked, casting her a curious glance over his water glass.
“Thinking what?” She swished her cat’s tail gently, intrigued.
“You know,” Harry pressed, taking a spoonful of the deliciously hot stew. “Last night, you said you’d tell me something today.”
“Ah… erm… well, of course,” Hermione blinked several times in quick succession, as though trying to steady herself, and scratched her arm with a suddenly hesitant air. “It’s just that yesterday I didn’t want to bother you with it. It wasn’t the right time.”
“Bother me?” Harry asked, his pointed ears pricking up with instinctive curiosity. “Bother me with what?”
She drew a deep breath, as though preparing to lift a considerable weight, and squared her shoulders.
“I was thinking of creating a study timetable for us. You know, for this coming term. Something really efficient, so we can make the most of our time whilst we’re still confined here.”
Harry blinked, and despite his keen hearing, he was quite certain he hadn’t heard properly.
“But… but… BUT IT’S THE FIRST OF JANUARY! AND YOU WERE THINKING ABOUT THIS ON NEW YEAR’S EVE?! IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIREWORKS?!” he thought, screaming internally.
What actually came out of his mouth, however, was a surprised, incredulous sound: “Oh…”
Hermione’s face immediately twisted, her black whiskers twitching in a mask of sharp disappointment at her friend’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Don’t be like that—you know perfectly well we need to get ourselves organised!”
Harry merely nodded, bringing the water glass to his lips in an evasive gesture, hoping not to have to meet her eyes directly. Hermione pursed her lips, her gaze darting between the steaming bowl of stew and the water glass he was drinking from.
“Who on earth drinks water and soup at the same time?” she thought, but decided to overlook her friend’s culinary eccentricity in favour of a greater goal.
“Of course, of course—go on, I’m listening,” he said, waving his free hand vaguely.
She rolled her yellow eyes, her pupils slightly rounded, but resumed her explanation with renewed energy.
“Since we can’t attend lessons right now and we can’t go straight to the professors with questions, I thought we could get ahead on assignments by creating a priority list divided by colours—blue for the easier ones, yellow for medium, and red for the more challenging ones. For me, colours help determine what to tackle first, you know that. Potions can go in blue, because I know you enjoy it, even having to put up with Professor Snape. Transfiguration, although harder for you—and don’t look at me like that!—I know you still struggle with the theory, but it’s your favourite subject as well, so that can go in yellow. But History of Magic… well, that’s a bit trickier, and I know you’ve trouble with remembering dates of important events, so that can go in red…”
And she went on.
And on… and on.
Harry didn’t notice exactly when he began to muffle her voice in his mind, leaving it as a distant background buzz, and drifted into his own thoughts, expertly maintaining the vague expression of someone who appeared to be listening.
Hermione had a genuine love for subjects, assignments, and any matter that involved an almost pornographic level of academic detail and planning.
She delighted in topics no one else on earth knew, and adored showing off her knowledge by quoting passages from books so complex that Harry, if he had to guess, reckoned reading them in archaic Latin might have been easier to understand.
He had noticed that peculiarity in the first two days he’d known her, back on the Hogwarts Express.
Over time, Harry had perfected the art of interacting as little as possible in those moments, limiting himself to nodding at just the right instant, a survival mechanism to stop his brain being fried by a torrent of information he simply wasn’t prepared for, or from beginning to yawn.
On the few occasions when he had yawned, he saw that she felt slightly put out, as though she thought she was being irritating or tiresome. So he had begun to avoid it, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.
He could even follow, for a while, the subjects she brought up.
But Hermione was like a car.
Once she shifted into fifth gear, her mind simply made no more pauses, gave no respite, left no gaps. She thought faster than words could leave her mouth and spoke more than she could replenish with oxygen.
Like now, on the very first of January.
And she was lecturing, absolutely thrilled, about planning assignments that weren’t due for weeks yet, as though New Year’s were an arbitrary and unimportant marker beside the grandeur of study.
Even though, in the opinion of anyone in their right mind, it clearly wasn’t. Harry was no exception.
Still, did he like her?
That wasn’t even a question.
The answer was so obvious, so ingrained in his being, it didn’t even need to be put into words.
Of course he did.
She was a loyal friend, the sort who would sit and study all day long beside you if you needed it, patiently explaining a difficult subject in simpler terms until you understood.
And that was one of the many reasons Harry adored Hermione.
Of course, it wasn’t just about studying, that was merely an example… he adored her in many ways, for many reasons.
“All right, that sentence out of context sounds pretty awful…” he thought, frowning instinctively before nodding mechanically at something she was saying.
“Did you follow me up to there?” Hermione asked, biting her lip lightly as she gestured with her paws in the air.
“Sure, carry on,” he replied.
“Right!” she said, her eyes shining. “So, for that Astronomy essay, we’ll need to analyse the constellations, so I thought we could…”
And Harry, once again, drifted off, heading into his own thoughts.
Studying had always been his great distraction in those first days at Hogwarts, when he felt a complete stranger in the castle, a boy brought up his whole life in a cupboard, forgotten by all, who suddenly found himself in a world of marvels where everyone knew who he was.
Books, notes and the library had been his anchor against loneliness and awe.
And, to his own surprise, that was how he had done so well in lessons—well enough even to stir a fleeting jealousy in Hermione in those days, something Harry had always thought a complete exaggeration.
Hermione, in the end, would always be incomparably superior to anyone else where the academic world was concerned. She breathed books, lived for libraries, and found it deeply satisfying to organise colour-coded study timetables.
But today?
Today Harry agreed wholeheartedly with Ron. And not only him—Neville agreed with the redhead as well.
There were countless—and infinitely more appealing—things he’d much rather be doing at that very moment to make the most of what was left of the holiday.
If, of course, he weren’t stuck in a hospital bed, his body covered in black fur, soft paws and cat’s eyes.
The list sprang up in his mind, vast and tempting, merely scratching the surface of his options.
He could be playing on the Quidditch pitch, feeling the cutting wind in his face while chasing Neville or Ron for the Quaffle.
He could be making up bad jokes, wandering aimlessly through the castle’s ancient corridors, laughing at the expense of some particularly idiotic Slytherin.
He could be coming up with a new creative insult for Snape—one the professor, unfortunately, would never hear.
He could be pestering the twins to find out what prank they were planning next, maybe even persuading them to rope him into one that wouldn’t get them into quite so much trouble.
He could be casting harmless spells to change Scabbers’ colour, hunting for Trevor lost in the Gryffindor common room, flying with Hedwig over the frozen lake, or simply having a strong cup of tea and a long chat with Hagrid in his hut, listening to his stories about magical creatures he reckoned far more harmless than they really were.
He could be trying out a funny spell on himself, conjuring a few things and transfiguring others.
He might even brew a few potions in his new copper cauldron, or chuck a few random ingredients together just to see what happened.
Or perhaps, simply… exist, without thinking about absolutely anything.
Every one of those options, without exception, ranked much, much higher on his list of priorities than working on school assignments weeks in advance, especially on a New Year holiday.
Studying had never truly been a burden for him; in fact, he even liked it—depending on the subject and the topic.
But doing things Hermione’s way, with that overwhelming intensity and meticulous rigour?
“No way.” He thought, with the utter conviction it was madness.
Trying to keep up with her pace was, definitely, a recipe for ending up crying in foetal position in the shower before bed.
But… talking about girls?
Did that count as one of the options he might have if he weren’t in the hospital wing?
“I hadn’t thought of that…” Harry reflected, his mind wandering into entirely new territory.
Would that fit into one of those neat little tables of tasks Hermione was explaining now?
Which of the three colours in the priority list would it go in?
Blue, yellow, or red?
Or did girls not even feature in that sort of list?
Harry shook his head inwardly, while his feline ears twitched slightly.
“Nah… me, Ron and Nev have never talked about that. They all look at us as if we’re complete idiots…” He frowned. “Hang on. Do we look like idiots? Or worse… are we idiots?”
But before Harry could sink deeper into that particularly torturous line of reasoning, Hermione let out a sudden, sharp gasp, as though startled by something.
“What is it?” he asked, alarmed, casting a quick look around the cubicle, his imagination already conjuring Snape bursting out of the shadows like a gigantic bat or a potion about to explode.
“I almost forgot to tell you about that essay on practical examples of Charms!” Hermione’s eyes widened, an expression of pure academic panic stamped across her face. “Professor Flitwick asked us to hand it in on the sixteenth and we haven’t even started! But I already know exactly how we can find a practical approach to the Dancing Feet Spell...”
He breathed deeply, relieved.
“False alarm,” Harry thought, sinking back against the pillows once more.
Back to what really mattered.
The problem was that, well... most girls seemed rather dull. All they ever did was laugh together in groups and gossip in corners.
But Hermione was a girl. And—well—she put up with him somehow.
She was the sort of person who couldn’t stand stupid people and loathed those trivial chats other girls liked so much – she’d even said so herself once, back in first year, one random afternoon when the four of them had been wandering around together.
“And why exactly am I remembering this now?” he asked himself.
That was a good question.
Some things Hermione did or said, Harry just remembered without effort.
Come to think of it, that completely broke apart his theory that all girls looked at them as if they were complete idiots.
Hermione didn’t look at Harry as if he were an idiot—at least, he hoped not—and she definitely wasn’t dull.
Because if she were dull, Harry wouldn’t try so hard to hang around her, nor would he sit beside her to study. But... there was something about her that always made him want to have her nearby, as if her very aura naturally asked for that closeness.
Hermione was simply too eager with the things she loved to discuss; it was just her way of being—always trying to show her knowledge and, above all, helping her friends whenever they needed it.
In other words, to Harry, she was an incredible best friend. Different from Neville or Ron, but no less interesting.
She had her place in his heart, and Harry had only let a handful of people in there.
So in a way, to him... she was... she was...
“She’s special…” he said aloud, eyes unfocused.
The words, dreamy and completely out of sync with the conversation about Charms, slipped from his lips before his brain—too occupied contemplating the unique nature of his friendship with that girl—could stop them.
Hermione—who had still been gesticulating and explaining something about the practical application of the Dancing Feet Spell with vivid enthusiasm—froze abruptly in the middle of a syllable.
She blinked at him, confused, her large amber eyes fixed on his face with a deeply intrigued expression.
“Huh? What?”
“What what?” Harry shot back, trying to feign ignorance and failing miserably, for his pointed ears twitched traitorously.
“What did you say?” she pressed, tilting her head to the side, a movement both human and curiously animal.
“Uh… nothing?” Harry tried, his voice coming out a bit higher than he’d intended.
“Who’s special?” Hermione asked, ignoring his attempted escape entirely.
Harry ran a nervous hand through his already untidy hair and glanced away at the bowl of fish stew, feeling a sudden heat climb up his neck and spread across his face.
He was embarrassed without quite knowing why.
“Ah, erm... no one, really.” He cleared his throat. “I was... I was just thinking out loud.”
She narrowed her eyes and arched an eyebrow, clearly suspicious. Her tail, which had until then been swinging lazily beneath the chair, gave a small sudden jerk, and her ears tipped slightly forward, like radars tuning into a suspicious frequency.
“She’s nervous…” Harry noticed, watching her closely and recognising her signs as if she were a book.
“Were you even paying attention to what I was saying?” Hermione demanded, her pupils sharpening dangerously.
Harry cleared his throat again, ran his hand through his hair once more, and brushed the base of his sensitive ear absentmindedly, feeling a peculiar warmth there. Then, pushing the stew and the glass of water aside, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned slightly forward towards her, his green eyes—still with their rounded vertical pupils—fixed on her with a bright attentiveness.
His own tail swayed slowly back and forth, which generally meant he was, at last, focused.
“I think I missed the last bit about... the... uh... spells,” he admitted, a small, slightly embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Hermione paused, disarmed her inquisitive look, and blinked a few times, her feline pupils momentarily rounding into a more human shape.
She seemed momentarily a little lost, as though she had completely forgotten the script of her own explanation while staring at those intense green eyes studying her face.
“Are you... going to go on?” Harry prompted her, noticing she’d drifted.
“Oh, right.” Hermione cleared her throat.
She shifted in her chair with a small movement and, tucking the strands of hair back behind her ear, simply carried on from where she had left off—though this time in a slightly softer voice.
This time, Harry decided to pay attention.
A few days later, one evening, the space was softly lit by gentle yellow magical lights along the walls.
Hermione had transformed their little corner into something close to Madame Malkin’s fitting room, following to the letter her own policy of organising everything they had in their trunks. And once again, the day had come to put their clothes in order.
In no time, there were neat little piles of clothes spread across her bed, each stack sorted by type of garment. Harry watched out of the corner of his eye, astonished by her patience in folding even the socks.
When it came to sorting her more personal items, Hermione grew visibly tense. Normally, she did that while he was taking a bath, but this time she had decided to begin earlier and arranged them with him present in their shared space.
It wasn’t anything extraordinary, in theory, merely... her knickers and bras—pieces which, to her constant annoyance, always seemed smaller than they ought to be, though they fitted, frustratingly perfectly, her developing bust. Still, to her, in that moment, it felt like the most important and embarrassing thing in the world.
Hermione grabbed a handful of underwear and, blushing, shoved them beneath a pile of pyjama bottoms as though someone were about to confiscate them.
The feline ears atop her head twitched tautly, betraying her shame.
“Hm… I’ll just leave some shirts and jumpers on your bed for now, all right?” she asked, not meeting his gaze. “Just until I finish sorting everything.”
Harry, who was casually immersed in a basic Defence Against the Dark Arts volume—The Guide to Deadly Creatures, Volume I, a recommendation from Hermione herself, who insisted that if he truly wanted to focus on the subject, as he claimed, and not on “Professor Lockhart’s nonsense”, he ought to read this book—raised his eyes from the section on Banshee identification and looked at her with indifference, giving a slight shrug.
“Fine,” he replied distractedly, closing the book with a soft thud and setting it carefully on the bedside table next to his bed. “I’ll go take a bath, then.”
Hermione merely murmured assent, her snout still pointed towards the clothes, now entirely absorbed in a dilemma: whether or not she ought to separate the casual white socks from the long black ones—the sort that went up to the knee and were worn with the uniform—or if that would be over-organising even by her standards.
It didn’t take her long to realise that this arrangement was necessary, not excessive.
Harry picked up his pyjamas and, without noticing, took with him one of the Christmas jumpers he’d received from Mrs Weasley, the one with the large “H” on the chest, into the bathroom.
With hot water running down his head and the rest of his body, the bath already promised to be a losing battle—as always.
The long fur held the suds, the water took ages to touch the skin and forever to run off, and every time Harry rubbed his face, his ears twitched involuntarily, flicking droplets everywhere.
Everything was harder to do.
Even things no one would ever imagine, like sinking his claws into the bar of soap.
In his first bath in those conditions—still trying to get used to the altered body—Harry had accidentally clawed into the soap and, startled, made a sudden movement with his hand. The soap shot up like a drenched missile and landed straight on his head, making him growl in frustration like a thoroughly disgruntled cat.
When he finally left the bath, he managed to dry himself with a towel and then with what was supposed to be a magical hairdryer—in truth, a clever contraption called a Solar Blower, consisting of a polished copper sphere with a large “mouth” from which poured a surprisingly strong stream of hot air.
For someone who hadn’t mastered the Drying Charm, it was actually quite practical. Apparently, many vainer witches preferred it so as not to dry out their hair with excessive magic.
After several minutes, Harry managed to dry himself completely, though not before leaving the floor entirely soaked again—and full of black hairs in the drain.
“Hermione doesn’t need to see this,” he thought, at least clearing that up so it wouldn’t be so disgusting.
After what felt like a small eternity, Harry finally managed to put on his pyjamas.
And when he pulled the red woollen jumper over his head, he noticed something immediately odd. The moment the soft fabric touched his neck, he froze completely.
The smell… wasn’t quite what he remembered as his own.
It was warmer, deeply comforting, with a sweet softness at the end.
It was… inexplicably good.
His snout, sharpened by the transformation, flared on its own.
Without realising consciously, Harry tugged the collar of the jumper to his nose and inhaled deeply.
His aura gave a nearly imperceptible leap, as though instinctively recognising to whom that scent belonged, yet unable—or unwilling—to translate the information.
Harry breathed in again, more deeply this time, letting the scent invade his senses, releasing the air through his mouth.
He closed his eyes, feeling his restless aura calm of its own accord, for no apparent reason, simply enjoying the sensation of comfort wrapping around him.
He inhaled once more, overcome by an irresistible desire to rub his face against the soft fabric.
“Why is it so good?” he thought to himself, surprised by the satisfaction this seemingly bizarre action gave him, smiling as he rubbed his face against the wool. “I like my smell, but… has it changed and I haven’t noticed?”
It was a strangely familiar scent, and at the same time entirely different, so pleasant that it stirred within him a profound sense of calm.
It was faintly perfumed, like summer flowers in bloom.
Maybe lavender?
Well, Harry wasn’t sure; he only ever pricked himself when tending his aunt’s roses; Neville was the one who knew about plants, not him.
“Whose perfume is this? Mine? But…” Harry wondered, furrowing his brow in confusion.
But he hadn’t used any perfume—in fact, he’d never owned one, so someone must have passed close by, of course.
“Ah, sod it.” He followed the instinctive advice of his aura to leave it be.
The wool was warm, the scent was good, and he felt comfortable, and that was what mattered after the war he had just waged against his fur.
Shrugging, he drew in another deep breath—absorbing that comforting aroma—and left the bathroom, his hair utterly rebellious after he’d given up trying to comb it, as always.
“I’ve soaked the floor again,” he announced in an apologetic tone, his tail swishing a little awkwardly behind him.
Hermione muttered a barely audible complaint, but she had her back to him, hands on her hips, searching for something around his bed.
“Have you seen my jumper?”
“Which one?”
“The one Mrs Weasley gave me for Christmas,” she said, kneeling on his bed to see if it had fallen to the far side. “I’d been wearing it for days, I need to put it in the wash, but I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Your jumper?” Harry frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Er… didn’t you already put yours aside? Thought you’d put it in the wash.”
Hermione returned to her bed with an exasperated huff.
“No, I’d left it on your bed and—”
She lifted her eyes from the perfectly folded clothes, but her expression changed completely in a second. Her eyes widened, fixing themselves on the jumper Harry was wearing.
“Harry…” she said slowly, her ears leaning forward in absolute disbelief. “That jumper’s mine!”
Harry froze on the spot.
He looked down at the large “H” on his chest and felt his face heat to the roots of his hair.
His own feline ears flattened back as the meaning of her words—and of the aroma that had comforted him so much—finally struck him.
The smell wasn’t his.
He… he’d been snuffling for Merlin knows how long at… Hermione’s scent?!
“What?!” he squeaked in a high, adolescent tone. “But I thought this was mine!”
Hermione pointed at his open trunk, with his real jumper simply tossed across the top.
“That one’s yours!” she said in a higher pitch than she intended.
Colour rushed into her face as fast as it had into his. Her ears pressed flat against her head, and her tail, until then still at the side of the bed, gave a nervous flick.
“I—I didn’t—I mean…” Harry tried to yank the jumper off quickly, but the fabric stuck in his fur.
In the awkward silence that followed, both were red beneath their pelts.
Harry was utterly mortified.
He would never tell anyone what he had been doing in that bathroom. It would remain a secret locked away with seven keys at the bottom of the deepest ocean he could imagine inside himself.
“It’s all right,” Hermione said, breaking the oppressive silence. “It happens, we… we don’t need to be awkward about it, all right?”
“Sorry about that...”
“No need.” She answered softly.
Harry swallowed hard, not sure what else to say, but trying to make light of it, he gave an embarrassed laugh.
“I should’ve realised sooner…” he said more quietly than he meant to, still tugging the jumper off, “yours smelt nicer anyway.”
Hermione dropped the shirts she was holding.
Both their tails twitched nervously.
Hermione bit her lip, torn between scolding him or laughing. Her heart thudded in a peculiar way, not for the first time, but for some reason this comment had set it racing again.
Now Harry only wanted to fling open the nearest window and leap out. If it were up to him, he would sprint across the frozen Great Lake and vanish with a false identity to another continent.
“Well, next time,” Hermione murmured, trying to recover her composure as she tucked back her hair, “make sure you don’t mix up the clothes.”
“Hmhm, all right…”
But as she passed him to take the jumper, the tip of her furry tail brushed lightly against his—and neither of them dared to mention it.
Hermione took the jumper from his hands, folding it slowly, as though each movement was an excuse not to meet Harry’s eyes at once. He, in turn, pretended to examine the bed and his own feline claws—anything but her face.
Gradually, though, the heavy silence began to dissolve.
Hermione let out a brief, muffled laugh.
Harry looked up, startled.
“What?”
“You…” she shook her head, still smiling, “you really are hopeless.”
The blush crept back into his face, but now with a timid smile.
“I should’ve asked if it was yours, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes, you should,” Hermione replied, but without a trace of irritation. On the contrary, her eyes sparkled with amusement. “But honestly, it’s fine—Ron did say we might get muddled, remember?”
“Yeah… I remember.” Harry chuckled softly.
For a moment, it felt as though the air between them had changed.
What had been sheer embarrassment was now becoming a funny memory, something just theirs. Harry felt an unexpected relief, more because she didn’t know about the part where he’d been sniffing that jumper than because they were acting normal again.
“Did the bathroom get very soaked?” she asked, changing the subject.
Harry ruffled his hair and made sure to pull on any jumper that wasn’t Mrs Weasley’s.
“Yeah, sorry…”
Hermione bit her lip and picked up her wand from the bedside table.
“Come on, I’ll teach you how to do the Drying Charm.” The authoritative tone in her voice made it clear she wouldn’t accept anything but a yes.
Harry eventually, though with some initial reluctance, grew accustomed to Hermione’s methodical system—getting ahead on assignments and studying far beyond what any normal person would consider healthy.
But who could blame him for giving in?
He was effectively trapped in the hospital wing and, should he dare to step outside, it would be in the grotesque form of a cat.
It was already bad enough being seen by everyone as the supposed Heir of Slytherin, the lunatic who had unleashed the monster roaming the corridors and Petrifying students. To become even more of a laughing-stock because of the disastrous result of the Polyjuice Potion was a humiliation he was most definitely eager to avoid at all costs.
Spending so much time alone with Hermione, however, turned out to be a new and peculiar experience for Harry. Of course, he’d been alone with her before, in those first weeks at Hogwarts, but back then she’d been different—more formal, a little reserved, and with a greater compulsion to prove her worth.
He had assumed she would act in the same way now, but was surprised by what he found.
Now Hermione had changed noticeably—and that without any pun on her current feline appearance.
She seemed lighter, more open, and Harry soon realised that this was simply the way she was with people she truly knew and trusted. When it was just the two of them, Hermione was remarkably sweeter, more relaxed, and even more playful—though, of course, she still had her bossy, authoritative moments, almost giving orders without noticing on how best to approach homework or how to arrange a roll of parchment.
Her unique and peculiar mannerisms also became more apparent, as did certain habits, since they spent the whole day together. Harry had long been used to those quirks and, secretly, even found them special.
Of all her peculiarities, he could say Aslan was the greatest—such an intimacy that she had had the courage to reveal it only to him. Every morning, when he woke a little earlier than he should, he could see her tenderly cuddled up with her faithful stuffed toy.
But besides that, there were also her simpler habits—the more academic ones.
After all, Hermione wouldn’t be Hermione without her random curiosities about every kind of obscure subject and her long dissertations on complex themes.
The subjects she chose to fill the time were not, admittedly, as exciting as Quidditch or as intriguing as sneaking about the castle, but Harry now listened and genuinely tried to keep pace with the quick turns of her mind, interacting as much as he could and asking her, with a tolerant smile, to slow down when he was utterly lost.
“I end up talking far too quickly when I get excited,” she murmured to him one afternoon, with unusual shyness, while sorting a pile of parchment. “So please, tell me to stop! And… you can ask questions too. I don’t want this turning into some boring monologue.”
“All right, I’ll say something,” Harry smiled.
And gradually, almost without noticing, Harry found himself drifting less into his own thoughts during their conversations and beginning to take part more actively.
“So then, what do you think?” Hermione asked one afternoon, after explaining a complex theory on Transfiguration, her feet swinging freely above the floor as she sat on the bed.
Harry, who would normally just nod, surprised himself by answering:
“I reckon it makes sense, but what if…” He hesitated, but went on when he saw her encouraging look. “What if the spell reacts differently with organic materials? Like, it’s easier to turn a feather into a teacup than a rabbit into a basket. The texture of the material would kind of interfere with what you’re trying to Transfigure—a frog or even water is all floppy, it’d be ten times harder to turn that into a rock.”
Hermione looked at him, surprised.
“That’s exactly it!” Her eyes shone, and she let her fangs show in a smile bright with enthusiasm for the discussion. “Most people never notice that nuance! Of course everything can be done, but it depends on the wizard’s intent.”
He wasn’t just listening more, but also sharing fragments of his own experience and knowledge with her.
And although Hogwarts and the magical arts still dominated most of their dialogues, they also began to drift into more personal waters, territories beyond the castle walls.
Hermione told him about her parents.
Her father, John Granger, had served in the British Army before becoming a dentist; her mother, Emma Granger, had always dreamt of following that profession since childhood. The two had started dating at university, marrying some time after graduating.
Harry discovered, to his surprise, that he deeply enjoyed hearing about this private part of her life, about what it was like to grow up in the Muggle world—just as he had—but in such a radically different way.
Since they were constantly immersed in magic and surrounded by wizarding friends twenty-four hours a day, they rarely had reason or incentive to talk about good films, childhood dreams, favourite songs, or life’s simple things in general.
But Hermione was so passionate about the wizarding world and magic that it was hard for Harry to imagine her outside Hogwarts, living a life completely devoid of magic.
He, for his part, instinctively avoided any topic involving the Dursleys or the darker details of his upbringing.
Just thinking of them sent a wave of bitterness through his chest, hating the memory that he would have to face them again next summer, recalling all too vividly the misery of those past holidays.
But sometimes, little stories slipped from his lips before his instinct for self-preservation could hold them back.
“And that’s when my mother said she wouldn’t buy me any more books unless I learnt to tidy the ones I already had in my room,” Hermione recounted, a hint of nostalgia in her voice as she lined up a pile of parchment perfectly. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always this organised. I loved studying and reading, but that’s how she taught me about responsibility and organisation.”
Harry swished his tail slowly, amused by the picture forming in his mind.
“You, not knowing how to organise something, is something my mind refuses to contemplate,” Harry teased, his feline ears twitching lightly with amusement.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but a small smile played at her lips.
“I used to leave a pile of books in the car every time we went out. You know... you never know when the adults are going to start those endless conversations about work. A good book always saves the day.”
Harry gave a low chuckle, having to agree.
“Fair enough,” he said.
“But I’m talking far too much about myself,” Hermione said with a sigh that betrayed her weariness at being the centre of attention. “And you? Do you have any story of reprimand? Something your... uncles... might have done?”
“Ah, uh... well,” Harry began, focusing intently on a splinter in the wooden table. “Once, I burnt Uncle Vernon’s steak. I’d heard a shouting match out in the street and went to see what it was. Apparently the neighbour was cheating on her husband and he caught the lover... it got rather ugly. I only came back when I smelt burning. Because of that, I was locked in my...” He faltered slightly, swallowing hard. “In my room the whole day.”
It was a cupboard under the stairs, dark and full of cobwebs, but she didn’t need to know that particular detail.
Hermione abruptly stopped sorting her parchments, her fingertips still pressing down on the paper.
“In your room? The whole day? For a burnt steak?” The scepticism was clear in her voice, which came out louder than intended in the silence of the hospital wing.
“Yeah...” He shrugged, avoiding her gaze at all costs. “But it was only once, too...”
And it had only been once because Harry didn’t want to recall Uncle Vernon’s specific threat about what would happen if he ever burnt another steak.
“Harry...” she said softly, her tone laced with a concern that made his stomach twist. “That isn’t normal, you do know that, don’t you?”
He stayed silent for a moment, his shoulders tense beneath the woollen jumper.
“Yeah, probably not,” he replied in a sombre, distant tone, as if commenting on the weather.
Hermione immediately realised she had crossed an invisible line, her face softening with regret.
“Sorry,” she murmured, retreating visibly and pulling her parchments closer to herself. “What do you say we start with the Potions homework? We could test your new cauldron... what do you think? Snape’s going to demand perfection, as always.”
“Good idea, let me get it,” Harry said, quickly standing to fetch the copper cauldron from the bottom of his trunk.
With his back to her, he didn’t notice the look she gave him—a hesitant look, filled with deep pity and a contained fury, mingled with an impotent wish to do something, to mend something that lay far beyond her reach.
Her fingers tightened around a quill, nearly snapping it, as she struggled to find a way to reach the friend who always seemed locked behind doors she could never open.
And more and more, Hermione was learning—through trial and error—where she could tread safely and where she should retreat when it came to the delicate matters of his childhood. But every time Harry let slip one of those painful fragments of his past, Hermione felt a knot tightening in her heart, a mixture of rage and profound compassion.
It was impossible not to see how mistreated he had been all those years, even with the scarce, fragmented scraps of information she managed to piece together. If she could, she would hex each and every one of those three callous idiots he was forced to call family—and she’d make sure the hexes were particularly creative and long-lasting.
Hermione had never been a vindictive girl, never, but that family of his... it made her very aura roar with fury inside, boiling with hatred for making him so repressed.
And, at the end of the day, what else could Harry talk about, except that which had constituted his everyday life?
The few exceptions he could recall, the rare moments of satisfaction in his earlier life, were those when Mrs Figg was unavailable for some reason and Harry stayed at home alone—especially at times like Christmas, when the family spent the day out shopping for presents, or at New Year or during summer holidays, when they travelled.
Harry seized those precious moments of solitude to sneak leftovers from Aunt Petunia’s lavish dinners and eat them while watching television late into the night, laughing to himself without worrying about reprimands, shouting, Dudley’s bullying or slammed doors.
It was a small, fleeting freedom, but it tasted of sweet victory.
Everything changed after that turn of the year.
The initial shyness between Harry and Hermione evaporated completely, and the feline games became a nightly routine as regular as the passage of the moon through the tall windows of the hospital wing.
When Madam Pomfrey retired to her quarters and the sound of the cold, howling wind against the stained glass drowned out all other noises of the castle, all it took was a quick exchange of looks between the two beds and, in silence, the colourful balls of yarn and the ill-fated little magical mouse would be set up for yet another lively contest.
This happened religiously at weekends and, with remarkable frequency during the week as well, whenever the pent-up energy of a day in confinement demanded an extra outlet.
Hermione, of course, with her meticulous mind, had already done the calculations on a piece of parchment in coloured ink.
“We play with the balls of yarn about five to six times a week. With the mouse included it’s fewer, about four.” She announced this after finishing her sums, chin lifted, proud of herself.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“You keep count of how many times we play in a week? And write it down?” he asked, sounding rather sceptical.
“Of course, how else would I have worked out the average?” she replied in a tone bordering on the obvious.
Harry merely nodded methodically, not pushing the matter. Hermione seemed far too pleased with her result and her mathematical data while her tail swished, and it was better not to disturb her.
The practice of their games became something special between them, in a way that neither Ron nor Neville—who occasionally still kept them company—seemed to notice the significant glances Harry and Hermione exchanged when anxious for some time alone, once their friends left in the late afternoon.
And as soon as Harry and Hermione finished dinner and Pomfrey retired to her quarters, it never took long before they were rolling about on the floor with some cat toy or other.
There was also an unspoken rule, a silent pact between them:
Never play alone.
If one felt the irresistible impulse to chase a ball of yarn or pounce on the mouse, the other had to join in. It was a matter of courtesy, preventing the awkwardness of one wanting to rest while the other bounded noisily about the floor or the neighbouring bed.
Besides, the inner feeling of being left out caused something in the other that neither of them could quite describe—it was rather selfish—they had never said this explicitly, but the feeling was mutual.
“He—or she—doesn’t need me to have fun...” That was what their auras seemed to convey, and the sensation was horrid, melancholy, and one they both wanted to avoid in their own hearts.
Sometimes, on more exhausting study days and longer nights, one was simply too tired and the game was abandoned before it even began.
At other times, the exhausted one allowed themselves to be caught up in the other’s enthusiasm, and they ended up playing with such vigour that they were left panting and purring with satisfaction.
Normally Harry was the more active of the two, probably because he had more energy, though it varied quite a bit.
As days went by, the low purrs, the muted mews, and the playful growls became more frequent—yet that unique language had transformed into something intimate, a secret code shared only between them.
“I predicted this would happen,” remarked Madam Pomfrey during one of her periodic inspections, observing the two with a clinical but unsurprised eye as they reported how life in the hospital wing was going, especially regarding communication.
“But... do we need to stop?” Hermione asked nervously, stroking her own tail with a paw.
“No, my dear. This is perfectly normal,” assured the matron with her practical, soothing voice. “You’ve been behaving this way for some days now. The longer you remain in humanoid form, the more common this kind of instinctive communication between you will become. When you return to your normal form, you may even miss it for a while.”
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, and a low, harmonious feline murmur of mutual understanding escaped their throats almost at the same moment. Almost unconsciously, their tails came to rest against one another, a gesture of silent, reassuring support.
The nurse looked first at them and then at the tails with a deeply knowing expression, a faint smile on her lips.
“You’ve been rubbing against each other too, haven’t you?” she asked, as direct as ever.
Harry and Hermione’s eyes widened like two billiard balls, a chorus of stammered, embarrassed protests escaping as a wave of heat rose up their necks.
Pomfrey merely nodded and sighed, as if she were dealing with a pair of particularly dense pupils.
“That’s normal as well,” she explained, with professional patience. “You may even feel the urge to groom each other, as cats do in dry baths, but in that case I have one clear rule: no. Touching or rubbing is fine, as long as it isn’t excessive. If I think you’re... getting too close, I’ll separate you into different private areas, is that understood?”
Harry opened his mouth to ask what exactly the problem with that was, but Pomfrey’s stern expression closed the matter. He preferred to remain silent and simply nodded, while Hermione shrank back in mortification, muttering an almost inaudible confirmation.
And it was true...
They touched more often, rubbed up against each other now and then, and... they had even licked each other the day before—Harry grooming behind her ears, Hermione his nape.
But it was more instinct than conscious will. It wasn’t something that stirred any feeling beyond the purest care they had for each other.
But when they licked, did Harry like her scent and taste?
“I’ve got used to it...” was what he told himself—Hermione to the same degree.
They simply couldn’t quite control it, and, to their relief, it didn’t seem odd or forced between them.
It just... happened, and that was fine. They didn’t overthink it.
Later, whispering between themselves once Pomfrey had left them, they agreed that everything they had done and lived through in that hospital wing would remain theirs alone, for ever.
It wasn’t the first time they had spoken of it, but it was a fairly frequent subject between them, as though they needed to confirm with one another that it would remain an eternal secret.
It was simply far, far too embarrassing to try to explain to anyone else, and only the two of them could truly understand the reasons behind every purr, every gesture, every instinctive touch.
It was their secret, and so it would remain.
And when Ron and Neville were around, Harry and Hermione restrained themselves.
But the moment the two left, it all began again—the sounds, the almost instinctive communication through mews to draw attention, soft purrs of satisfaction, hisses to call out or rebuke, and chirrups when they spotted the little mouse or a bird flying past the window.
They didn’t realise when it began nor who mewed first, but once the other responded, they never stopped.
Harry still didn’t understand how he could make sense of Hermione mewing at him and answer her in kind, but somehow, it worked. It was almost as though they had developed a language of their own—or learnt the cats’.
And it reached a certain point where they barely spoke English at all, only in that half-wild way.
And no wonder, for on a particularly exhausting Friday night, with Snape giving more assignments on good uses for puffer-fish eyes and Flitwick demanding a review of the Fire-Making Spell, they were already lying on their beds. The deep blue-black of night was broken only by the lamps on the bedside tables beside them.
Madam Pomfrey had given them their final dose of potions for the day and retired to bed after wishing them goodnight.
That was when Harry began to stir with excitement.
He watched Hermione, who was curled in her blankets, sitting upright on the bed with a large pillow behind her back, absorbed in revising one of her many assignments already completed, wanting to check for any errors she might have overlooked.
She was a serene vision to behold when she was so focused.
His black tail swayed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, back and forth, tapping lightly against the mattress.
And it all began with that little “Meaw” that slipped from his throat, a sound more instinctive than deliberate.
“Wanna... play tonight?” he asked, his voice a soft, suggestive mew, his pupils dilating further in the dimness of the hospital wing to see her more clearly.
She sighed, a tired sound that was almost a purr, and her own brown ears, flecked with lighter tones, twitched slightly in response.
“I’m exhausted,” she mewed back, in a low, dragging tone. “I’ve finished all the extra work Professor McGonagall set, and my paws are throbbing from so much writing.”
Harry let out a growl that was a mixture of frustration and understanding.
“But what if I did all the boring work for us?” he purred, attempting negotiation. “I’ll take the most tiring part. All of it.”
Hermione bit her lip, thoughtful, and Harry stayed silent, allowing her to weigh it up. He had learnt it wasn’t wise to cut across her reasoning if he wanted to persuade her of something, especially when the matter was playing so late.
“I think I’ll just be a nuisance...” she murmured at last, with an awkward little smile that sounded like a soft, resigned “brrr.”
“You’re never a nuisance when we play,” Harry countered in an equally soft tone, almost a cat’s whisper.
She didn’t reply, pretending to return to her reading without giving him more attention—or, Harry noticed, at least trying not to.
Unable to resist, he slid out of his bed, approaching hers with the silent grace their feline form had granted them. His tail swished with palpable expectation as he perched on the edge of her bed.
“And tomorrow’s Saturday,” he pressed, purring with deep persuasiveness. “No homework to worry about... I even finished my History of Magic essay early, the one you insisted I do.”
Hermione arched a brow at him, her amber eyes with now rounded pupils fixing him with suspicion.
“That’s emotional blackmail,” she accused, folding her arms.
Harry began to flex and sink his claws idly into the mattress, in a motion reminiscent of kneading dough. He shrugged, with a studied indifference.
“It isn’t blackmail... it’s just... responsibility,” he mewed softly, his voice a silky thread.
“All this... just so we can play a bit?” she trilled, amused.
He ran a paw through his messy hair, shrugging again—a gesture at once oddly human and feline.
“Maybe?...” he replied, his feline gaze loaded with suggestion and amusement.
When she didn't respond, Harry lightly headbutted her shoulder playfully.
“Come on...” he cooed softly “you want to play...”
Hermione rolled her amber eyes, but a weak, traitorous purr slipped from her throat, betraying her true interest.
“Always so much energy,” she complained, though her own brown tail had begun to move slowly, from side to side, against her will.
Harry stood and went to his own bed, retrieving something hidden beneath his pillow before sitting back down beside her. He then rubbed his head softly against her shoulder, a gesture that had become natural and reassuring for them both, purring louder.
“Look what I made for you,” he said, his voice a deep purr, as he held out the brown ball of yarn which he had patiently wound and tidied himself.
Hermione couldn’t help it—her black whiskers trembled with involuntary interest and she stretched out a paw, touching the ball with her fingertips.
“Oh, Harry... you wound this for me?” she mewed, her voice laden with a genuine tenderness that made his purring intensify.
“Of course,” he purred, with a contented smile. “But I’ll only give it to you if you play...”
She sighed dramatically, making sure to look exasperated, but her eyes gleamed with an interest she could no longer conceal.
“All right,” she yielded, mewing drily, adopting that air of reluctance she sometimes liked to feign. “But it has to be quick. Ten minutes, no more.”
Harry’s green eyes, with their vertical pupils, gleamed triumphantly in the dark.
He leapt to the floor, dragging the brown ball of yarn across the carpet between their beds.
Hermione slipped out of bed, her movements hesitant at first, but soon she was chasing the ball with growing enthusiasm.
The game began gently – Harry pulled the yarn along the floor while Hermione batted at it with her paws, trying to catch it.
But it quickly turned into something far more energetic.
They chased each other across the carpet, rolling and dodging, their tails swishing excitedly. Harry pounced on the ball as though it were prey, while Hermione used precise movements to dodge and strike.
“Got it!” Hermione mewed triumphantly, clutching the yarn between her paws.
But Harry already had another challenge ready – that magical little mouse.
“Think you’re too quick for me?” he teased, holding the mouse by its tail and making it dance in the air.
For over forty minutes they played with fierce intensity, until both of them collapsed onto the carpet, panting and exhausted. Sweat matted the fur to their faces, and their bodies rose and fell with their rapid breathing.
Hermione rolled closer to him, purring deeply as she rubbed her head against his shoulder in a gesture of thanks.
“Okay,” she mewed softly between sighs. “Okay, you were right. I needed that.”
“Knew you’d enjoy it.” He mewed back. “You never play for just ten minutes”
Hermione gave a playful huff as Harry purred in satisfaction, licking the top of her head quickly, then nipping at it to clean. Hermione smiled contentedly with her eyes shut.
The licking was, as always, a matter of necessity.
So long as they didn’t tell Madam Pomfrey, she would never know, and this way they could take care of each other without anyone else interfering in their activities.
Despite the necessity of licking one another after their play, it remained a pleasurable thing to do, for reasons they still didn’t understand.
They lay there like that for several minutes, Hermione pulling his paw towards her to lick the fur, and then she even tried to get to her feet.
Her legs trembled visibly with exhaustion and she staggered as she stood.
“Merlin,” she murmured in a trill. “I feel like jelly.”
Harry watched with satisfaction.
“You’ll sleep like a log tonight,” he mewed hoarsely, his tail swishing lazily in contentment.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” she replied, disappearing into the bathroom with a satisfied smile.
Harry lay on his back on the carpet, content with himself.
No nightmare was likely to trouble her that night.
His own purring filled the silence of the hospital wing, a sound of pure contentment after yet another intense night.
Over time, Neville began turning up more often to help Hermione train her Magical Sensitivity, and Harry took the chance to hone his own as well—besides having an excuse to take his mind off lessons and schoolwork.
When they weren’t focused on detecting auras, Harry helped Hermione to conceal hers and keep control.
“If you don’t relax, you won’t be able to hide it,” Harry mewed quietly, opening one eye as he heard her tail thump hard against the floor.
Hermione was visibly tense, brow furrowed, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. She let out an exasperated sigh.
“It’s harder than it looks. And I… I—” Hermione growled a frustrated moan.
As though she couldn’t help herself, she began licking her paw frantically while thumping her tail against the floor. She always did that when she was nervous, like a twitch. Harry thought it was cute.
“I hate not being able to get it right! There, I said it! I’ve read everything on the subject and it hasn’t helped one bit! It drives me mad, it’s frustrating and unbelievably irritating!” The growls and hisses tumbled out in a rush, so fast Harry could barely keep up as she bared her teeth.
“Hermione,” he purred her name, in a calm tone, “you know you can’t learn this sort of thing just by reading.”
She let out a long sigh.
“Yeah… I suppose that’s the problem.” Hermione murmured.
Harry knew how much she felt the need to prove herself when it came to the wizarding world.
She wanted to be the best, the example to follow, and above all the one with the answers to every question, and if she didn’t have them, she would certainly find them soon enough.
But Magical Sensitivity had become a personal torment—for the first time, she wasn’t progressing as quickly as she wanted. Even though few possessed the ability, and it demanded enormous practical effort rather than theory, it frustrated her.
“I don’t want to sound like a victim,” she went on, mewing low and unhappily, “but you know that, technically, sensing other people’s auras was already meant to be difficult. Now, hiding mine? Ten times worse! How on earth did you manage that before you’d even learnt to detect them?”
Harry shrugged.
“Necessity,” he mewed simply. “Professor McGonagall told me that spotting a contained aura is like noticing a bonfire in the middle of a forest. Whereas mine—well, I hate the comparison, but it’s like an entire tree’s gone up in flames, great tall blazing ones. Of course everyone notices the tree first, rather than the bonfires.”
Hermione watched him for a moment.
“That’s always bothered you, hasn’t it?” she purred softly.
“Yeah, but not so much now. Being suspected of being Slytherin’s heir was a good deal worse.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “At least they’ve forgotten the business with my aura—or at least I think they have.”
Just then, Madam Pomfrey approached with another dose of the Reversal Potion.
This one they took every four days, and they already knew what to expect: within minutes they’d be utterly drained, unable to do anything useful for a while. It was still early though, only three o’clock.
The best thing to do was talk until the exhaustion got the better of them and they were forced to sleep.
They sat side by side on the floor, on soft cushions, leaning their backs against Harry’s bed. They remained in a comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s company.
As always, their tails were touching. Harry had grown used to hers covering his like a blanket.
“You know, I was studying—”
“Don’t tell me,” Harry cut across her with an ironic mew. “Since when do you study?... Ouch!”
Hermione gave him a sharp poke in the arm.
“Idiot,” she hissed like an irritable cat. “Anyway, I found something interesting while I was reading for that History of Magic summary last week.”
“Out of all your subjects, you seriously find History of Magic the most exciting?”
Hermione sighed.
“I know you hate the subject, but do me a favour and keep quiet.” She gave an impatient growl.
Harry suspected she might be in one of those difficult moods, but he couldn’t prove it and wasn’t sure, so he just let her carry on.
“It’s about Salazar Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets,” she explained.
Harry raised his eyebrows.
“Okay, now you’ve got my attention.” He mewed, curious.
“Back when Muggles began burning witches and wizards as heretics, Salazar promised to find a solution to the problem and set off on a journey around the world.”
Harry nodded.
“I remember that from class, strange as it sounds.”
“Right, but here’s where it gets odd.” Hermione leaned forward slightly, her eyes shining with the excitement of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “Salazar wasn’t a pure-blood radical to begin with. He agreed with the other Founders that any witch or wizard should be welcome at Hogwarts, regardless of parentage. There are even records saying he prided himself on ‘converting’ Muggles into wizards. A fanatical Muggle would never send his own child to the stake for being a half-blood or Muggle-born—the idea was to make him bite his tongue, you see? Salazar’s ideology seemed more about assimilation between Muggles and wizards than annihilation. But when he came back from a trip to Greece… everything changed. Suddenly, he was a completely different man. The records say it was as though he’d been bewitched.”
Harry shivered.
“And the solution he found was…” He didn’t finish.
He swallowed, casting Hermione a wary glance.
“Yes.” Her voice faltered for an instant, but she quickly composed herself. “Exterminating all Muggle-borns. As I said, in his view, and the radicals’ even today, we’re the problem in the wizarding world.”
There was a moment’s silence before Hermione continued.
“But the point is, when he came back, he brought with him an ‘immeasurably ancient relic’, in his own words. From what I read, it was a staff he discovered on the island of Crete.”
“A staff?” Harry frowned. “And what’s that got to do with him coming back madder than ever?”
“Well, to begin with, wizards don’t use staves. At least, not by then.” Hermione explained in a matter-of-fact way. “And Salazar not only stopped using his wand altogether, but he never let go of that staff again. He carried it everywhere, even into the Great Hall, propped up beside him while he ate. And if anyone dared ask about it, Salazar reacted aggressively. I read that a student innocently asked him about the staff and was punished with a whole week alone in the Forbidden Forest.”
Harry shuddered. He knew all too well what it was like in that forest, and the thought of spending a week lost there sounded infinitely worse than polishing trophies or scrubbing toilets.
“What a prat.” Harry sighed with an unhappy mew. “But he was a Slytherin, what did I expect…”
“He grew crueler after that,” Hermione went on. “Even towards wizards of his own House. Even some pure-bloods. It’s believed it was during this period that he built the Chamber of Secrets.”
She paused, giving a crooked smile.
“In short? He basically found the One Ring and went mad. All that was missing was him turning into Gollum and calling it ‘my precious’.” She mewed with a laugh more nervous than amused.
Harry blinked.
“Gollum?” he purred softly.
Hermione stared at him in surprise.
“You’ve never read The Lord of the Rings?” she mewed, incredulous.
Harry shook his head.
“No, sorry.” He murmured quietly.
She sighed, standing as tiredness began to overtake her.
“Well, there’s a reading tip for you.” She purred. “But anyway, it’s all rather… odd, don’t you think?”
Harry shrugged.
“Everything here’s odd, Hermione. We’re in a place where people believe in unicorns.”
“But unicorns are real!” she shot back with a mew of genuine indignation that made Harry burst out laughing.
“All right, all right. You believe in unicorns too, got it.” He cooed, brushing his tail teasingly against her nose with a mischievous grin.
She opened her mouth to protest, to say that unicorns existed and he himself had seen one
“Harry—plftrt!”
Hermione pushed his tail away with a light swat, but not before sneezing in a tiny, muffled way.
“That’s for last week.” He mewed with a laugh. “I lost the mouse because of you—your tail’s far too bushy.”
“I’ll remember that tonight…” she muttered in a weak hiss, folding her arms and pretending to sulk.
February arrived with ever more colourful days and increasingly warm sunshine. It was only a week until Valentine’s Day when Harry and Hermione had finally returned to their human forms.
No more fur covering their bodies, no sharp teeth or claws.
When they woke that morning, they noticed that their eyes had returned to their usual appearance and that, overnight, all remaining fur had vanished. It left them incredibly cold, trembling and needing extra layers of clothing they weren’t accustomed to—including two scarves and hats.
“This will pass, dears, until then, stay somewhere cosy.” The nurse explained with a maternal smile.
Madam Pomfrey, satisfied with the outcome, examined them carefully and confirmed that there were no lasting side effects.
After making a few notes and giving the usual recommendations, she left the infirmary, leaving them alone.
For a moment, the two simply looked at each other, and then celebrated with enthusiasm, laughing and smiling with relief.
Their eyes fell on the faithful brown and green balls of wool beside the bed—which, until recently, had seemed the most fascinating things in the world.
Now, they didn’t feel the same urge to play with them. Not even the little mouse they had so often competed to catch held the same allure as before.
“Finally!” Hermione exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air.
Harry laughed, sharing the same joy, but after the initial euphoria, they looked at each other and, almost instantly, blushed like ripe tomatoes before looking away.
What they had experienced there…
Well, it was hard to explain. But it had been strange, calm, peaceful—and somehow special.
In that place, they didn’t have to worry about lurking monsters, suspicious glances, or overwhelming problems. Even with petrified bodies resting in the same infirmary—a detail they both made a point of ignoring—Harry could simply be Harry, and Hermione didn’t have to be the brightest witch of your year all the time.
Even in a physically unhealthy state, that private time had been good for both of them.
Harry cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“What happened here, you know,” he said softly, “the whole thing about being cats and doing those things, like playing and…” He didn’t need to mention the part about rubbing and licking.
Hermione nodded slowly.
“I… I think I’m going to miss my tail. Is that strange?” She furrowed her brow, as if even the confession surprised her. “I was used to it swishing from side to side. I even liked stroking it, honestly.”
“Do you feel like licking something, your hand or… well, scratching something?” Harry asked, trying to seem casual.
Hermione shook her head.
“No, not anymore.” She said, still a little confused looking at her hairless hands. “At least not so much, maybe… maybe a little still, but Madam Pomfrey said it will pass, and you?”
Harry raised an eyebrow and ran his hand through his hair.
“Oh, me neither.” He replied in equal measure. “Not so much.”
Another brief silence settled.
Both were sitting on Hermione’s bed at a respectable distance, no longer so close together, no longer excusing proximity as normal for felines, that touching and licking were instinct. That playing so near each other had been a necessity.
Now, they had returned to “civility.”
And though they were relieved to be normal humans again, they could not deny that they felt an inner chill at the absence of the closeness that had been built over so long. Now, it was set aside.
Their auras were sad, as if someone special had left and it would take a long time to return home; as if they needed each other’s warmth to heat themselves again, but could do nothing to change it.
At least, not in that moment.
But then, suddenly, as if it did not want this experience to be forgotten, as if what they had lived there had been special in some way, Harry tilted his head slightly towards Hermione:
“MaMaew?” he mewed softly.
Hermione blinked, surprised, but soon a playful smile curved her lips before she replied quietly.
“MeawMew,” she gave a cute meow “brrr”
“Mprrr,” he purred back.
The two looked at each other for a second—and smiled at one another, with soft little laughs. They could no longer fully understand each other in those mews, but deep down, one understood what the other meant for the last time in the language of cats.
Closing their trunks, they packed their things and left the infirmary together, like two normal children.
The professors were relieved to see them well, full of energy for study and cheerful once more—except for Snape, of course, who made a point of grumbling that his “peace” had finally come to an end.
Everything normal, as expected.
Neville and Ron seemed equally satisfied.
“Merlin, I couldn’t take it any longer! It’s finally good to see you lot here,” said Ron between mouthfuls of lunch, pointing his fork at Neville. “You’re my mate, Nev, but if I have to hear one more word about what some damned Montrose Magpies chaser did that was ‘amazing’, I swear I’ll have a fit!”
“Oi! You were the one bringing up Quidditch, not me!” Neville protested, raising his hands in surrender. “What fault is it of mine if your team—”
“Don’t you dare!” Ron interrupted immediately.
Harry and Hermione burst into laughter.
“Alright, alright,” Neville surrendered, smiling.
Harry had to admit: it was good to be with them again, sharing meals and study sessions.
When the notorious Valentine’s Day finally arrived, Harry realised, with a deep sense of resignation, that Professor Lockhart’s absurd ideas had indeed taken shape. Unfortunately.
Apparently, no one had had the good sense to stop the man, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had not been bluffing when he announced, with his customary pomp, that he wanted to do “something truly special” for the occasion.
He had transformed the entire castle into a spectacle of vibrant pinks and reds, an explosion of colour that even made the darkest corridors feel strangely cheerful.
Small clouds of whitish smoke, enchanted never to dissipate, floated through the corridors and hovered beneath the decorated ceiling of the Great Hall, simulating a romantic, dreamlike sky. Illusions of gleaming white doves flew past from time to time, vanishing into the air with a final silvery glimmer before reappearing elsewhere.
To the general dismay of the single students, the lonely, the broken‑hearted, the unloved—and those who simply had a shred of common sense—the couples appeared even more… excessive than usual.
Instead of revising useful spells or practising Transfiguration, or simply behaving as normal witches and wizards in the corridors as always happened, the older students were scattered across benches and corners, taking advantage of the excuse of artificial romance to cling in the least discreet manner wherever they could.
No corner of the castle seemed free from this epidemic of affection. Common rooms, courtyards, open areas, corridors, empty classrooms, the trophy room, the Astronomy Tower, the Quidditch pitch, the north, south, east—even the west towers were not spared, with snogging even at the edge of the abandoned well!
And the Black Lake?
Don’t even think that the lakeside would be without someone swapping saliva with someone else.
Not even the prefects, most of whom were far too occupied kissing to enforce any order, nor Filch, with all his perpetual scowl and his rancour towards any sign of youthful joy, could contain the tide of excessive, saccharine public displays of affection. And the Aurors were hardly interested in bothering with extremely soppy juvenile relationships.
Even Peeves, who had elaborate plans to play a bloody trick on one of the clingiest couples, gave up when confronted with two particularly enthusiastic Hufflepuff students in a nook near the kitchen.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” the poltergeist complained loudly, floating indignantly.
The couple separated for a millisecond, lips swollen, staring at him with empty, dazed expressions, hair dishevelled.
He let out an exaggerated huff of disgust and floated away slowly, grumbling to himself about “second‑hand embarrassment” and “this generation of soppy degenerates.”
And when Peeves, chaos incarnate, gave up on a prank and retreated grumbling, it was because, as Ron liked to say at times, “something wrong, it wasn't right.”
It was in this surreal scene that Harry, Neville, Ron and Hermione were wandering absentmindedly along the first‑floor corridor, trying to ignore the oppressively romantic atmosphere as much as possible, when they spotted a particularly engrossed couple in a dark recess near a statue of a fully armoured knight.
The kiss was so intense and noisy that the very statue, in an act of pure magical embarrassment, took a subtle but perceptible step aside, moving slowly to keep a safe distance and preserve some dignity.
“Ugh, disgusting…” Hermione murmured, shaking her head disapprovingly while clutching her pile of books to her chest and quickening her pace, trying to leave the scene behind.
“Thank your dear Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for that,” Ron grumbled, making a point of emphasising Lockhart’s title with a tone heavy with sarcasm.
“I’m not trying to defend or support him,” Neville began, hesitant, clearly attempting to avoid igniting an argument, “but last year was pretty much the same. With decorations or not, people… well, they behave like that anyway.”
“That’s not behaviour, Neville, that’s depravity!” Hermione retorted, wrinkling her nose as if she had smelled something foul. “It has nothing to do with love!”
Neville looked at another entwined couple on a bench, but did not show any sign of disgust. In fact, he seemed more intrigued, as if those two were some rare lip‑slugs he was studying for Herbology class.
“But… if you were with someone you liked today,” he asked, turning to Hermione with genuine curiosity, “would you still be complaining or more… occupied with pleasing your partner?”
Harry and Ron raised their eyebrows at the pointed question and nudged each other on the shoulder as if Neville had hit the mark perfectly. They could not suppress a simultaneous laugh, while Hermione’s face flared redder and redder, rivaling the brightest decorations in the corridor.
“W‑what? No way! I mean… it’s obvious I’d be complaining!” Hermione stumbled over her words, her voice growing higher pitched. “You know perfectly well I’d be the first to separate these couples! It’s expressly against the rules to be kissing and… and snogging in public like that! Totally contrary to the decorum of Hogwarts!”
It was true, she certainly would do that. But none of the scattered couples seemed to care in the slightest about rules or decorum. And for a day like that, trying to patrol the corridors to enforce rules seemed the purest waste of time.
“Uh‑huh,” Ron agreed, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “Sure, Hermione, Sure. We’ll have this same chat again in about five years, alright?”
Neville remained thoughtful while Harry laughed along with Ron, but when he looked at Hermione again and met her deadly glare—a look promising a slow and painful death via heavy books—he immediately looked away and stopped laughing, suddenly very interested in his own shoes.
She lifted her chin silently, a gesture of wounded dignity, and said nothing further, trying to overcome the embarrassment burning on her face, tossing her thick hair back.
Upon arriving at the Great Hall for breakfast, they noticed that Lockhart once more wished to be the centre of attention.
This time, he wore a long, dazzling shock‑pink robe, matching perfectly with the over‑romantic scene around him. His wide, gleaming smile seemed more radiant than ever.
“Ah, love is in the air, my young ones!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms dramatically. “Nothing like warming this cold castle with a little romance!”
Harry rolled his eyes.
It was obvious it was all just another excuse for Lockhart to show off.
Breakfast began as usual, with owls flying overhead delivering post—newspapers, packages, letters from family.
But that day, the quantity of perfumed notes and cards was absurd.
Older boys and girls—the prettiest and most popular—received love letters by the dozen.
Some girls sighed upon opening pink envelopes decorated with shimmering hearts, while others burst into hysterical giggles upon reading overblown or clumsy declarations, clearly leaving the sender visibly uncomfortable and heartbroken across the hall.
There were also those who, with a bored look, tossed the letters aside without ceremony, as if the sentiments within were utterly worthless.
Cedric Diggory, for example, received five letters.
All, it seemed, from the same girls who could not stop staring at him from the other side of the table as if he were a sugar‑iced sweet.
Harry was sure it would be a long day.
Neither Neville nor Ron seemed to mind not receiving a single letter. They shrugged and continued eating with their usual ferocity.
Hermione also received nothing, and though she made a point of declaring she did not care in the slightest about “this sort of nonsense,” a more attentive observer could have noticed the slight tension in her shoulders.
“These trifles only hinder academic performance,” she declared, poking her porridge with some force. “Love letters do not improve grades!” It was like a mantra she repeated to herself.
Despite her stance, she felt an inner, heavy, silent disappointment—which she managed to contain with remarkable willpower—upon realising that not even a poorly written note had been sent to her, while some colleagues were receiving one or two letters from anonymous admirers.
Harry would have liked to feel as calm as his friends, but to his misfortune, he received a letter.
If you looked more at the Hufflepuff table, perhaps we could sneak off to the kitchens or greenhouses together. I could show you the flavor of peppermint…
Harry read softly but audibly, and pushed the parchment aside with a grimace of discomfort. He would definitely avoid looking at the Hufflepuff table for the next few days.
“You’re a lucky fellow, mate,” Ron joked, with a half‑smile.
“Well… they say Hufflepuff is famous for having the kindest girls of the four houses.” Neville tried to help with a small smile. “Not to mention educating the best witch cooks,”
“Lost my appetite, thanks.” He murmured softly, resting his elbows on the table.
But, to their astonishment, another letter arrived.
And then another.
And another.
And then five more.
Until it became impossible to ignore the fact that Harry was being buried under messages of “love.”
It was then that Hermione, who had so far maintained a stern silence, could no longer contain herself.
Her eyes swept over the mountain of scented parchments beside Harry’s plate, and an audible tsk escaped her lips. She felt her aura grow warmer with indignation, and uncomfortably so, for some reason.
“Looks like someone’s going to need a secretary soon enough,” she commented, her voice sharper than usual, and immediately plunged her nose into Advanced Transfiguration Theory, turning the pages with slightly more force than necessary. “It’s a colossal distraction from the curriculum. Someone ought to remind everyone that we have end-of-year assessments. But it seems they’d rather waste their time sending nonsense.”
“Nonsense, I’m not so sure,” Ron said casually, mouth full, “but I wouldn’t mind getting a few letters myself.”
The messages varied between the bizarre and the frankly disturbing. Many still suspected he was the Heir of Slytherin, and that he was the school’s desired Dark wizard.
I don't care that you are the Heir, it must be an honor, and I can help you with whatever you need, I would stay by your side forever, if you allow me.
Anonymous admirer of Slytherin.
“Urgh... I think I might catch some disease reading these,” Harry wrinkled his nose in pure disgust.
“There are always someone who are attracted to bad people,” Neville commented. “I'm not saying you're bad, Harry, but the Heir thing... you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Harry replied, resigned as he avoided looking at the stack of letters.
“If only a normal witch had come,” Ron said, placing another disturbing letter on the pile. “They all seem like a bunch of weirdos.”
“Some girls like the bad boy, Ron,” Hermione replied dryly, her lip pursed. She found it completely ridiculous. “Believe it or not, some fantasize about it.”
“Merlin save me...” Ron muttered, looking strangely at all the girls in the Hall. “Could it be any of those?”
“That's why I prefer to stay in the greenhouses...” Neville spoke softly, sighing. “Plants are easier to understand.”
Some seemed genuinely romantic, but all referred to the Boy-Who-Lived or Harry Potter, as if he were some sort of powerful hero, and not just Harry.
They all spoke of a hero who did not exist, and not of him himself.
None of them noticed Ginny casting furtive glances at Harry that morning, her face lightly flushed as she smiled shyly. One of her letters—one he had discarded among the pile of romantic notes—was hers, even if written in a strange manner, like all the others.
In total, Harry had received thirteen declarations from witches he didn’t even know existed.
Without a second thought, he took them all outside, onto the castle grounds, and cast a precise Incendio.
The flames consumed the parchments rapidly, reducing every trace of embarrassment to ash.
“The worst part is none of them even know me,” he murmured, watching the remains turn to charcoal. “That’s what makes it all the more terrifying.”
Neville and Ron, who had followed him, could not disagree.
Hermione stood a little further back, watching the brief bonfire with a complex expression—a mixture of relief and a hint of remorse for her earlier comment.
She finally nodded, silently agreeing with Harry’s assessment.
But the day was far from over.
For a rare moment, Harry was alone—or almost.
Hermione had gone to fetch some books from the library, Neville was busy pruning mandrakes, and Ron had vanished, racing to the lavatory as if his life depended on it, after overindulging in that spicy meat sauce at lunch.
Even so, the inner courtyard was full of students; after the attacks, no one walked alone for long.
While waiting for his friends, he sat on the edge of the fountain adorned with stone mermaids, which spouted jets of crystal-clear water. He had a good view of both the entrance to Hogwarts—which led to the main courtyard—and the greenhouses on the opposite side, the book Professor McGonagall had given him for Christmas open on his lap.
Harry read idly while practising his conjuration of specific birds and fowl, attempting the exercises from the book.
“Avis!” he said, twirling his wand with precision, the tail of his long, faithful scarf swaying behind him.
A chick appeared at the tip of his wand, scurrying cheerfully around him, softly chirping.
Harry smiled, pleased with his progress after so many hours of practice.
Hermione had remarked while they were practising some Transfiguration spells for an assignment, that he could conjure not just birds, but any bird he wished—so long as he had sufficient focus and concentration. And, apparently, she was right... as always.
And it was at that moment he saw something that made his spine chill.
A sulky dwarf, dressed as Cupid and holding a harp, was on the other side of the courtyard, questioning a few students.
He was exposing his hairy chest through the pink costume, and the sight was rather unpleasant.
“You’re Harry Potter?” he asked. “You know, that chap with the scar on his forehead.”
The dwarf’s voice was hoarse, as if he drank too much, and his teeth were yellowed and gappy.
The students shook their heads quickly, denying any involvement.
Harry’s stomach churned.
If it was what he was thinking, he definitely did not want to be Harry Potter at that moment.
Without wasting time, he closed the book and tried to get away as fast as possible.
Unfortunately for him, he did not notice Draco Malfoy nearby.
The blond muttered something to Crabbe and Goyle, who laughed before he raised his wand and whispered a spell. Suddenly, Harry’s shoelaces tied themselves into a tight knot, and he tripped in the middle of the corridor, face-first to the floor, all eyes upon him.
Even his conjured chick jumped onto him, chirping.
“Looking for Harry Potter?” Malfoy announced, loud enough to be heard by the dwarf across the courtyard. “That’s him, fallen on the floor like a sack of shite!”
Harry, still on the ground, ground his teeth.
“Malfoy, you fucking bastard...” he muttered, a mix of anger and embarrassment.
But it was already too late.
The dwarf was already marching towards him with a look of mission accomplished.
The chick, seeing the approach, widened its eyes and vanished with a faint pop.
Harry stood and tried, unsuccessfully, to untie his laces in haste.
“Look, mate,” he hurried to say, “I don’t know any Harry Potter.”
The messenger sighed heavily, looking at the lightning-shaped scar barely visible after the fall on his forehead.
“Listen, lad, it’s my job, alright? I sing the message, you listen, and that’s it. Then we go about our lives. Sound good?”
Harry began shaking his head frantically.
“No need to sing! Just tell me what—”
But the dwarf was already plucking the harp.
Too late.
“Ah, blast...” Harry swore in his thoughts.
The Cupid dwarf raised his voice, loud enough to echo across the entire courtyard and attract the attention of everyone nearby, along with other students drawn by the off-key melody:
“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”
The silence that followed was overwhelming.
Harry wished with all his might—if it were possible—that he could throw himself out of the nearest window, even if not very far, since he was on the ground floor.
His face burned with shame as he pulled the scarf up, trying to hide.
Among the students who witnessed the spectacle, Tonks passed by on her patrol route and winced. Her hair, which was a deep blue at that moment, turned pale yellow—an involuntary reaction to second-hand embarrassment.
“Done. Hope you find the love of your life and all that, blah, blah, blah,” the dwarf muttered, dragging his feet away with not a shred of enthusiasm. “Good day to you.”
Malfoy was the first to break the silence, laughing loudly, followed by Crabbe and Goyle.
“Didn’t know you were so popular, Potter!” he sneered, followed by laughter spreading through the courtyard.
Then the Slytherin turned his head and spotted Ginny Weasley, who was trying to hide behind a corner of the wall, flushed to the roots of her hair.
A malicious grin spread across Malfoy’s face.
“Right, Weasley?” he pointed at her. “Going to have another dwarf do the job for you, or will you find courage next time?”
Ginny turned as red as a tomato and, unable to utter a word, ran off at full speed.
Harry untied his shoelaces as fast as he could and disappeared from there without looking at anyone.
He had endured more than enough humiliation for one day.
Tonks, observing the scene, sighed.
“Valentine’s Day only gets good with kisses... and that still seems a while off,” she murmured, casting a sympathetic glance at the boy.
Ron’s birthday came quickly, and he got a small celebration from his friends, from Ginny and from the twins—who, as usual, had already pulled their annual prank before he was even awake.
This time, it was an enchanted toy snake that writhed about under the covers.
Ron didn’t even have time to shout.
Startled, he kicked the snake so hard it flew straight out of the window.
“There go ten Sickles out the window...” sighed George, watching with regret as the object vanished into the morning sky.
“You could’ve given it back if you didn’t like the present!” said Fred, hands on hips, feigning deep indignation.
“Piss off, the pair of you!” Ron burst out, his blue eyes seeming to catch fire with sheer fury as his face matched the colour of his hair perfectly.
After lessons that day, they stayed in the common room, accompanied by Trevor, who was resting while Neville stroked him, and Scabbers, who snored lazily on Ron’s lap.
Harry had let Hedwig out to hunt.
Neville was attempting—with a Herculean effort doomed to failure—to run a serious game of Hero Path with the twins. It was, as everyone knew, an impossible mission. Playing anything with Fred and George together without their turning it into an arena of chaos and jokes was like trying to teach Quidditch to a log.
Yet, against all expectations, the game swiftly became far more entertaining than any of them could have anticipated.
In no time, they were all crying with laughter at the over-the-top character acting—both the twins’ characters were cheating gnomes who lived off eating hallucinogenic mushrooms and selling blatantly illegal wares across the realms—and at the absurd situations they kept inventing, turning the game into a competition to see who could be the most ridiculous and inventive.
It was in this atmosphere of infectious laughter that Percy appeared, emerging in the common room doorway with his usual upright posture.
“I’ve come to wish you a happy birthday, Ron,” he said formally, though with a small smile on his lips.
He didn’t stay long, however.
“I’ve got to finish my rounds as Prefect.”
“Yeah... right, off you go,” Ron said with pursed lips, turning his attention back to the game.
“We’ll talk later,” Percy announced, adjusting the bright, perfectly polished badge on his chest with an automatic gesture before turning and striding away.
Ron tried not to show he cared, but his expression soured at once, making it clear to everyone that his older brother’s haste had hurt him.
Fortunately, Fred and George, noticing the dark cloud hanging over the birthday boy, didn’t let him stew for long.
Soon, more laughter filled the room, with the three of them recalling the countless pranks they’d pulled at the Burrow when they were younger—most of them ending with well-aimed smacks from Mrs Weasley.
“Remember that time we tried to play Quidditch indoors?” Ron remarked.
George winced.
“Merlin, that was by far the worst thrashing of our lives.”
“I can still feel it in my left buttock,” Fred commented casually, rubbing his backside.
“She got my right,” George laughed. “Thought it’d stop people mixing us up.”
“I got both...” Ron grumbled, casting the twins a dark look.
“Because it was your idea.” The twins said in unison, while Ron muttered that they were the ones who egged him on afterwards.
Ginny, more reserved, tried to join the conversation, but she was clearly distracted.
Every time her eyes landed on Harry, her face went so red that even Ron—who usually noticed none of this sort of thing—rolled his eyes.
“Merlin, Ginny!” he exclaimed with a laugh.
“What?” She frowned, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I know it’s a family trait, but you look like a tomato just being here.” He gestured at his ears and those of the others, slightly pink from the fire’s heat. “What is it? Is Harry on fire and we’ve not noticed?”
Ginny squeaked, eyes wide, and in a matter of seconds shot out of the room so fast that nobody quite caught whatever excuse she’d offered.
“Ronald, you can’t say that!” Hermione scolded him, scandalised.
“After that business with the dwarf, everyone knows,” Ron shrugged. “Hardly news.”
Harry went scarlet at once.
The mere memory of that day still made him want to change his name, hide on another continent, and vanish entirely from the sight of any living being.
He didn't think much of Ginny's crush on him, because it wasn't him. She was just one of many who imagined a swashbuckling hero, not just someone who wanted to live in peace.
Harry liked Ginny, but he didn't pay much attention to her feelings about it.
Time dragged on until the sun was beginning to set and, all of a sudden, Hermione noticed Harry staring fixedly at the floor with a strange look.
“What is it, Harry?” she asked, frowning as she clocked her friend’s worried expression.
“Something bothering you?” Neville ventured, looking at Harry with genuine concern etched across his round face.
Harry let out a long, deep sigh, as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“It sounds ridiculous, I know,” he began, hesitant, “but do you remember that book I borrowed from the library? That guide to basic Potion ingredients, The Manual of Magical Miscellanies?”
Hermione’s eyes widened, immediately aware of the abyss of trouble into which Harry was about to sink.
“Just don’t tell me you still haven’t found it...” she said, trying to contain the panic already rising at the mere thought of the epic telling-off he’d get from Madam Pince.
Harry ran his hands through his already untidy hair, visibly frustrated.
“Yeah... I’ve sort of not found it yet,” he admitted, shrugging with an air of defeat.
Before they’d put the audacious Polyjuice plan into practice, he’d borrowed that specific book to finish an endless essay for Professor Snape’s class. And if the plan had gone perfectly—which, as they all knew, was asking far too much—he ought to have returned the book three days after the assignment was completed.
The problem was that, between the feline transformation, the stay in the hospital wing, and the general chaos that always seemed to pursue him, Harry had completely forgotten where he’d left it and, up to that moment, hadn’t found it. The return deadline, which had been extended because of his hospitalisation, had expired nearly a month before, and he hadn’t even set foot in the library since, fearing the librarian’s wrath.
“Mate, Madam Pince is going ter want your hide!” said Neville, swallowing hard as he imagined the silent, terrifying fury of the guardian of books.
Harry would probably get a telling-off that would echo down the corridors for quite a while.
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, shaking his head with a mixture of pity and disbelief. “Was that before the whole cat thing?”
“It was,” said Harry with an exasperated sigh, running his hand through his hair again. “And I don’t know what to do! I swear I’ve looked everywhere and... nothing!”
Hermione arched an eyebrow, her expression growing profoundly sceptical. She knew Harry far too well after weeks glued to him, and how easily he could misplace things right under his nose.
“Absolutely certain you checked everywhere? Everywhere?”
Harry rolled his eyes, exasperated.
“Yes, Hermione! Three times in each place!”
She was never going to be satisfied with that answer, especially when it came to books and the sacred responsibilities owed to the library. For her, failing Madam Pince was almost heresy.
Hermione herself, with her methodical mind, had already found several of their missing items scattered around the dormitory, because the boys seemed magnetically drawn to mess—but there was also something mysterious and inexplicable about their losses.
She folded her arms and fixed him with a stare, beginning her usual interrogation.
“Wardrobe?”
“Yes.”
“Under the bed?”
“Yes.”
“Bottom of your trunk?”
“Yes...”
“Dropped behind the bedside table?”
“Yes!”
“Bottom of your book-bag, between all those crumpled parchments?”
“For Merlin’s sake, I said I looked everywhere—I didn’t find it!” Harry exclaimed, his voice growing a pitch higher with irritation.
Hermione, however, was unmoved.
She raised her other eyebrow, a final glint of suspicion flashing in her eyes.
“Did you, really? What about Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? We’ve never been back there.”
Harry, who had been about to snap back, offended by Hermione’s lack of faith in his searching skills, froze on the spot.
The blood seemed to stop in his veins. Silence claimed his face as thoughts whirled in a frenzy.
“Maybe... maybe I didn’t go there...” Harry muttered to himself, eyes widening at the sudden possibility.
Hermione crossed her arms firmly, an incontestable, triumphant gleam lighting her gaze.
‘“I looked everywhere”... honestly, Harry!’
Ron leaned towards Harry, stroking Scabbers, who was still snoring away in his lap.
“It’d better be there,” he murmured, in a tone of sombre foreboding, “or I reckon she’ll seriously suggest you try the Forbidden Forest.”
“Or never set foot in the library again...” Neville added, with a look that foresaw apocalypses.
A few minutes later, Harry and Neville were making their way through the castle’s quiet corridors, heading for the bathroom.
Curfew was approaching, and the castle was almost deserted, except for a few students wandering about in small groups or the occasional Auror on patrol.
One of them stopped the boys and asked where they were going.
Without hesitation, they told the truth.
“We were going to the bathroom, sir,” Harry answered.
The Auror merely grunted his assent, but watched them until they turned the corner.
Sensing Neville’s discomfort, Harry set a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“It’ll be quick, Nev. Just return the book and get out.”
“I know,” Neville murmured, without much conviction. “It’s just that I didn’t want—”
“To leave the common room with a monster on the loose that’s petrifying people and nobody knows what it is? Yeah, me neither, but if I leave this till tomorrow, it’ll be even worse.”
Neville nodded and cast a nervous look around the bathroom.
The place was exactly as they remembered it: abandoned, damp, and faintly unpleasant. It wasn’t filthy, but nor could it be called clean.
The floor was wet in several places, the result of Moaning Myrtle’s bouts of rage and sorrow.
Then they heard the ghost’s characteristic sobbing.
With little time to rummage about looking for the book, asking someone who spent an eternity there seemed the best option. Myrtle was floating in a dark corner of the bathroom, back to the wall, hands covering her spotty face, as usual.
“Myrtle?” Harry called softly.
“Go away!” she snapped. “Leave me alone!”
Harry sighed.
“Myrtle, it’s me—Harry.”
She stopped crying abruptly and turned.
“Harry?” she repeated dreamily, breaking into a wide smile.
“Er... yes.”
“I knew you’d come back!” She drifted closer, floating with enthusiasm. “And you brought Neville too.”
Since he’d had to spend so much time there brewing the Polyjuice Potion, Harry had always tried to be kind to Myrtle.
He hated seeing people cry—because he never quite knew what to do: say something, keep quiet, or simply give a hug. But as she was a ghost, that last option was out. Even so, his effort had made her fond of him, and Hermione had once mentioned that Myrtle seemed to have a crush on him.
Not that you had to be a genius to notice.
“Why were you crying, uh... this time?” Neville asked, not wanting to pry.
“Boys! Wretched boys!” she exploded, fury clear in her voice. “They said I’m ugly and annoying! That I never stop crying and ought to keep quiet in my ‘complete insignificance’!” Myrtle mimicked the phrase in a posh, affected tone. “And of course they had to be Slytherins! Now they’ve found out where I haunt, they’ve decided to pester me!”
“Slytherins. What a surprise,” Harry muttered. “Don’t listen to them. You know none of it’s true.”
Her eyes sparkled and, in an instant, she swooped dangerously close, fluttering her lashes and clasping her hands before her chest.
He regretted offering any advice.
“Oh, Harry, you’re sooo sweet!” she cried in an affectedly lovestruck voice. “Have I told you your eyes light up this bathroom like green-apple liquid soap?”
Harry shot Neville a look—Neville clearly had no idea what to say, just as confused as he was.
Harry cleared his throat and raked a hand through his hair.
“Not really, but anyway,” Harry got straight to the point, “I wanted to ask you something, if it’s not a bother.”
“Ah, you’d never bother me!”
“Did you see my Potions book? I think I might have left it here a few months ago.”
“Ah, that one there?” She pointed to a window ledge on the other side of the bathroom.
“That’s it! Thanks!” Harry hurried to fetch it.
When they were beginning to say goodbye to her and leave the bathroom, the ghost’s ethereal, tearful voice caught their attention once more.
“You know, there’s another book here as well,” she added, drifting through a cubicle with a dramatic air.
“Another one?” Neville repeated, confused. “Someone left another? But we only had that one...”
“It wasn’t one of your books from that ‘secret mission’,” said Myrtle, making exaggerated air quotes with her fingers, still resentful that they’d never told her anything. “No. This one was thrown at me! At me! By a rude girl! If it’s from the library, you ought to return it as well.”
“Okay...” Harry murmured, intrigued. “But why do you care so much?”
“I wanted to be a Prefect when I got to fifth year,” she said, folding her translucent arms with a deeply unhappy face. “But, well, I died first. Some habits never die, I suppose.”
“Ah... that explains it,” Neville smiled, somewhat shyly.
Harry approached the second book cautiously, almost hidden inside an empty, shadowed urinal.
The black, worn cover looked strangely familiar. As he picked it up, feeling the cold, slightly damp leather under his fingers, he recognised it at once.
It was Ginny’s diary.
Harry frowned, a wave of perplexity washing over him.
“But here?” he thought, his mind working quickly. “Did Ginny come here? To Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? To do what?”
The instant his fingers touched the diary’s cover, a strange, cold sensation coursed through his body, a shiver that had nothing to do with the dampness of the place. For some obscure, immediate reason, he felt a strong urge to keep the book with him. Perhaps there was no need to tell Neville about it either.
Why?
It made no sense at all. It was only an old diary. He could simply give it back to Ginny, couldn’t he?
Neville, already near the door, was watching him with a curious look.
“All right there, Harry?”
“Yeah. All— all right,” Harry said, shaking his head as though to dispel the muddled thoughts, his voice sounding a little distant.
When he rejoined Neville, he saw his friend staring fixedly at the book now in his hands, with a puzzled expression.
“Isn’t that Ginny’s diary? The one she’s been carrying everywhere?” Neville asked, perplexed. “Why would she throw that at Myrtle? And why would she come here, of all places?”
Harry shook his head, as intrigued as he was.
“I don’t know... I wondered exactly the same thing. But don’t worry, I’ll give it back to her.”
“And tell her not to throw books at people!” Myrtle exclaimed, plunging dramatically into one of the toilets with a ghostly splash. “If she doesn’t like her life, she needn’t disturb those who no longer have one!”
“When did this happen?” Neville asked, ignoring the theatrics. “I mean... when did she throw that at you, Myrtle?”
“Oh, ages ago,” Myrtle replied, reappearing with water—or tears—streaming down her ghostly face. “It was on the same horrible day that Hufflepuff boy was Petrified. Right after the news spread, she came here, all worked up, hit me with that book and ran off! The idiot...”
Harry and Neville exchanged a look, the same uneasy suspicion passing between them.
It was deeply odd. Ginny was not, by any means, the sort to lash out at others without reason. But Ron had been insisting for months that she hadn’t been acting normal. He and the older brothers had even tried to talk to her, but Ginny had been evasive and distant.
In the end, they’d all put her strange behaviour down to first-year nerves at Hogwarts.
Ron, however, had never seemed entirely convinced.
And now, neither was Harry.
“Come on,” Harry said, his voice firm, masking the unease he felt. “We need to hand this,” he raised the Potions book, “back to the library before Madam Pince closes and turns me into book-bindings. Thanks, Myrtle!” he said, already turning to hurry out.
“See you later, Neville... and Harry,” Myrtle murmured, a dreamy, melancholy gaze fixed on Harry, “come and visit me, won’t you? Promise?”
“Er... uh... sure,” he answered, feeling a familiar discomfort creep up his spine.
The two of them shot along the dark corridors, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls, but not before being intercepted and given a firm telling-off by a Hufflepuff Prefect who was patrolling the area, suspicious of their hurried, furtive behaviour after nightfall.
When they reached the library, Harry breathed a sigh of relief to see it was still open.
Madam Pince, wearing her usual severe expression, was scribbling something on a parchment behind the desk. As soon as she saw them, she looked up and raised her eyebrows.
“Mr Potter!” she said stiffly. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d show up. You haven’t forgotten something, by any chance?”
“Yes, Madam Pince... I’m terribly sorry, I lost the book—”
“‘Lost’ is a weak word for what happened!” she cut in, pressing her lips together. “I’ve been waiting for its return for weeks!”
Neville, who could already feel the tension in the air, flinched at the librarian’s piercing stare.
Harry hunched a little and stepped forward hesitantly, holding out the book.
“Here it is. I only just found it and rushed to bring it back.”
Madam Pince took the volume, flicked a quick spell, and watched as the pages turned of their own accord, inspecting its condition.
“At least it isn’t in worse shape,” she said coldly, setting it on the desk. “But that is the bare minimum, as you very well know.”
Harry crossed his fingers behind his back.
“Do I... need to do anything? I know I was late, but I swear it wasn’t on purpose.”
“He looked everywhere at least three times, even behind the bedside table,” Neville added quickly.
Harry gave his shoulder a jab to shut him up and not make things worse.
Madam Pince narrowed her eyes at the pair of them, then sighed and set the book aside.
“I’ll let it pass today because I’m in a good mood,” she said slowly. “But let this be clear, Potter: this was the first and only time I shall accept such an absurd delay, and I only did so because of your situation in the hospital wing. If it happens again, I can assure you you’ll spend a lovely afternoon alphabetising the Latin section! Understood?”
Harry’s shoulders loosened as relief spread through him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Excellent. Now be off with you.” She pointed to the exit.
As soon as they had moved away and left the library, Harry felt an immense weight lift from his shoulders, as if an invisible hand had been removed from his neck.
“Bloody hell, I thought she was going to give me detention for the rest of term,” Harry sighed in relief, adjusting his glasses.
“I thought she’d give me detention just for standing there by association...” Neville replied, scratching his arm nervously. “She looked at me as if I were a grass stain on the carpet.”
They had begun chatting idly as they headed towards the staircases up to the Gryffindor common room when, turning into a narrower corridor, someone barged into Harry hard and on purpose, wrenching something from his hand with a quick movement.
“Lost something, Potter?”
Harry spun round to face Draco Malfoy, who was holding Ginny’s diary with a malicious, self-satisfied grin on his pale face.
Harry could feel his blood boiling already at the mere sight of that face which filled him with such disgust.
“Give it back, Malfoy!” he burst out, his patience—already thin—snapping completely.
“What? Your diary?” Draco sneered, feigning surprise. “Well, well... I think it would be most interesting to share what’s in here. Can you imagine? All the deepest, soppiest thoughts of the ‘Boy-Who-Uses-Diaries-Like-A-Little-Girl’.” He laughed, a loud, unpleasant sound that echoed off the stone walls.
“It’s not my diary!” Harry shot back, taking a threatening step forward, his body taut.
“Na-na-na...” Malfoy sing-songed, amused, backing away a few paces and waving the diary in his hand like a trophy. “If you come any closer, I swear you’ll never see this stupid diary of yours again.”
He gestured theatrically to the open window beside him, threatening to hurl it away. From where they stood, the book would fall straight into the dark, deep waters of the Great Lake.
“You ought to hand that—” Neville began, trying to intervene.
“Shut it, Squib,” Malfoy snapped quickly and harshly, his disdainful gaze sweeping over Neville as though he were rubbish.
“Don’t call him that!” Harry growled, clenching his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. His aura began to thrash with anger, but he kept it in check.
“My, how aggressive,” Draco said with icy venom in his voice, clearly remembering the beating he’d taken at Halloween in first year. “What are you going to do? Punch me again like a cowardly animal who can’t duel like a proper wizard?”
“You deserved it—and you still do,” Harry said firmly, keeping eye contact. “I’d do it again without thinking twice, if I had to.”
“Bloody hell, you’re really dreadful at bargaining,” Draco snorted, letting out a mirthless little laugh.
Malfoy twirled the diary between his thin fingers and tilted his head, putting on a show of fake reflection.
“Yeah, unfortunately... I don’t think I’m going to give it back,” he said, as if it were an option he’d weighed carefully. “I mean, it’d make a splendid present for the Bathroom Wailer. Does throwing books at her annoy her? She doesn’t feel anything physical, of course, but it’s good to try new things.”
Harry’s fist clenched; his jaw was so tight it hurt.
Beside him, Neville shifted uneasily, his hand going instinctively to the pocket where he used to keep his broken wand.
“Was it you?!” Neville asked, his courage surprising even himself.
“What? The one who shut Myrtle up? Obviously me, Squib!” Malfoy declared, almost boasting. “That spotty, nosy spook pokes around everyone in the loos—even us!” He jabbed a thumb at himself with perverse pride.
“I’ve never seen her outside her girls’ bathroom,” Harry retorted, trying to find a flaw in the story.
“I don’t doubt that. Those with tiny pricks don’t use urinals—you must only use the cubicles,” Draco shot back acidly, his smile growing crueller.
“Merlin’s beard, are you the willy inspector now, Malfoy?” Harry retorted, not holding his tongue. “Want me to get mine out so you can measure it, is that it? Jealous, are you?”
“Right, that’s quite enough of that nonsense,” Draco cut across him, his face turning serious. “Say goodbye to your little-girly diary.”
“Do that and I’ll end you!” Harry snapped, whipping his wand from inside his robe in one smooth movement.
“I’m not—”
“What’s going on here?”
A firm, authoritative voice sliced through the tension, and Malfoy turned, his expression instantly irritated.
Nymphadora Tonks was approaching, arms folded and a severe look on her face, her short hair a striking shock of pink.
“Getting yourself into trouble again, Malfoy?” she asked, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I don’t get into trouble,” he hissed, closing his robe over the diary in a furtive movement.
“Don’t you?” she said, sceptical, her gaze fixed on the hidden volume. “Then take that out of your robe. Now.”
Malfoy hesitated, visibly grinding his teeth. A confrontation with an Auror—and a Metamorphmagus, who, unfortunately for him, was also his cousin—wasn’t part of his plan.
“Now, Malfoy,” Tonks repeated in a tone that allowed no argument, holding out her hand.
Huffing with anger and defeat, he yanked the diary from inside his robe and shoved it towards Harry with a rough push.
“I’d better be off,” he muttered, his pale face blotched with rage. “This impure air makes me sick... see you, Nymphadora.” He spat the last word with pure contempt and swept off towards the dungeons, his black robes billowing behind him.
Tonks watched him disappear into the gloom before turning to Harry and Neville, her face breaking into a casual, friendly smile.
“I imagine this is yours,” she said, holding the diary out to Harry.
Harry took the book, feeling such an intense wave of relief that his legs almost gave way.
“Yes. Thank you, Tonks!”
“Not at all. It’s getting late, and curfew will be on soon. Come on, I’ll walk you to the common room.” She cast a tired look at the staircase. “Merlin’s beard, it’s at times like this I’m grateful I was a Hufflepuff in my school days... Must be a real pain having to climb up there every day to sleep.”
“You’ve no idea...” Neville groaned, disheartened.
Tonks accompanied them along the corridor, cheerful as she told a story from her school days.
“I was a right menace as a student—the professors were always getting cross with me,” she said, laughing. “Once, in my fourth year, I nicked a Venomous Tentacula from the greenhouses and tried to put it on Filch’s desk. Only, on the way, I tripped and the thing fell right on Professor Snape.”
Harry and Neville’s eyes widened—Venomous Tentacula were known to stun or even kill in some cases.
“And the twins think they pull heavy pranks...” Harry thought, amused.
“To make it worse, I’ve got this dreadful habit of laughing when I’m nervous,” she declared, remembering the good—and not so very old—times. “And, well... you can imagine he didn’t see the funny side. They were considering daily detentions till I left school, but luckily Professor Sprout was in a good mood that day. She told me that if I was so inclined to fiddle with dangerous plants, I ought to sit a special Herbology test. Luckily, I passed—or those lavatories would still be gleaming from how much I’d have scrubbed them.”
Harry laughed while Neville pondered what might have happened if McGonagall hadn’t been his saviour when he’d caused that whole scene over Polyjuice Potion ingredients.
“At least you didn’t throw up on his shoes...” Neville murmured under his breath, shrugging.
She widened her eyes and burst out laughing.
“What? No chance!” she said, amused. “You threw up on Snape’s shoes? I’ve got ter hear this one!”
The talk stayed light and funny as Neville gave his account and Harry helped fill in the details.
When they finally reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, Tonks bade them goodbye and headed back to her patrol.
“Uh... I forgot the password... again.” Neville gave a timid, sheepish smile.
Harry rolled his eyes.
“Acacia-bird,” he said in a mechanical tone.
The portrait swung open, and the three of them entered the common room.
The room was emptier than usual, as some students had gone to bed early.
However, Hermione and Ron were still awake, seated near the fire. Hermione was correcting one of Ron’s essays, precisely pointing out the parts that needed improvement.
“You’ve forgotten to explain how the Reparifarge works,” she said, pushing a parchment towards the redhead. “It’s the de-transfiguration charm that neutralises the effects of botched transfigurations. Here, have a look at what I wrote and try to rephrase it in your own words.”
Ron, who seemed to be paying real attention, nodded and smiled.
“Cheers, Hermione! I owe you one.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t owe me anything.” She smiled, pleased to help. “It’s your birthday, after all. I’d be a dreadful friend if I charged you today. Now, hand over your Astronomy work. I know you struggle to identify constellations, but you might not even need to rewrite much.”
Ron passed the parchment, and at that moment Harry and Neville came over.
Hermione stayed focused on the reading, not looking up.
“Did you find the book? Return it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and pursing her lips at what she was reading.
“Yes, all sorted. At least I don’t think I landed any detention,” said Harry, relieved. “Perhaps Madam Pince took into account that I spend a lot of time with you in the library.”
“She can be exacting, but she’s a professional librarian,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly. “That wouldn’t have influenced her decision.”
It was then Ron frowned as he noticed what Harry was holding.
“Wasn’t that Ginny’s diary? Why are you carrying it?”
Harry and Neville explained how they had found it. For the first time, Hermione lifted her eyes from the parchment.
“It’s odd,” said Neville. “I mean, she wouldn’t throw a personal diary at Moaning Myrtle without a reason...”
Ron let out a sigh.
“’Course she’s acting weird, but she won’t talk to us! I’ve been suspicious for ages—you lot know that.” He folded his arms, looking towards the window. “But I reckon only when we get home she’ll open her mouth and tell us what’s going on—Mum might help with that.”
“Strange. I didn’t notice the diary there before,” Hermione remarked, twirling the quill in her hand.
“We were so focused on the potion that we ignored it. Happens,” said Harry, shrugging.
“Could be...” Hermione nodded. “Either way, give me the diary. I’ll hand it to her.”
Harry felt a strange urge to keep the book.
Why would he need to give it to Hermione?
It made no sense for her to go into the first-years’ girls’ dormitory just to return a diary.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it,” said Harry. “I’ll give it to her tomorrow.”
Hermione frowned slightly, puzzled.
“But I can give it to her now,” she explained in a gentle voice. “I think she’s not asleep yet—if she is, I’ll give it to her in the morning or leave it on her bedside table.”
Harry felt a slight discomfort at her insistence, but tried not to show it.
“She threw the diary at Moaning Myrtle, right? So she must have a reason for that. I don’t think she should get it back before she explains why.” It was a convincing excuse that came to him at just the right moment.
Hermione sighed.
“Harry, honestly.” She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t just walk around with, or keep, other people’s diaries. Hand it—”
“No!” Harry spoke louder than he meant to, and a note of irritation crept into his voice.
Ron, Hermione, and Neville started at his sudden change of mood.
“You’re implying I’m going to read her diary, is that it?” Harry accused.
“I didn’t say that—”
“But you suggested it,” he cut across. “Ginny must have her reasons for acting like this, and it’s up to her to explain them. Ron’s right to say she’s acting odd—I’ve noticed it too. So her diary stays with me. And no, I’m not going to read it,” he lied—he felt he needed to open it and see what was inside, but he wasn’t going to tell them that.
Hermione went tense. Harry was more agitated than usual, but she decided not to comment. He had never raised his voice to her like that before.
Ron stood and tried to defuse things.
“Take it easy, mate.” He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder.
Harry forced himself not to show discomfort at the touch.
He looked with distaste at his friend’s hand.
“I’m calm,” he said coldly.
“Well... we could go to bed, what d’you reckon?” Neville cleared his throat and looked towards the window, not quite sure how to break the ice.
Hermione was still watching Harry closely, studying him.
“Yes, you’re right,” she said after a pause. “And Ron, for the record, if you don’t want to get a Troll, you’ll have to redo this Astronomy essay. I’d suggest doing it today—there won’t be much time tomorrow.”
“Oh, come on, Hermione!” He threw his hands up. “Only you would talk me into opening my bag on my birthday to revise homework!”
“I do it to avoid hearing you complain afterwards that you didn’t have enough time,” she shot back quickly.
The redhead huffed, but nodded, resigned.
“Yeah, all right—but I reckon I can do it tomorrow. I think I can scrape an Acceptable or Poor—not that bad, I’ve got marks to spare,” he admitted, yawning and stretching as he headed for the stairs, when he noticed Harry was still standing where he was. “You coming, mate?”
“Go on,” he tried to sound casual, “I’ve got that Fluxweed assignment to hand in to Professor Sprout—I want to get it done tonight.”
“You can use my notes if you like,” Neville offered.
“Cheers, Nev,” he said in thanks. “Good night.”
Neville and Ron wished them good night and went up the stairs to the dormitory.
Harry walked to one of the empty tables and sat down.
He felt Hermione’s gaze—silent—on his back before she too went up to the girls’ dormitory, without wishing him good night.
He even tried to focus on the Herbology work—fortunately Fluxweed was one of the ingredients of the Polyjuice Potion, so he knew enough to write an acceptable text without consulting many books. Neville’s notes, even with his almost illegible scrawl, helped too.
When he was sure he was alone, he took the black-covered diary out of his pocket and stared at it for a moment. The insistent curiosity clamouring inside him seemed to call him to see what was within.
Harry opened it, expecting to see Ginny’s notes, her deepest thoughts—not because he wanted to know them; he just couldn’t explain why he felt such a need to open it.
But what he found was... nothing.
The diary was completely blank.
Harry frowned and turned page after page.
Frustrated, he rifled all the pages quickly with his fingers and shook the diary to see if anything fell out.
Nothing. Not a single word. Nothing inside.
“But she wrote in it all the time...” he murmured to himself.
Ginny never let go of that diary, so where was everything she’d written? She couldn’t have erased it all without leaving a trace.
An idea occurred to him, remembering the secret passage in the Philosopher’s Stone chamber, in Professor Flitwick’s spell test.
Harry drew his wand and ran it lightly over the pages, murmuring in an almost inaudible tone:
“Revelio.”
Nothing happened. No hidden ink appeared, no secret message revealed itself.
He huffed, more irritated than he would normally be over something so silly.
“Brilliant thinking, Potter,” he scolded himself mentally. “As if a first-year could cast advanced concealment charms on a diary.”
He didn't stop to notice that he too was once a first year and knew about the spell back then.
For a moment, Harry hesitated, wondering why, after all, he was so interested in that diary. But before he could think too much about it, a strange impulse took hold of him.
Without thinking, he dipped the quill in the inkwell, leaned over the blank page and wrote the first thing that came into his head—something that had tormented him for months, reflected in the suspicious looks of his classmates, in the whispered doubt in the corridors. Something he wanted to shout, as if it might make some difference:
I am not the Heir.
The sentence appeared on the paper in his rather scrawly handwriting.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Harry frowned, feeling a complete idiot.
What was he doing? Writing nonsense in a diary that wasn’t even his, just because Ginny seemed to be acting strangely?
Yes, she never let anyone see what she wrote there... but that proved nothing.
He sighed, already preparing to close the diary, when his words began to vanish. The ink was absorbed by the paper in seconds, as if it had never been there.
Harry’s heart gave a leap.
Then, before his wide eyes, the ink reappeared—hesitant at first, disconnected letters forming and dissolving, as if trying to find the right shape.
Until, at last, a clear, elegant sentence took its place on the page:
Hello, Harry Potter.
His stomach turned. The diary was answering.
But how? What kind of spell was that?
His mind raced, searching for some explanation in the little he knew about magic, but nothing came.
With a slightly trembling hand, he dipped the quill in the ink again and wrote:
Do you understand me? Who are you?
The ink disappeared again. There was a pause. Then an answer slowly appeared, as if the words were being written by an invisible hand:
My name is Tom Riddle.
A shiver ran up Harry’s spine.
He knew that name... from somewhere. But from where?
How are you writing back?
He scribbled the question quickly, his handwriting a little crooked.
I am only a memory, a shadow of what I once was. This diary keeps my memories and the secrets I discovered.
Harry felt a knot in his stomach. Part of him wanted to close the diary and throw it into the nearest fireplace. But something stopped him: curiosity.
That enigmatic answer didn’t explain how the diary knew his name... but it did explain why Ginny seemed so obsessed with it.
Did she talk to the diary? Is that why there was never anything written there?
What kind of secrets?
The answer appeared slowly, as if the words were being whispered before they were written:
Secrets about the true Heir of Slytherin. About who opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago, on 13 June 1943.
Harry held his breath. His fingers were sweaty around the quill.
A noise behind him made him spin on his heels, heart pounding.
Was someone coming down the stairs? Watching him? But it was only an owl that had flown a little too close to the window during a night hunt.
He wet his lips before writing:
And who is the Heir?
The answer came almost instantly.
Better than telling you, I can show you.
Harry frowned as he felt the diary grow warm under his palm and drew back instinctively, eyeing the page with suspicion.
Then, suddenly, the pages shone brightly.
Before he could react, he felt an invisible force pulling him into the diary.
He fell, as if he were being sucked into an endless maelstrom, into infinity.
The world around him dissolved into darkness.
And then, everything vanished.
When Harry opened his eyes again, he blinked a few times, confused.
It took a moment to realise where he was, but the familiarity of the corridor soon brought clarity. It was the second floor of Hogwarts—he recognised the paintings along the walls, the statues of knights... He had spent so much time there, hiding in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom while brewing the Polyjuice Potion, that he knew that floor like the back of his hand.
But something was wrong.
The scene looked misted over, as if a shadow hung over everything. The colours were greyer, without the usual glow of the candles.
The air felt heavier, laden with an unsettling discomfort.
The torches on the walls were lit, casting flickering shadows along the deserted corridor. It was probably past curfew.
At the end of the corridor, a boy was moving furtively, glancing to either side. He was older—perhaps a fifth- or sixth-year. Harry had never seen him before, but he was sure he would have remembered if he had.
The youth wore Hogwarts uniform, his cloak showing off Slytherin’s green and silver. On his chest, a Prefect’s badge gleamed. He was tall, with handsome, almost aristocratic features, dark, well-combed hair and eyes just as black.
“Hi... uh... hey” Harry called hesitantly.
But the boy didn’t answer.
In fact, he didn’t seem to hear him at all. He passed straight by, as if Harry were invisible. Then it dawned on him.
Harry remembered he was inside the diary.
This was a memory. He was no more than a spectator.
The young Prefect hurried down the stairs towards the entrance to the Great Hall. Down there, four wizards were walking in silence, wands raised as they levitated a covered stretcher towards the castle doors.
Harry held his breath.
A pale, limp hand slipped out from beneath the white cloth covering the stretcher.
Someone had died.
His stomach churned as he realised the weight of the scene he was witnessing.
Nearby, two figures watched with heavy expressions.
One of them was Dumbledore—much younger.
He wasn’t yet wearing glasses, his beard wasn’t long, and his hair, instead of the familiar silver, was a dark auburn that had begun to lose its shine. Beside him, an older man, frail looking and with few strands of hair on his head, sighed heavily.
“I think this is the end, Albus. Hogwarts will be closed,” he said, his voice laden with sorrow.
Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to ease a headache.
“I fear there’s little we can do about that,” he replied calmly, nodding.
“Oh, Mr Riddle,” called the old man, looking over Harry’s shoulder, “what are you doing here at this hour?”
Harry turned at the name.
The young Slytherin was approaching calmly, hands clasped behind his back, expression polite and respectful, his bearing almost impeccable, were it not for a face lightly marked by concern.
“I was finishing my patrol of the corridors, Headmaster Dippet,” Tom Riddle answered politely. “I’ve just heard from the Head Boy that Hogwarts will be closed. Is that true?”
“That’s what the Board of Governors has decided,” Dippet confirmed, shaking his head. “Many students have been Petrified—they’re targets, sadly, and now, with the death of a Muggle-born girl as well... there is no choice.”
Tom nodded slowly, as if absorbing the information.
Harry swallowed; his thoughts shot straight to Hermione—frozen, even dead.
He pushed the thought away quickly, unsettled by it, and felt as though someone could read this thought of his—this feeling and emotion—but he couldn’t explain how.
“I understand, sir...” said Tom. “But I’d like to ask you a question, if it’s not an inconvenience.”
Dippet gestured for him to continue.
“Could I remain at Hogwarts over the summer holidays?”
The Headmaster sighed and folded his hands before him.
“I’m afraid not, Mr Riddle. The Board has decided that the school will remain closed until the matter of the Chamber of Secrets is completely resolved.”
Tom’s posture grew slightly tenser.
“But... that means I’ll have to go back to the orphanage, and I’ll be there...” he murmured, barely able to hide the anguish in his voice. “I... I can’t...”
Dippet gave him a sympathetic look and set a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Tom, but that decision is beyond my control.” His voice sounded tired, the years seeming to weigh on his stooped shoulders. He hesitated a moment before adding, “I also didn’t know you were Muggle-born.”
Tom shook his head, his expression remaining impassive.
“Actually, I’m a half-blood, sir. My mother was a witch. Before she died, she chose my name: Tom, after my Muggle father, and Marvolo, for my wizard grandfather.”
“I see...” murmured Dippet, observing him with a faintly melancholic look. “A pity your mother passed so suddenly—my condolences.”
“Thank you, Headmaster,” Tom said, thoughtful.
There was a brief silence before the Headmaster straightened his shoulders, as if remembering his responsibilities.
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen—after what’s happened today, I must organise the pupils’ early departure. There are also bureaucratic matters to be dealt with before we close the gates.” He then turned to Dumbledore. “Albus, come by my office tonight. There’s much to discuss.”
Dumbledore nodded silently.
With a final inclination of his head to them both, Armando Dippet moved off, leaving the corridor steeped in tense silence.
With one last long sigh, the Headmaster withdrew towards the Great Hall, where some professors were murmuring together at a distant table.
Tom remained still for a moment, fists clenched at his sides.
“Professor Dumbledore,” he called, turning to the wizard. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, blue eyes shining with intensity, as if they could read his soul.
“Not until the real culprit is found and brought to justice, Tom,” he said, practical and direct. “Not only does the Board want to close the school, but we received several letters earlier today—once the news spread—from concerned parents unwilling to let their children return until this is resolved. I know you dislike that orphanage, but, as the Headmaster said, this is beyond our powers, and we couldn’t risk your safety either, do you not agree? With the Chamber of Secrets open, I fear none of us is truly safe.”
Tom nodded, lingering there hesitantly, as though thinking of something.
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“If I may ask—is there something you wish to tell me?” he asked, his voice gentle but weighted.
Tom held his gaze and shook his head, expressionless.
“No, sir.”
Dumbledore watched him for a few seconds more, then nodded.
“Then off you go.”
Tom pressed his lips together, gave a polite bow, and moved away.
Harry noticed Dumbledore didn’t take his eyes off him, even when he was distant but still within sight.
Without hesitating, Harry ran to catch up.
Tom was striding quickly towards the dungeons, his steps echoing along the corridor. The rhythmic sound of sole on stone, along with his taut breathing, was all Harry could hear.
Then, suddenly, Tom entered a room, pushing the door without hesitation.
Inside, Harry saw Hagrid—fifty years younger. His size was already impressive, his head almost brushing the ceiling. He had no beard and wore school uniform, though his cloak looked large enough to serve as a window curtain.
“It’s over, Hagrid. End of the line.” Tom’s voice was cold as he drew his wand.
“No! Aragog didn’ do none o’ what they’re sayin’, Riddle!” Hagrid planted himself in front o’ a cupboard, his colossal body near coverin’ it whole. “Yeh’ve got ter believe me! I told yeh the truth!”
Tom shook his head and raised his chin.
“You opened the Chamber of Secrets and released that... that thing!” he hissed. “Now, because of you, it has killed someone. Stand aside. I’m going to take it to the Headmaster and you’re coming with me.”
The cupboard behind Hagrid began to tremble. Something inside desperately wanted out, thumping against the doors hard enough to make a racket.
“I didn’ open the Chamber!” Hagrid pleaded. “Please, leave ’er be!”
“I’ll say it once more,” said Tom, his voice low and threatening. “Stand aside—the easy way or the hard way—and let me finish this creature.”
“No!”
BANG!
At once, the cupboard door burst open.
Harry jumped back as Aragog—much smaller than the version he knew—scuttled across the floor, racing in panic towards an open window in the ceiling.
Tom cast a non-verbal spell but missed by inches.
The spider escaped, vanishing into the darkness.
“You’ll pay for this!” Tom snarled, eyes blazing with fury at Hagrid.
Harry was still trying to process what he was seeing when, suddenly, the world around him seemed to freeze.
Tom and Hagrid were motionless as statues, and even the trembling torch-flame on the wall hung suspended.
Then Harry saw another Tom Riddle. He moved calmly about the room, his appearance different from that young, frozen version—his colours were as vivid as Harry’s.
“You can see me?” Harry asked.
“Of course.” Tom glanced around with indifference. “This is only one of my memories.” His eyes drifted to the frozen scene. “Now you understand? Rubeus Hagrid was the Heir of Slytherin all along, and that thing...” He gestured towards the window. “It was what killed that girl.”
Harry frowned. His mind was racing, trying to piece it together. He trusted Hagrid.
Yes, Hagrid loved monsters and dangerous creatures, but... something didn’t add up. Hagrid avoided talking about the Chamber of Secrets, but it didn’t seem to be because he was the Heir.
“What happened after?” Harry asked.
“I handed him over to the Headmaster. He was expelled from Hogwarts for his involvement with the Chamber of Secrets and, luckily, I managed to prevent the school from being closed.” Tom cast a look of contempt at the frozen Hagrid. “He deserved the burden he carried.”
Harry shook his head. Something was wrong.
“No... that doesn’t make sense. Hagrid can’t have been the Heir. You turned in the wrong person!” He spoke quickly, heart pounding. “Peeves described the monster to us! Said it had green skin! Aragog’s got hair and he’s grey! And there was the sound of something dragging... Acromantulas don’t make that sort of noise! I heard it myself! And how could he have kept up the attacks if he’s been in the Forbidden Forest all this time? He ran and stayed there! There’s no way he could come back without anyone noticing a creature that size climbing walls!”
Remembering the encounter with Aragog still gave him shivers, but at that moment, it didn’t matter.
Tom Riddle was silent for a moment, then smiled at Harry—not a smile of amusement. Something cold. Something dangerous.
“You’re too clever for your own good, Harry Potter.” His voice was ice-cold.
And then, as if a veil had been torn away, his calm expression vanished. The look turned to pure hatred.
Harry swallowed, a chill running down his spine.
He stepped back.
That sudden change could only mean one thing.
“It was you...” Harry’s voice came out almost a whisper. “You’re the one who opened the Chamber! You’re the one who released the monster, aren’t you?” He looked straight into Tom’s eyes. “You’re the Heir!”
Tom lifted his chin, proud.
“Yes, I am.” His voice brimmed with arrogance. “Hagrid needed to go anyway. Hogwarts was not made for freaks like him. It was my mission to finish what Salazar began! I was honouring my ancestor by trying to rid our school of that filthy Mudblood rabble.”
Harry’s heart hammered. He stepped back again, but his nape hit the wall.
Tom was advancing slowly, his presence crushing.
With sweaty, trembling hands, Harry drew his wand and tried to cast a spell.
Nothing happened.
As though his magic simply didn’t exist there.
Tom let out a mirthless laugh. A cold, sarcastic sound.
“Did you really think you could do anything inside my own memory?” He leaned closer, his eyes black as abysses. “No. You cannot.”
“Keep away from me!” Harry shouted, his voice trembling with desperation.
Tom only laughed more, and then, without warning, laid his hand on Harry’s forehead.
Harry screamed.
A searing pain exploded in his scar, as if his head were on fire. His chest heaved, his vision blurred.
Panic locked him in place.
“You and I shall be spending a good deal of time together...” His voice came out a cruel, spiteful hiss.
The world spun, sounds grew ever more muffled, his breathing harsher.
Then everything went black.
Chapter 30: The King of Serpents
Chapter Text
Harry opened his eyes, his mind wrapped in a thick, bewildering fog.
His head throbbed with a dull ache and, for a moment that seemed an eternity, he couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened.
“Tom Riddle is the Heir of Slytherin...” came his own voice, a ghostly whisper inside his head, reminding him of the horrible truth.
He wrinkled his nose; the air around him was heavy, damp and thick with the acrid smell of mould and wet earth. The distant, ceaseless dripping of water echoed through the space, falling somewhere in the darkness like a macabre clock.
He blinked several times, slowly, forcing his vision to adjust to the oppressive half-light surrounding him. It looked like he was inside a cave, or perhaps a narrow, ancient tunnel hewn from rock.
Ahead of him, there was only one way: to crawl onwards, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the dark.
He swallowed hard, his mouth and throat so parched they hurt. His hand brushed against the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead—it no longer burned as before, but tingled with a strange, electric sensation.
But as he pressed on with hesitant steps, the place around him seemed to change, becoming ever more stifling. The jagged stone walls appeared to lean in upon him, as though they meant to crush him, and the darkness thickened at every step, turning almost tangible. An icy chill, which had nothing to do with the damp, crept up his spine, making him shiver.
With every faltering step Harry felt more watched, more exposed, more unprotected.
Invisible eyes seemed to peer at him from the shadows. A raw, primal urge to run, to escape that place, welled up inside him.
Looking back.
Nothing.
There was nothing there, only that nagging paranoia of being hunted. Someone was watching him, but Harry couldn’t tell where from, or how.
He only knew he had to get out.
But his feet refused to obey, dragging, slow and heavy, as though bound to the ground by unseen chains. Panic swelled in his chest, a ball of ice expanding, choking. It was as though he no longer had full control of his body, as though trapped in a nightmare he could not wake from.
Suddenly, a cold, cutting laugh rang out, echoing from every side and from nowhere all at once, filling the tunnel with its cruelty.
“There’s no point running, Harry Potter…”
Whispered the smooth, icy voice of Tom Riddle, hanging in the air like poison.
“We’re not finished yet...”
Harry choked, feeling an invisible pressure tighten round his throat, cutting off his breath.
What little oxygen remained seemed to flee the place. His head reeled violently, the world around him spinning into a whirlpool of shadows and terror. With every passing second, the tunnel grew narrower, darker, more suffocating. The walls now seemed to breathe, closing in on him...
“Harry... Harry!”
The voice was different. Sharper, familiar, filled with genuine concern.
Suddenly, he woke with a jolt, his green eyes flying open in the gloom, his chest heaving, breathless, as though he had just escaped a labyrinth of nightmares. Cold sweat clung to his brow and the echo of that malignant laugh still buzzed in his ears, but the darkness around him was now the familiar, safe darkness of the Gryffindor common room.
He was lying on the worn rug near the fireplace, where he had been sitting earlier, now collapsed like a rag doll.
Hermione was kneeling at his side, holding him firmly by the shoulders, her face pale and full of intense worry.
She still wore her school uniform, but without the jumper and robes, revealing the white shirt beneath, crumpled from the day. The collar was loosened, and the scarlet-and-gold tie hung slack about her neck, as though yanked in haste.
Beside her, Ron and Neville—both in pyjamas, one patterned with dragons, the other with polka dots, both with tousled hair—stared at him in alarm, along with Percy, who, in his dressing-gown and with his wand lit by Lumos to cast more light, looked deeply unsettled to see him in such a state.
Harry was drenched in cold sweat, his hands trembled faintly and his whole body shivered.
“It was only a nightmare,” said Hermione, trying to calm him, rubbing his arm in an attempt to comfort. “Just a nightmare...”
“What happened, mate?” asked Ron, crouching beside him, his freckled face lit with worry. “Looks like you’ve seen a Grim.”
Harry opened his mouth, but it took him a moment to gather his thoughts and shape words.
“Bad... really bad...” was all he managed to murmur, his voice hoarse and odd, as though his throat were coated in sand.
“I’ll take him to the hospital wing. You lot, back to bed,” said Percy, his voice laden with fragile authority, trying to regain control of the situation.
“No, no. I can’t, not there,” Harry stammered, his mind still muddled and caught in the remnants of terror. “Dumbledore... need to talk... the diary... talk to—”
“Don’t even think of it! Seeing the Headmaster at this hour?” Percy frowned as though the suggestion were a criminal offence. “You’re going to the hospital wing, Harry. Just look at you—you’re shaking!”
“He needs to see the Headmaster,” Ron cut in sharply, his voice firmer than usual. “Dumbledore said if he needed anything, he should go to him. Straight away.”
Percy pressed his lips together and adjusted his glasses, clearly torn between the rules and the urgency in his brother’s face.
“He can very well do that tomorrow morning,” he argued, still flustered. “Now’s not the time—”
“For once in your bloody life, don’t argue, Percy!” Ron cut in sharply, his ears going red. “And I’m not leaving him on his own! Now, are you helping or not?”
Percy’s brows shot up, slightly taken aback by his younger brother’s ferocity, but he had no chance to reply before Ron pulled one of Harry’s arms over his shoulder, hauling him up with determination.
“Come on, mate,” Ron urged. “Can you stand or d’you need more help?”
“Yeah... let me hold on.” Harry answered, leaning against him, one hand pressed to his head, the world still spinning.
Percy hesitated a moment, his face caught between duty and brotherhood, before sighing deeply.
“All right,” he conceded, his voice softer. “I’ll take you.”
“Come on, Harry,” said Neville, quickly moving to his other side, offering support. “Hold on to my shoulder—careful not to trip. Someone get the diary?”
With effort, Harry got to his feet, his legs still wobbly as jelly. He still trembled, but leaning on Neville and Ron helped him keep a precarious balance.
Tom Riddle’s diary still lay on the rug, looking like nothing more than an old, black, worn-covered book.
But now, to Harry, it seemed to exude a dark, sinister aura, foul as rotting flesh and as frightening as the horror tales Aunt Petunia used to whisper to terrify him into silence when he cried at night, so as not to attract the monsters she described.
Harry shuddered at the sight of the diary lying there, harmless yet deadly.
“I’ll take it,” said Percy, bending to pick it up.
Harry caught his arm and gripped with surprising force, enough to make him pause.
“No... don’t open it...” he said, his voice still dazed and weary, yet heavy with urgent warning.
“I wouldn’t open my sister’s diary,” Percy replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, faintly offended.
“Just don’t,” Harry insisted, lifting his gaze to meet Percy’s with a seriousness that chilled the air. “Promise me.”
Percy blanched slightly at the intensity of the request.
“Of course, I won’t,” he said, swallowing hard and taking the diary by its corners, as though it were hot.
Without delay, the five of them left the common room and entered the shadowed corridors.
Hermione and Percy led the way, Lumos glowing at the tips of their raised wands, casting beams of light that danced upon the stone walls. They didn’t bother with stealth—the urgency was palpable, they only wished to reach the Headmaster’s office as swiftly as possible.
Harry still staggered faintly, as though dizzy, the world around him swaying sickeningly. He heard them speaking low to one another, but the words sounded muffled, distant, as though reaching him through a dense fog.
From what he could make out amidst the buzzing in his mind, Hermione had realised he was acting oddly when he’d brought the diary earlier, and had decided to wait to check on him in the common room. She was the one who had found him first, collapsed and silently convulsing on the rug.
Eventually, they passed an Auror in dark robes patrolling the corridors.
Harry didn’t catch exactly what Percy said to convince him to let them through to the Headmaster, but whatever it was—perhaps a mention of “Dumbledore’s direct order” or simply the name “Harry Potter”—it worked.
The Auror cast a suspicious, piercing look at the group—particularly at Harry, who looked visibly sick and shaken—but, without much fuss, agreed to escort them to the great, ugly stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s office in the west tower.
“Who goes there?” asked the gargoyle, leaning down to peer at them with its stone eyes.
It rarely spoke, but without the password this was its only way of addressing nocturnal visitors.
Percy stepped forward, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.
“Percy Weasley, Prefect, accompanying Harry Potter and his friends. He needs immediate assistance from Professor Dumbledore—it is extremely urgent.”
The gargoyle remained silent for a moment, muttering in a deep, gravelly tone, before the passage slid open.
“The Headmaster awaits you.”
The Auror waited outside as the rest of the group climbed the long spiral staircase.
Getting Harry up all those steps was no easy task, but even Neville—the roundest and least athletic of them—showed no sign of weariness. The adrenaline of seeing his friend in that state kept him utterly alert.
As the door to the office opened, Fawkes gave a loud cry, heralding their arrival, and they saw Dumbledore standing with his back to them, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out of the window.
The nearby fire crackled softly. He wore a long, dark blue robe scattered with yellow stars and a matching nightcap. On his feet were woollen socks and worn slippers. His pyjamas, without doubt.
As decoration, above the fireplace hung proudly the gleaming sword of Godric Gryffindor, silver-bright, its hilt and cross-guard studded with small rubies.
When he turned to face them, his eyes narrowed in concern at the sight of Harry supported by his friends, though the boy was already managing to stand on his own.
Percy was first to speak, visibly nervous. He rubbed his hands together restlessly.
“Headmaster, I’m sorry to wake you at this hour, but—”
Dumbledore raised a hand, cutting him off.
“Seat him in that armchair, if you please,” he said, gesturing. “No need for explanations, Mr Weasley.”
Percy and Neville helped Harry into the armchair before the fire. He still felt woozy, his mind dulled, swaying despite his efforts to steady himself.
Dumbledore approached and, with fluid movements of his wand, began murmuring diagnostic spells.
Hermione recognised some of them—they were similar to those she had memorised Madame Pomfrey whispering when she needed to check her health or Harry’s.
After a moment, the Headmaster’s eyes glimmered faintly with relief. Without a word, he crossed to a glass cabinet filled with vials of every shape and colour.
“Is he all right?” Hermione asked, her voice taut. Her hands twisted the hem of her shirt nervously, creasing it further.
“Yes, he is,” Dumbledore answered calmly. “What he needs most now is rest. That is all. He has only suffered a shock of adrenaline and a fainting fit.”
Hermione, Neville and Ron breathed sighs of relief. Percy, however, remained silent, watching the scene from a distance.
“But he still looks awful,” Neville pointed out, noticing his vacant stare.
“The effects are temporary,” said Dumbledore, while examining the labels on the bottles. “From what I can deduce, he has been through something that drained him deeply.”
Harry remained silent. The memory of what he had seen in the diary tormented him. It was easier not to speak.
Dumbledore, still inspecting the potions, smiled faintly.
“I see I’m not quite so rusty at diagnostic spells after all.” The Headmaster picked up a small vial and held it against the light. “I only hope I shan’t have to relearn Potions, or Professor Snape will be dreadfully cross with me.”
It was clearly a joke.
Albus Dumbledore was renowned as an accomplished alchemist and Potions Master—he hadn’t discovered twelve uses for dragon’s blood by chance.
“An Invigoration Draught and a relaxant should be enough—now, where did I leave the relaxant? Ah, here.”
The Headmaster poured both into a goblet and mixed them, releasing a small, controlled puff of purple smoke inside the cup.
“Here you are, Harry,” he said, handing him the solution. “It will help you recover your strength.”
Harry drank it down in three gulps.
The effect was almost immediate: his mind cleared, his muscles loosened and the fatigue began to ebb away. He felt calmer, though still troubled.
With a smooth gesture of his wand, Dumbledore conjured four comfortable chairs, which arranged themselves silently opposite his armchairs, allowing everyone to sit.
He himself took a seat in one of the armchairs beside Harry, long fingers entwined upon his lap as his piercing blue eyes rested serenely on the four young people.
“He will need some time to recover fully,” said the Headmaster, his voice calm as a still lake. “But now, do be so kind as to tell me what happened. Begin at the start.”
Hermione cast an anxious glance at the Headmaster, swallowing hard before she began.
“I found him in the common room,” she started, her hands still trembling slightly. “He was lying on the floor, near the fireplace, convulsing. I tried to wake him and even shook him, but nothing worked. So I ran to the boys’ dormitory and asked Neville and Ron for help. While Neville helped me hold Harry, Ron went to fetch Percy.”
“We both tried everything,” Neville added, shrugging helplessly. “We managed to stop him shaking, at least, but we couldn’t bring him back, Professor. He was trapped in something.”
Harry was far away, barely hearing the conversation, while Dumbledore kept his attention fixed on each of the students before turning his gaze to Percy, who straightened under the scrutiny.
“I wanted to take him to the hospital wing, Professor,” Percy explained, hesitant, his formal tone not quite masking his concern. “But they insisted most vehemently on bringing him to you. Harry said something about this diary... it’s my sister’s, but... well, I confess I didn’t understand the connection or the urgency.”
He pulled the black diary from within his dressing-gown.
Dumbledore nodded slowly, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.
“I understand perfectly.”
Percy looked away for a moment, as though afraid he might be in trouble for having disobeyed protocol, but Dumbledore’s gentle smile reassured him at once.
“You did absolutely the right thing in bringing them here, Mr Weasley. Well done,” he said, and the red-haired boy visibly relaxed, his shoulders losing their stiffness.
Harry, meanwhile, kept his eyes fixed on the dancing flames of the fire. Everything he had seen and felt still whirled in his mind like a storm.
That... what he had been through, what he had seen—had it been real?
Did Tom Riddle truly exist within those pages? Or had it all been nothing more than a fevered delusion? Was the diary truly empty, or had he simply not had the courage to open it and check for himself?
“Are you feeling better, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, his soft voice breaking the heavy silence.
“Hmm?” Harry blinked, somewhat dazed, as if pulled back from far away. “Yeah... a bit. Sorry, I was just thinking.”
His friends exchanged puzzled glances.
Harry finally turned back to Dumbledore, who was watching him with an expression of silent, profound expectation.
The Headmaster seemed to be asking with his eyes whether his darkest suspicion was correct.
Harry gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“The diary, Percy,” he said, his voice still hoarse with strain. “I… I need you to hand it to me.”
“Ginny’s diary?” Percy frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. “Well... with all due respect, Headmaster, giving away my sister’s personal diary just like that...”
Harry shook his head violently, a new surge of agitation taking hold of him.
“N-no—it’s not hers—it never was!” His voice came out louder and more desperate than he had intended, and everyone in the room seemed to stiffen a little at the outburst.
He blinked, startled by his own reaction, then turned his eyes back to the fire, ashamed.
Percy hesitated a moment, clearly conflicted, before casting a glance at Dumbledore, searching for guidance and certainty.
The Headmaster nodded calmly, his face grave.
Sighing, Percy withdrew the diary from his cloak and held it out to Harry.
Harry snatched it up as though the object were made of red-hot iron and, in an almost instinctive gesture of revulsion, dropped it at once onto the oak desk, avoiding looking at it for more than a second.
Dumbledore observed Harry’s visceral reaction with keen attention, then turned back to Percy with a serene yet final look.
“Mr Weasley,” he said, “I am most grateful to you for bringing your schoolmates here. You have carried out your duty most admirably. Now, you may return to the common room. I shall take care of the rest.”
Percy glanced at Ron, Hermione and Neville, still visibly lost with the half-told story, before giving a formal nod and rising to his feet.
“Of course, Professor,” he said in a polished, professional tone. “If you require anything further, you know you can call on me.”
“Oh, and do ask the Auror to accompany you back to Gryffindor Tower, won’t you? I don’t want any of you wandering the corridors alone at this hour of the night.”
“Yes, sir,” Percy replied, leaving the office with his usual upright bearing, almost marching.
As the heavy door closed with a soft click, Dumbledore turned back to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville, his expression now decidedly more serious and intent.
“Now that we have a little more privacy,” he said calmly, “could you tell me what really happened, Harry?”
Neville hesitated, his fingers entwined in his lap, before leaning forward slightly.
“Professor, before that, do you... do you want us to leave as well?” he asked softly, politely. “I mean... if it’s a problem, us being here...”
Dumbledore smiled, a glimmer of kindness in his eyes.
“No problem at all, Mr Longbottom. In fact, I rather think Harry, in his usual generosity, will end up telling you everything later anyway. So why don’t we hear it together?”
Neville, Hermione and Ron exchanged glances, nodding with some relief, though still uneasy. It was true, after all. They were a group, for better or worse.
They waited for Harry to begin.
He wetted his dry lips, not looking at anyone, his eyes still fixed on the orange flames.
“I... he—I mean—the diary wasn’t Ginny’s. It never was,” Harry began, hesitant, weighing each word with care. He paused for a moment, sighing deeply and rubbing at his tired eyes. “I don’t know what came over me... The diary—Nev and I found it in the loo—it... it called to me.”
“Called to you?” Dumbledore queried, his fingers forming a triangular tower beneath his chin, wholly focused.
“Yes.” Harry nodded, swallowing hard. “It was like some force... I don’t know, maybe a pull, drew me to it, like I had to take it and not let anyone else touch it.”
“I noticed you were acting oddly after you came back with it... I was worried. You’ve never behaved like that, not over something like this,” Hermione said softly, as though afraid of breaking his train of thought.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, as if ashamed.
“Sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me, but... I waited until everyone was asleep to... to read it.” His voice was thick with shame. “For some reason, I had to open it—but I didn’t want to see anything of Ginny’s! I’m not a sneak, I swear, I—”
“Relax, mate, no one here’s going to judge you for it,” said Ron, his voice a little rough, but loyal as ever.
Harry exhaled, looking somewhat relieved.
“When I was alone, I opened the diary. It was empty, completely blank. I thought it was odd at first, but then... then I felt this irresistible urge to write in it. And then... then it spoke to me.”
“The diary spoke to you?” repeated Dumbledore, his voice still gentle, but now charged with a sharpened attention.
“I thought it was just an enchanted diary, you know, like the ones that reply with silly answers. The twins had one of those for pranks, and I thought it was something like that too.” Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, frustrated. “But... when I kept talking, it told me it knew me because Ginny had written about me. It told me who it was, that it knew who the Heir of Slytherin was, who committed all the attacks more than fifty years ago. The owner’s name was Tom Riddle.”
As Harry spoke the name, a subtle but perceptible change came over Dumbledore’s expression. His serene calm gave way to something darker, deeper, more concerned. His blue eyes fixed on the innocuous diary upon the desk with an intense, indecipherable gleam.
“Tom Riddle... Tom Riddle... That name rings a bell...” Ron scratched his head, face scrunched in concentration. “I think… I think I’ve seen that name somewhere—Oh! Right! I was cleaning the trophy room because of that detention for the fight in the clock tower. Peeves thought it hilarious to mess about with his Special Award for Services to the School—that git—sorry, Professor.”
“Oh, for Peeves that's entirely acceptable.” Dumbledore gestured with his hand.
“He chucked it all in a tin of paint and I had to spend the whole day polishing.” Ron continued explaining “If I remember rightly, wasn’t he the one who caught the student who opened the Chamber of Secrets back then?”
Harry shook his head, his face pale and grave.
“No, Ron... He was the one who opened it.” Harry’s look was haunted. “He is the Heir of Slytherin.”
All—except Dumbledore—gaped in absolute shock.
Ron’s jaw dropped so far it nearly hit his chest. Neville went as white as a ghost, eyes wide with terror. Hermione swallowed so loudly the sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence of the room.
“And what else happened?” Dumbledore asked, his voice soft but laden with a gravity that made the very air in the office seem heavier.
Harry explained what he had seen, what he had endured.
He described how he had been pulled into the diary, every vivid and disturbing detail of that dreamlike experience which hadn’t felt like a simple dream.
He spoke when he saw Dumbledore talking to former Headmaster Armando Dippet about closing the school, the same words from the entire conversation, with Dumbledore confirming that it existed, of Hagrid's innocence, of Tom Riddle's icy fury when his true nature was discovered.
And then, in a voice that was scarcely more than a hoarse whisper, he finished with Riddle’s final, threatening words.
“He ended by saying we’d be spending a lot of time together,” concluded Harry, his voice ragged and low.
Dumbledore remained silent throughout, yet his countenance seemed to have aged several years as he listened. His eyes reflected distant memories, as though reliving it all once more.
“So that’s why Ginny’s been so disturbed?” Ron asked, his voice thick with worry.
“He said she spoke a lot about me... she must have talked to him every time she was writing in the diary,” Harry replied, avoiding Ron’s gaze.
“Merlin’s beard...” Ron pressed a hand to his forehead, pale. He was truly worried for his sister now.
“Is... is everything Harry said true? Did this... did this really happen, Professor?” Neville asked, hesitant, his voice trembling slightly.
Dumbledore sighed under the weight of years and nodded.
“Yes. Hagrid was considered guilty, whilst Tom was lauded as the hero who ‘captured’ the culprit. Aragog escaped and was never seen again, but that was enough to incriminate him.”
And then everything clicked in the minds of the friends. That was why Hagrid never liked to speak of the Chamber of Secrets.
“And the diary, Professor?” Hermione asked in a low voice, almost reverent toward the Headmaster, her eyes fixed on the dark object upon the desk. “How did it manage to do that to Harry?”
Dumbledore regarded the diary with intense gravity.
“I fear it is an object of very powerful, ancient Dark magic, Miss Granger,” he said, his voice low and grave. “So potent and malevolent that I prefer not to speculate aloud what sort of ritual or sacrifice was required to imbue it with such malice.”
A shiver ran simultaneously down everyone’s spines, as if a door to a dark world had opened before them.
“I shall confiscate and investigate the diary personally,” Dumbledore continued, his voice regaining firm calm. “I shall also discreetly request that the professors and Aurors keep watch over Miss Weasley from now on, should they perceive she requires assistance. But,” and here his voice became incisive, “I ask that you maintain complete and absolute secrecy regarding what has been discussed here tonight. If any information about the true nature of this object leaks, I deeply fear the consequences.”
A heavy, tense silence fell over the room. No one needed to ask how terrible those consequences might be.
“That includes,” Dumbledore added, his gaze sweeping across every face, “any comment on the matter to Miss Weasley herself, at least for now. Is that understood?”
They nodded immediately, their expressions serious. Dumbledore was rarely so direct and unequivocal, and his severity was more than sufficient to ensure absolute compliance.
“May I ask a question, sir?” Harry said hesitantly, breaking the silence.
Dumbledore nodded, his gaze softening as he turned to Harry.
“Proceed, Harry.”
“What happened to Tom Riddle? I mean, after he left Hogwarts?”
The Headmaster remained silent for a long moment, his eyes losing focus as he watched the dancing flames in the fireplace, as though reading answers in the flickering blaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with a shadow of sadness and caution.
“He became a Dark wizard,” he replied simply, yet the words echoed with terrible weight in the silent room. “One of the cruelest the world has ever seen. Wicked enough to cause untold suffering to countless innocent people, good people.”
A collective shiver passed through the group. Harry swallowed hard, trying to comprehend how someone who had once walked these very corridors could sink into such evil.
“But do not worry, Harry,” the Headmaster said, and a small, yet genuine, smile appeared on his lips, momentarily dispelling the darkness. “If you need anything, I shall be here. And I repeat: should anything untoward occur again, come to me. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, his voice a little firmer.
“Now,” said Dumbledore, rising with the effort age demanded, “it is very late, and past your bedtime. I shall escort you personally to the common room. Tomorrow will be a long day, and we require all of you rested. I think you are already aware that Professor Sprout is not particularly forgiving of sleepy students in her lessons.”
As they walked through the dark, silent corridors, lit only by the silver moonlight filtering through the tall windows and the strong Lumos on the Headmaster’s peculiar wand—long with little bulbs on the handle—Dumbledore began recounting amusing tales from his own youth at Hogwarts, a clear effort to dissipate the heavy mood surrounding them.
He told of the time he attempted to create a sweet that changed the colour of whoever ate it, but the spell went terribly awry, leaving his Herbology professor with permanently purple skin and exuding a strong lavender scent for an entire week. The incident caused complete chaos in the greenhouses, as the Mandrakes apparently detested the smell of lavender and panicked whenever the poor professor approached, breaking their pots in desperate flight, which resulted in shattered glass and several faintings. As punishment, Dumbledore had to clean all the greenhouses without magic for a week, but in the end, he recounted with a mischievous smile, the professor even came to enjoy the new scent.
The stories drew genuine, albeit muffled, laughter from the four friends, relieving somewhat the tension that weighed on their shoulders.
Dumbledore, with his characteristic wisdom, did not want those children to end the night bearing only the burden of recent tumult and such a dark secret.
But later, lying in his bed with the curtains drawn, Harry took a long time to fall asleep, forcing himself to listen to Ron’s rhythmic snores and the occasional snoring of Seamus Finnigan.
He briefly thought that perhaps Dumbledore had given him a particularly strong dose of the sweet potion to keep him awake, but he knew, deep down, that was not the case. Something far deeper troubled him, a disquieting thought rooting itself in his mind, a fear he could not name.
He would never admit it aloud, not even under torture, but at that late hour of the night, he wished for something tangible to hold onto, something comforting.
A stuffed animal, perhaps, like the little lion—Aslan—that Hermione had. Something to make him feel safe within his own imagined world, as children supposedly ought to.
Instead, he shut his eyes tightly, drew the blankets up to his chin, and firmly convinced himself that the dark red velvet canopy of his bed would protect him from any evil that might be lurking.
Even though, deep in his heart, he knew with a cold certainty that it was not quite so. That some evil could penetrate even the thickest of barriers.
After that night, he knew it was true.
Harry slept restlessly and in fragments that night.
His dreams were not exactly vivid nightmares, like those in which he saw his mother die followed by a blinding green light, but there was something deeply unsettling about them, a subtle unease that seeped into his slumbering mind.
He felt watched—not by a specific, identifiable presence, but by something diffuse and intangible, as though a formless shadow lurked everywhere and nowhere at once.
It was an omnipresent and oppressive sensation.
At some point in his sleep, he began to flee within the dream, running through corridors that twisted and shifted, yet the sense of being observed did not dissipate, no matter which dead-end he dragged himself into. When he finally awoke, long after dawn, his body ached and he carried a persistent fatigue, heavy like a leaden cloak over his bones.
At the breakfast table in the Great Hall, the atmosphere among the four friends was silent and restrained.
None of them seemed willing to speak of the tumultuous events of the previous night, not with so many curious ears and prying eyes watching from the surrounding tables.
Harry methodically focused on spreading butter on his toast and shoving it into his mouth with sips of piping hot black tea with milk, preferring something less sweet than pumpkin juice and milder than the strong coffee some of the older students drank—some with dark circles under their eyes, trying not to think of the OWLs and NEWTs looming ever closer.
Hermione, as always, hid behind the safe barrier of a book, immersed in a treatise on Arithmancy as complex as the German author’s name. While making intricate mathematical notes on a parchment, she nibbled at her breakfast almost mechanically, without really paying attention to what she ate.
Neville, on the other hand, tried to relieve the invisible tension with sweets—which, in his case, meant devouring two creamy milk puddings at once. From time to time, he cast furtive, worried glances at Harry, as if to ensure he was still there, safe and sound.
Ron, meanwhile, devoured a full English breakfast—eggs, toast, bacon, sausages, beans, and tomatoes—while keeping his gaze firmly fixed on his sister. He swallowed the food with restrained frustration, powerless to help her, gripping his glass of pumpkin juice as though the gesture could somehow dispel the cloud of worry surrounding him.
Later, in Herbology class, inside Greenhouse Three, while waiting for Professor Sprout, they huddled in a secluded corner among ill-tempered Mandrakes, finally free to speak of the elephant in the room—or, in this case, the Erumpent in a teashop.
“Could he be here at school, hiding somewhere?” Neville suggested, his voice tense and lower than usual.
“Or disguised with Polyjuice Potion,” Hermione added, her eyes quickly scanning the surroundings before settling on the group. “Someone who’s already here but isn’t who they claim to be.”
“Or there could be another heir of Salazar Slytherin trying to finish his work,” Harry murmured, his eyes dark. “And there’s still the matter of the monster… whatever it is.”
Hermione furrowed her brow and bit her lip, thoughtful, her mind working at an almost visible speed.
“If you can hear it, Harry, but no one else does… maybe it’s some kind of serpent. Or something that speaks Parseltongue.”
“Or a dragon,” Ron suggested, shrugging. “I mean, Harry talks to them too.”
Harry sighed, rubbing the scar on his forehead, which tingled slightly.
“Look, I doubt a dragon could roam the corridors unnoticed, Ron,” he replied uncertainly. “I mean, there are smaller species, that could fit in the hallway, like the Common Welsh Green, but still, it doesn’t match the description Peeves gave.”
“But it’s a possibility, even if a small one, mate,” Ron insisted, defending his point. “Charlie keeps talking about loads of strange species they find in the reserve; maybe one of them is this thing. If I saw one in front of me, I’d probably freeze on the spot.”
“But dragons don’t petrify people, Ron—that’s the point,” Hermione explained with the patience of someone dealing with a particularly stubborn creature. “They eat them or char them. It’s a crucial difference.”
“Yeah, Ron.” Harry patted his friend consolingly on the shoulder. “You’re more likely to soil your trousers than be paralysed with fear.”
Ron let out a graceless snort of indignation.
“Ha-ha, very funny”
“I found it funny…” Neville murmured, and when Ron gave him a light poke on the shoulder, he merely smiled faintly.
As they talked, Harry glanced at the green-frosted glass wall of the greenhouse and had the distinct, chilling impression of seeing a strange, distorted shadow on the other side, as if someone was watching them.
He blinked, and the figure vanished so quickly he wondered if it had been merely a reflection of the plants moving.
A shiver ran down his spine, but he decided to ignore it, attributing the sensation to frayed nerves, and returned his attention to the conversation.
“I must be going mad…” he thought, resigned, as Professor Sprout finally entered the greenhouse, bringing the scent of damp earth and a new batch of plants for the lesson.
The professor clapped her hands to command attention.
“Alright, everyone, pay attention!” she said, frowning at a nearby student. “Mr. Crabbe, stop trying to feed the carnivorous plant biscuits! It eats insects and livestock, not flour!—Thank you. Now, today you’ll be working outside the greenhouses again. I want to see if you can prune the Shrivelfigs correctly. Scissors in hand and aprons on, pair up at once. Let’s go, no dawdling!”
The students hurried to fetch their equipment, and Harry, almost by inertia, followed Neville to the outdoor beds, while Hermione joined Ron.
The redhead managed to make her laugh about how he and the twins had made Bill “accidentally” eat a Shrivelfig when they were younger, turning his skin purple to distract from that tense conversation about the Heir.
Despite attempting to appear normal, Harry constantly scanned the surroundings, his eyes moving over the edges of the Forbidden Forest and distant castle windows, never truly focusing on the task. His mind was clearly stuck on what had happened with the cursed diary, and a cold weight persisted in the pit of his stomach.
At one point, Harry sighed deeply and wiped the sweat from his brow with his robe sleeve, looking at the weak, yellowish sun struggling through the clouds. His eyes then fell on the tall windows of the North Tower, and he had the distinct and chilling certainty that he had seen someone watching from an open window, a distant, motionless figure.
When he blinked, the figure had vanished again. Harry shook his head, attributing the sight to exhaustion and paranoia, forcing himself to focus on pruning his Shrivelfig.
Neville, noticing his friend’s troubled behaviour and dark gaze, and anxious to avoid any heavier conversation, decided to speak of the only subject that always comforted him:
Plants.
“…That’s why the Shrivelfig flowers grow inside the fruit. Everything’s purple, as you can see. Ah, and it has medicinal properties too, didn’t I tell you that?”
“You did,” Harry sighed. “About three times just this lesson.”
Neville cleared his throat, a little awkwardly.
“Ah… sorry.”
Harry shook his head as he cut the withered stalks of his Shrivelfig.
“No, I’m the one being a terrible friend right now… I know you’re just trying to ease the mood, but it’s hard to get it out of my head. Just…”
“No need to explain, I understand,” said Neville kindly. “Just don’t cut too close to the root, it’s sensitive and will hurt it.”
Harry gave a corner-of-the-mouth smile, trying to put aside the bad thoughts.
“Plants have feelings?” he asked, amused.
Neville let out a chuckle.
“Some do, actually. If you swear at them, they get angry, and others wilt.”
Professor Sprout looked around and saw that two students still had no Shrivelfigs to prune.
“Mr. Macmillan and Miss Abbott, you can assist Mr. Potter and Mr. Longbottom,” she ordered.
Harry and Neville exchanged glances and sighed.
Of course, of all the groups, you have to put Hufflepuffs who would like to see them both dead in a ditch.
Obviously, Harry couldn't have come up with a better alternative.
“Bloody professor's mania for forcing people to make up.” Harry thought, stressed. “Thank Merlin they didn't ask me to give Malfoy a hug or a handshake after I turned his face into a pus-filled volcano.”
Not that they were resentful, but it was hard to forget that Hannah Abbott had helped spread rumours about Harry being the Heir of Slytherin, talking nonsense in the hallways, while Ernie Macmillan had even pointed his wand at the two, certain they were behind the attacks.
In fact, after Justin Finch-Fletchley’s petrification, their relationship with Hufflepuff had soured completely.
They exchanged brief greetings and said no more. The atmosphere among the four remained uncomfortably tense.
As Harry resumed pruning his Shrivelfig, Neville nudged his shoulder and pointed at Ron. He was staring, disgusted, at a bunch of small spiders marching out of an open window towards the Forbidden Forest.
“Why does it have to be spiders?” Ron muttered, stepping back a little.
“The spiders are acting odd this year,” Neville commented in a low voice. “Seems like they’re fleeing, don’t they?”
Harry frowned.
“Could… could they be heading to Aragog?” he asked in a low voice. “I remember Acromantulas attract spiders.”
“Perhaps.” Neville shrugged. “But I definitely don’t want to follow to find out. And I imagine Ron doesn’t either.”
“Ron definitely not.”
As they whispered among themselves, Ernie and Hannah exchanged quick glances. They were even more convinced that Harry and Neville were odd.
Later, in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor Lockhart, instead of teaching anything remotely useful for defending against real threats, lingered on excessive and theatrical details about how he supposedly defeated a Yeti in the Himalayas.
“…and then, with a single, well-aimed Stunning Spell to the monster’s belly,” he continued, gesturing dramatically with his wand, “the Yeti staggered for a moment before collapsing like a sack of stones! Precision is everything, children! A centimetre to the left and I would have hit its liver, notoriously less effective against…”
Hermione, listening with growing frustration, furrowed her brow and raised her hand with determination.
“Ah, Miss Granger!” Lockhart smiled with his usual confidence, strutting slowly in front of the class like a peacock. “I believe you are marvelled and doubtful as to how I executed that acrobatic leap over the Yeti? Well, allow me to illustrate—Potter, please, could you—”
“Actually, no, Professor,” she interrupted, polite but firm. “I would like to ask a question regarding the efficacy of the spell.”
Lockhart cleared his throat, losing a thread of his rehearsed composure.
“Very well, ask!” he made a wide, dramatic gesture with one hand, while the other rested on his hip, posing for an invisible audience.
“You said you used a Stupefy, but yetis are immune to Stunning Spells,” Hermione declared with the firmness of one citing a times table. “According to Magical Immunities of Asian Creatures, Volume I, by Professor Mordicus Egg, the combination of their extremely thick skin—which can reach fifteen centimetres—and their unique metabolism makes them completely resistant to this type of magic.”
She paused strategically before delivering the final blow, using her book for reference.
“Indeed, on page 893, chapter 48, Egg specifies that even Bandon’s Advanced Stunning Spell is ineffective against adult yetis. Surely you did not perhaps confuse it with a juvenile yeti? Those under three years old have not yet developed full immunity. In that case, they would only be around five feet tall, not four metres.”
The entire room fell silent. All eyes turned expectantly to Lockhart. When Hermione cited page and author, she was rarely—indeed, never—wrong.
Lockhart loosened the collar of his lilac robe slightly and forced another smile, a little more tense.
“Well! There must have been a small… simplification in my narrative for pedagogical purposes! Perhaps it was a… Reducto!” he announced quickly, as if he had just had a stroke of genius. “Yes, exactly! It was a Reducto I used first! The Yeti tried to dodge, of course—”
“But, Professor,” Hermione intervened gently, “in chapter eight of your book, you specifically describe how Stupefy was crucial for the victory. And in the 1989 interview with The Daily Prophet, you reiterated it was ‘a simple, well-aimed Stunning Spell’.”
She tilted her head, an expression of genuine academic curiosity that was more devastating than any accusation.
“Could you clarify which version is correct? Because both cannot be true at the same time, unless the laws of magic differ in the Himalayas—which, according to Egg, they do not.”
The silence that followed was so thick one could hear the hum of the floating candles.
Lockhart opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking like a fish out of water—a very tanned fish being fried, with exceedingly white teeth.
“Ah, well, that’s what happens when you entrust your notes to a ghost writer! The lad must have misread my handwriting... well, these things happen!” he exclaimed at last, clapping his hands with sudden vigour. “Now, who wants to hear about the time I defeated the Wapping Werewolf with nothing but a wooden spoon?”
The abrupt change of subject was so transparent that everyone realised Lockhart had been caught in his own lie—and by a thirteen-year-old pupil.
Harry raised his eyebrows, impressed by Hermione’s deadly accuracy.
Beside him, Ron began to grin slowly, a wide, delighted grin spreading across his face as he savoured Lockhart’s increasingly flustered, sweaty expression.
Even Draco Malfoy, on the far side of the classroom, seemed secretly entertained to see the conceited professor caught in his own web of tall tales—even if it was by a Muggle-born, who, in his opinion, didn’t even deserve the right to be in that lesson, much less open her mouth to say anything.
Ron gave Hermione a discreet thumbs-up, while Neville smiled proudly.
She rolled her eyes, exasperated at them both.
Hermione raised her hand again, ready to point out the next contradiction, but Lockhart ignored her completely, turning his back on her and resuming his story with renewed vigour, as though the interruption had never occurred.
Huffing with frustration, she leaned closer to Harry, her face flushed red with contained indignation.
“He spent three interviews saying he wrote every word of his own books, and now he’s got a ghost writer?” she whispered, her voice a furious hiss.
“I thought you liked him...” Harry murmured, trying to disguise a smile.
“I like him when he doesn’t lie blatantly and doesn’t teach dangerously wrong information in the middle of class!” she fumed in a furious whisper.
“Wow... congratulations,” he said, pretending to clap silently. “You’ve just joined our official ‘Lockhart’s-a-git’ club—what took you so long?”
Hermione poked him furtively in the shoulder with her elbow, and he saw her cheeks flush with frustration, her brow furrowed as she looked visibly sulky.
“Shut up,” she muttered, lowering her head over her parchment.
Harry only smiled, a genuine smile for the first time that day, and peered at her notes. Out of the corner of his eye, he managed to read a freshly scribbled list in furious handwriting that made her look dangerously determined:
Review EVERY book. Note EVERY factual error. Cross-reference with the Library.
He couldn’t feel a twinge of anything but pure pride.
Perhaps, just perhaps, she had finally opened her eyes about the real Gilderoy Lockhart, and his “good looks”—as she liked to put it, to Harry’s, Ron’s and Neville’s disgust—hadn’t blinded her quite so much after all.
By the end of the day, the four friends were utterly exhausted.
The heavy routine of lessons and constant tension was beginning to take its toll, especially since they’d gone to bed late the night before after the diary incident.
“I’d said there’d be a game of Hero Path today...” Neville sighed, dragging his feet. “Forget it, my head’s turned to porridge. I won’t manage a scrap of strategy.”
Ron shifted the heavy bag of books on his shoulders with visible effort.
“Reckon if we manage to get to bed earlier tonight, we’re already ahead. My eyelids feel heavier than goblin gold.”
“Preferably before you start sawing wood,” Harry remarked, with a tired half-smile.
“Yeah, sorry, mate, but you snore louder than a dragon with a cold,” Neville agreed, yawning.
“Oi! Not my fault!” Ron protested, his ears going slightly pink. “Mum always said it’s down to my tonsils!”
“Sometimes I’m thankful I sleep on the other side of the tower,” Hermione said, stretching and yawning so wide her jaw looked as though it might come loose. “Blast, if I try meditating tonight, I’ll end up falling asleep halfway through. I don’t want to break my routine... I’m already two months and three nights without missing a single session.”
“Can’t believe you lot still do that,” Ron grumbled, shaking his head. “Meditating to ‘feel auras’? Honestly? Sounds like Auntie Muriel...”
“Must be your fault, then, that I’m thinking of skipping meditation tonight,” Hermione retorted, poking him with her elbow. “I reckon your lazy aura is contagious.”
“Bloody hell!” Ron threw his arms skywards, feigning deep outrage. “Am I today’s target? Could someone, please, give me at least one genuine compliment?”
“Days of struggle, and more days of struggle, little brother. Glory’s something we chase,” said Fred as he passed through the common room, holding an unidentified firework in his hand, spitting troubling blue sparks.
George laid a solemn hand on his younger brother’s shoulder.
“If you want a compliment... today you don’t smell of onions. Thought about it during Transfiguration.” He said it with the seriousness of a Greek philosopher, before heading up the stairs to the dormitories.
Hermione, Harry and Neville burst out laughing, Neville nearly choking on his own spit.
Ron turned red to the roots of his ears.
“Wouldn’t expect anything else from you lot!” Ron shot back, fuming and pointing at the twins vanishing up the spiral staircase. “If you set that thing off in our dormitory, I’ll kick both your arses! Swear on Merlin!”
The twins raised their arms in exaggerated surrender, as if caught red-handed, and nudged each other, muttering something about “We can test it in the first-years’ dormitory.”
“Well,” said Harry, draping an arm over Ron’s shoulders with a tired but genuine smile, “of all the people I know, you’re the one who costs the school most at lunch. It’s impressive how one human being can wolf down so much mashed potato.”
Neville and Hermione burst out laughing again, this time with Neville nearly spluttering.
Ron gave Harry a playful punch in the shoulder, blushing but smiling.
“Git,” he muttered, unable to hide his affection. “You lot are all gits.”
As they joked, a voice whispered loud and clear in Harry’s ear, as if pressed right against the back of his neck, a cold breath that raised the hairs on his arm.
It was a dark, hissing voice he hadn’t heard in months, but recognised instantly.
“Blood... thirst for blood... you cannot hide from me... Show yourself...”
Harry stopped dead, a deadly chill running down his spine.
His green eyes widened, and he glanced behind him instinctively, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears. Nothing was there, only the cold stone wall of the corridor. He began to look all around, his breath caught.
He didn’t need to say a word.
Hermione, Neville and Ron stopped smiling and laughing at once, their expressions turning instantly grave. They knew what had happened. After all, it was the fourth time.
The monster of the Chamber of Secrets was about to claim another victim somewhere in the castle.
“Oh, no...” Hermione murmured, drawing a sharp breath, her face seized by pure fear as her hand flew instinctively to her mouth.
Neville went white, his face turning greenish. He looked suddenly sick, as though the very air around him had grown heavy and suffocating.
Ron’s eyes widened, his voice rasping in a hoarse thread.
“No... not again?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“Dumbledore—we need to find him. Now!” Harry said quickly, his voice tense, already turning to run for the exit of the common room.
They tore off towards the Headmaster’s office, hurtling down the moving staircases, their feet barely touching the steps. They met no Auror on the way, as though the creature knew when they were patrolling.
Soon, their hurried steps began to sound strange, echoing differently. Turning into the first-floor corridor, they didn’t find Dumbledore in time, but something far worse.
Argus Filch was lying flat on his back on the drenched floor, like a statue toppled from its plinth.
Beside him, a metal bucket had overturned, spilling filthy water and grimy cleaning rags, and his old mop lay several feet away.
Water pooled on the stone floor, and the caretaker was—as every other victim—with an eternal expression of terror frozen on his face, his eyes wide open in pure horror, as though he had seen the most nightmarish thing of his long life.
A trail of spiders was scuttling in line towards the nearest open window, hurrying out of the castle in frantic flight.
Unluckily for Harry, once again they were the first to find the victim.
There was no time to react.
AAAHH!
A Ravenclaw sixth-year girl, coming from the opposite direction, gave a shrill, piercing scream at the sight of the caretaker in that horrid position and bolted, alarmed, her cry echoing through the corridors as she screamed desperately for help.
It all happened absurdly fast.
The sound of hurried footsteps and alarmed voices reverberated through the stone walls like a rising thunder.
The Aurors appeared first, their black, hard-wearing robes billowing behind them like dark wings. Seeing Harry there, standing before Filch’s petrified body, they recognised the scene instantly and knew precisely which protocol to follow.
They quickly formed a protective, impenetrable circle around Harry and his friends, while two other officers, with precise, efficient movements, carefully levitated the rigid caretaker like a board and bore him towards the hospital wing.
Yet the imposing wall of those experienced witches and wizards, trained officers of the law, was not enough to hold back the tide of shouts and accusations pouring from the crowd of pupils that arrived soon after.
It was as if each of them had been carrying a taut barrier of tension within their own hearts for months, but at the sight of another victim being carried away petrified—even the grumpy, charmless caretaker—it burst, unleashing the emotion of yet another injustice.
All the voices fused into a chaotic chorus, brimming with primal fear and unrestrained anger.
“NO ONE DRAW A WAND! THAT’S AN ORDER!” the Aurors bellowed with authority that sliced through the air, keeping order with watchful eyes, while sixth- and seventh-years, far larger and older than Harry, gesticulated furiously, threatening to take matters into their own hands, in their words, “since no one else seems willing to.”
Harry tried to stand firm, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. He knew he was innocent, that he wasn’t the Heir, that he hadn’t done anything wrong.
But he couldn’t maintain the stance.
Each shout, each accusation hurled his way was like a dry whip crack across his face. He flinched instinctively, his racing heart pounding so hard it felt as if it might burst from his chest. He stood there paralysed, not by magic, but by raw, overwhelming dread.
Neville and Ron moved closer, forming a human barrier at his side, while Hermione seized his hand tightly, trying to offer some tactile comfort amid the chaos.
She wanted to run and drag him away, but Harry stood his ground, his green eyes sweeping defiantly over the hostile crowd.
Deep down, he longed to shrink and cry, but he swallowed the emotions with difficulty, a tight knot in his throat, as he had learned to do through long years in that cupboard under the stairs.
Harry blinked, and for a moment, he swore he saw among the angry Slytherins a pale figure with hair and eyes black as pitch, staring at him with a macabre, triumphant smile.
Tom Riddle.
Harry felt an intense chill run down his spine and blinked again, quickly.
The figure vanished, leaving him to wonder whether it hadn’t been merely his imagination, already so overburdened, playing tricks on him again.
Harry was reaching his limit.
Besides having to sustain the castle’s tension daily, the suspicion in all those eyes, having witnessed the terror inside a diary, he now had to endure an enraged crowd, and he thought he was seeing things, far too many things.
Even the bravest Gryffindor would feel cornered in those circumstances. And he, a twelve-year-old boy who barely knew half a dozen useful spells to defend himself, was no exception.
It wasn’t one or two isolated students.
It was an army of classmates from other Houses, all older, stronger, who saw him not as an equal, but as a monstrous threat. But now, unlike the ambivalent experience of his first year, the fear did not come with hesitation.
The cup of collective panic had overflowed, and now everyone wanted to take justice into their own hands.
The Gryffindors were the only ones who remained in an awkward, heavy silence, heads bowed, avoiding eye contact. They did not comment, did not attack, but neither did they move to form a barrier around Harry, to defend him from that inquisition.
“Again! Again he was the first to arrive!” shouted an older Hufflepuff, his accusing finger pointed at Harry like a spear. “Potter’s always at the scene of the crime! Always!”
“It’s obvious Potter is the Heir! Do we need to draw you a picture?” bellowed another, his once friendly face now distorted by blind fury.
“Someone needs to do something!” someone from Slytherin shouted, his cutting, disdainful voice echoing along the packed corridor.
“Yeah, or we will!” added another, with a frankly threatening tone, raising his wand in a sharp movement.
“Expelliarmus!”
The voice that cut through the air was not a student’s.
It was Jacob — the same Auror who had escorted Harry to see Dumbledore on that dark night of the diary.
He brandished his own wand with a cold, trained efficiency, and the Slytherin student’s wand flew from his hand, spinning in the air before being caught by another Auror.
Two officers immediately seized the student, restraining him and pulling him away from the crowd.
The crowd, now encouraged by its own agitation, continued to clamour for justice, wanting to know what would be done, demanding immediate action.
All this happened in at most two minutes.
But for Harry, each second was an overwhelming eternity, a nightmare unfolding in slow motion. He felt his own magic — his wild aura — stir like a cornered animal, feeling deeply threatened, a sensation similar to what he had felt with the troll in that bathroom.
It pulsed beneath his skin, wanting to burst out, wanting to drive away all those who threatened him like a time-bomb ready to detonate.
Neville sensed the chilling tension emanating from Harry with alarming ease.
Harry forced himself to screw his eyes shut, his clenched eyelids forming tiny furrows of concentration. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, in an irregular rhythm, desperately trying to calm himself so that nothing worse — something he couldn’t even name — could happen. He tried to balance the turbulent emotions bubbling inside him. He hugged himself, wrapping his own arms around his torso, trembling slightly as he felt that any sudden movement, any extra attention he paid to the threats, could make his fragile control snap completely.
“Easy, Harry,” Neville whispered, glancing back over his shoulder as he tried to make himself heard amid the deafening turmoil. His voice was a thin thread of sanity in the chaos.
Hermione, who still couldn’t feel the aura as Neville could unless she concentrated deeply, needed no special gift to perceive their friend’s state.
She clasped his arm with a delicacy that clashed violently with the fury around them, her touch firm yet gentle.
“It's okay, you're safe, nothing will happen.” She said, not so sure in her voice, despite wanting to comfort him.
The voices of his friends and her touch were a balm. Ron, seeing that they were already supporting him, decided to keep his attention on the crowd like a sentinel.
Harry’s black, eternally untidy hair was moving, fluttering lightly around his forehead and temples, as if stirred by an invisible breeze only he could feel.
He was making a visible, agonising effort to control himself, his muscles taut, beads of sweat tracing down his temple, fighting not to let that inner magical gale escape and turn a terrible situation into something cataclysmic.
The air around him seemed to vibrate with a contained, dangerous energy.
Salvation, before Harry overflowed, was the arrival of Dumbledore.
He appeared at the far end of the corridor, his long beard and silver robes seeming to radiate a calming authority.
“SILENCE!” thundered the Headmaster, his voice did not need to be loud to boom like thunder and instantly silence all whispers and accusations, making even the Aurors seem intimidated. “All of you, to the Great Hall. Now.”
Harry cast a look at Dumbledore, his wide green eyes trying to convey a silent message of urgency, that he had wanted to warn him earlier, as they had agreed.
The Headmaster nodded almost imperceptibly, his piercing blue gaze fixed on Harry, as if he knew exactly what was going through his mind, seeing his state.
At that moment, all the students were led in file to the Great Hall, where they would sleep together as a safety measure, under the Aurors’ watchful eyes.
All except Harry.
An emergency meeting had been convened and, besides the professors and the Headmaster, the Board of Governors was also present, their grave faces visible through the conference room’s half-open door. Anyone who wished to listen could clearly make out Augusta Longbottom’s protesting voice over the rest for the council’s lack of action.
“This is an outrage!” she brandished. “Children are being threatened, these victims keep appearing and nothing is having any effect!”
In the Gryffindor common room, students hurried to gather their belongings, dragging trunks and collecting their things with tense, hasty expressions. The atmosphere was steeped in a palpable nervousness, as if everyone were about to abandon the castle never to return. Even the pets were taken. The sound of cage hinges creaked along with the croaking of toads, the squeaks of rats, the mews of cats — the owls were safe in the Owlery, including Hedwig, to Harry’s relief.
McGonagall, organising everything with her customary efficiency and rigid bearing, looked at Harry with an expression that mixed maternal concern and a deep helplessness.
Outside the portrait hole, the Aurors waited, escorting the students in small, organised groups to the Great Hall.
Hermione was one of the first to finish packing her things, and she spent the remaining time at Harry’s side, trying to console him from the harsh words and accusations that echoed through the school.
“Oh, Harry, it’ll be all right,” said Hermione softly, squeezing his shoulder with a gentleness that contrasted with the tension in the air.
“They hate me, Hermione. All of them,” Harry replied in a low, hoarse tone, laden with a bitterness that hurt Hermione. He gestured vaguely at the rest of the room, where several students avoided his eye. “Look around. They’re all afraid of me, and that’s the only reason they’re not doing anything. If they weren’t afraid, they’d be with the rest of the crowd. If the Aurors hadn’t been there this time...”
He did not finish the line of thought, but the implication hung in the air between them: what an enraged population of wizarding students, dominated by panic and fear, might do.
What he might do if he exploded.
The image of a completely destroyed troll, bloodied with viscera and pieces scattered everywhere filled his mind. He couldn’t imagine that being a classmate, or worse.
Hermione felt her stomach churn, imagining where his thoughts had flown, tightening her grip on his shoulder.
“You know that isn’t true—”
“It is,” he insisted, with a weary firmness. “If the Aurors weren’t here, what do you think they’d have done to me? What would they do? What would I do?”
“Nothing,” Hermione asserted, moving her hand from his shoulder and gripping his hand tightly, as if she could transfer her conviction through her touch. “I wouldn’t let them, and neither would Neville, nor Ron. You know that. We’re with you.”
“I’m afraid to think what they’d do if you tried to defend me,” Harry murmured, his gaze fixed on the floor. “If you insisted, they might turn on you too.”
Hermione sighed, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears.
She blinked quickly, but one of them stubbornly slid down the corner of her face. Seeing him so cornered, so isolated, was destroying her inside. She wanted to be able to hug him and stay there with him, comforting him for as long as necessary.
Even the mad idea of taking another dose of Polyjuice Potion — cat hairs and all — sprang into her mind, desperate.
Harry would be safe in the hospital wing, away from all those eyes. She could keep him company. They could share a private space again, they could play every night with colourful balls of wool and magical toy mice, they could laugh at silly jokes while taking care of each other, as they had done.
Before, she had found that situation embarrassing, completely unthinkable, a total mortification.
Now?
Now she longed desperately to be able to do something, anything, to make him better, even if that meant having a furry tail again and feeling the inexplicable urge to lick the hair on the nape of his neck and the back of his hand.
She would go through all of that again and much more, without complaining once.
“Who’s missing from the last group?” bellowed an Auror at the entrance to the common room, folding his arms impatiently. “Come on, hurry up! We’re late!”
“We’re coming down!” Ron called loudly as he pounded down the stairs with Neville, awkwardly, lugging their heavy trunks.
They clattered down in a rush, their faces flushed with effort and haste. They joined the other second-years, all extremely nervous, with fidgeting hands that wouldn’t keep still, eyes wide with adrenaline.
“You need to go,” said Harry, jerking his head towards the forming group, his gaze fixed on the stone floor, his shoulders hunched under an invisible weight.
Hermione nodded, holding a gentle, anxious look for a second longer.
“Try to sleep tonight, all right?” she asked with a softness she reserved only for him, her voice a little shaky. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I promise.”
He did not answer, only nodded, unable even to raise his eyes to meet hers.
She took her pillow and trunk, joining the group that was quickly being marshalled by the Aurors. He risked a quick look at his year-mates, and found dozens of eyes watching him not with the earlier animosity, but with a mute fear and a deep mistrust.
They were looks that hurt more than the shouting.
Yet a different expression amid the hostile crowd caught his attention: Lavender Brown watched him not with fear or anger, but with a profoundly studious air, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Harry remembered suddenly that she, like Luna, claimed she could feel auras. She had been the chief gossip who had broadcast to Merlin and the rest of the world about the power of his aura.
Perhaps she was trying to reconcile in her mind what everyone said about him — the Heir of Slytherin, the dangerous boy — with what her unique sensitivity told her. If his aura really was as “bright and warm” as Luna had described.
He could not judge himself, but he knew, with every fibre of his being, that he was innocent. Perhaps the fact that he was being publicly slandered as the Heir, while his magical essence told a different story, was creating a dissonance that confused her deeply.
When everyone had finally left, escorted by the Aurors, Harry was left completely alone in the vast Gryffindor common room, the only student there at that moment of rising turbulence.
The silence that followed was almost palpable, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the constant, comforting crackle of the fire in the hearth.
Before leaving, Professor McGonagall turned to him, her face serious and etched with concern, but with an unusual expression that conveyed a rare maternal tenderness.
“Harry,” she said, her voice firm yet gentle, “an Auror will stand watch during the night to ensure your safety. You will not be alone. She will also accompany you for an indefinite period from now on.”
“I… will I have a bodyguard?” he asked, his voice sounding weak and somewhat forlorn in the great empty room.
McGonagall pressed her lips into a thin line. It was not a gesture of distaste at his needing protection, but rather for the sad reality that things had reached such an extreme point.
“Yes,” she said with a softness she seldom displayed. “She will stay with you to prevent… additional problems.” She paused almost imperceptibly. “I believe you know her. It is Miss Tonks.”
He turned his eyes to the dancing flames and nodded, even though a part of him rebelled at the idea of having a shadow stuck to his heels for Merlin knew how long. Nevertheless, he felt a slight and unconfessable relief in knowing he would not be left completely to his own devices.
And he liked Tonks; every time they had spoken, she had been incredibly kind, relaxed and fun with him. She always treated him normally, as just Harry and not a hero who had defeated a Dark Lord or a dangerous threat.
McGonagall hesitated for a moment, but ended by placing a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder, a gesture of physical support.
“Know that you are not alone in this,” she added serenely, her keen, wise eyes fixed on his for a second that felt like an eternity. “You can count on us. On all of us.”
Harry felt an unexpected, tight knot form in his throat.
“Thank you, Professor.” He managed to murmur.
“Good night, Harry.” She wished him, without her professional mask. “And if you need me, you can ask Miss Tonks to call me and I will come, no matter the hour, yes?”
Harry looked at her and saw a faint, warm smile on the professor’s face. Despite the dark moment, it was a small plank of salvation, a reassurance as strong as that small coin she had given him before he knew Hogwarts.
It was her way of saying she cared, the only way she could at that moment. Harry felt comforted, nodding with his green eyes gleaming in the hearth’s dim light.
The professor turned, feeling the weight of responsibilities, and left through the portrait hole, leaving him plunged into silence.
The solitary crackle of the fire in the empty common room brought with it a wave of loneliness so crushing it almost made him stagger, he could hear only his tired breathing.
He felt a sudden shiver run down his spine, the sharp, disconcerting sensation that there was something — or someone — behind him. But it was impossible, he knew everyone had gone. The room was empty.
Feeling the mental agony become unbearable quickly, he turned suddenly, his heart racing, but saw nothing but the dancing shadows cast by the fire. Even so, the sensation persisted, a throbbing paranoia.
He sighed, exhausted, taking off his round glasses and rubbing his eyes. Perhaps he really was going mad.
It wasn’t long before the Fat Lady’s portrait swung open with a soft creak.
Tonks came in with a playful, relaxed little grin — an expression clearly contrived to try to make him forget the chaos of the previous minutes —, with her hands thrust into the pockets of her Auror overcoat.
“Hey, Harry.” She greeted him with a forced lightness, but a well-intentioned one.
“Hey…” he replied, unable to disguise the total lack of enthusiasm.
“If I say I prefer my own common room, would that be terribly inelegant?” she asked, flopping unceremoniously into the nearest armchair, beside him.
Harry shook his head, an almost imperceptible gesture.
“No. At least in Hufflepuff you lot are right by the kitchens and can talk to the House founder’s portrait, right? Here, if we forget the password, we sleep outside.”
She laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to push the darkness back a little, and her hair, momentarily shocking pink, shifted to a calm, natural brown.
“Fair. But I reckon it’s better here in winter,” she reflected, looking around. “Ours has too many plants. It gives a refreshing feel, but not exactly cosy at ten degrees below zero. The view’s nice from this tower, too.”
Harry gave a tired half-smile — with his arms tucked in — and looked back at the fire, the flames reflected in his glasses.
Tonks leaned forward a little, studying him with a more serious look.
“Hey,” she called to him, giving a soft tap to his shoulder. “I don’t know when my House got so daft, but I don’t believe any of what they’re saying about you, you know that. And you can bet that after the disproportionate reaction they had, every Auror present is on your side. Besides the professors who already supported you before, of course. And your friends.”
“Snape supports me?” Harry arched a brow, his scepticism overflowing.
Tonks, for her part, also arched a brow, but with a playful glint in her eye.
“Snape supports himself?” she shot back, instead of answering.
Harry couldn’t help it; he let out a short, sincere chuckle, the first after the whole ordeal.
“Yeah, probably not,” he answered his own rhetorical question.
Tonks thought for a moment, her face growing more serious.
“From what I saw, he didn’t say anything, if that’s what you want to know. In fact, he didn’t open his mouth in the emergency meeting, stood with his arms folded with that usual face.”
“And did they talk about me?” Harry asked, his voice lower.
“Yeah, they did. But it’s because everyone’s genuinely worried about your safety. A team of Aurors that Kingsley coordinated has already proved, with the evidence they’ve got so far, that you’ve no connection whatsoever to the attacks. They’re just very, very unfortunate coincidences of you being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The professors will try to talk to the students tonight, try to explain that there’s no concrete proof against you or any other student, but...” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “...I can’t guarantee it’ll have much effect. I think you know what mass hysteria is like.”
Harry exhaled deeply, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he said with raw honesty.
For some reason, perhaps her charm, perhaps because she was a bit like an older witch who understood him, Harry felt an affinity with Tonks.
“You know... having to stay shut in here,” he commented in a low, hoarse voice, “afraid of what they might do to me, it’s...”
“Shite?” Tonks suggested, frankly.
Harry nodded, feeling the weight of the word.
“Shite...”
They fell silent for a while, only the fire crackling between them, filling the void with its constant noise. Then Harry looked at her again, a spark of determination in his green eyes.
“I don’t know if I can ask, but... have they found out what kind of monster it is?”
Tonks sighed, running a hand through her hair, which had now turned a dark blue.
“We’re still not absolutely sure. Odd as it sounds, there are too many creatures that fit the ‘big and green’ category that Peeves described, with the ability to petrify. All of them are extremely rare and just as dangerous, but we haven’t any solid lead pointing to a specific one. However,” she added, her tone shifting, “that’s almost irrelevant now. At least for the moment.”
Harry frowned, confused.
“What do you mean, irrelevant?”
She visibly hesitated, then let out a heavy sigh, as if she were carrying a huge weight.
“Hogwarts is going to close.”
Harry felt his stomach plummet like a stone.
“W-what?!” He opened his eyes wide.
“There isn’t much to be done,” she went on, her voice laden with resignation. “Parents are furiously pressuring, some influential people have pulled strings in the Ministry and the decision’s been made. In a week, at most, all students will be gone. They need to warn all the Muggle parents, do the paperwork... it takes time, and this has never happened — an evacuation like this, I mean — but the professors are focused on doing it as quickly as possible.”
Harry’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins.
That meant one thing above all: he would be going back to the Dursleys.
Sooner, with no time to clear his name, perhaps even without being able to return after the holidays.
A cold, familiar panic began to form in his chest, but he managed to swallow it, keeping his expression neutral.
The fear of being locked in his bedroom again, being beaten by his uncle as he had done before, but now much worse because of the escape he’d made in the holidays, and even letting Hedwig almost starve made him spiral into total inner panic.
“And that’s not all.” Tonks continued, folding her arms and leaning slightly forward, as if she were about to deliver the most devastating news of all. “Because they think it’s due to Dumbledore’s supposed ‘passivity’, he’s being removed by the Board of Governors. Professor McGonagall will take over temporarily to organise the orderly withdrawal of the students and deal with all the bureaucratic paperwork. Apparently, he’s stepping down and leaving later tonight.”
Harry’s stomach knotted so tightly it hurt.
As if the situation weren’t catastrophic enough. Dumbledore was the only one who knew, or at least strongly suspected, who the true Heir of Slytherin was.
With him removed, the little control and direction that remained over the situation would simply collapse.
And worse — with Hogwarts closing, that meant he would have to go back to that small bedroom, to the hunger and the Dursleys’ contempt.
The thought again left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.
“Now the rules are going to get properly tight,” Tonks went on, her smile fading. “Stricter curfews, reinforced patrols... well, I reckon lessons will be suspended anyway too.”
Harry felt a shiver of anxiety run down his spine.
As if the end of the school year were a trivial detail compared to the fact that Hogwarts — the only place he considered a true home — was about to be taken from him.
The school closing. Stricter curfews. Dumbledore being removed. Everything seemed to be unravelling too fast, like grains of sand slipping through his open fingers, and the sense of helplessness was suffocating, a physical weight on his chest.
“So that’s it?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, but hearing a slight tremor he couldn’t control. “They’re just going to close the school and that’s that? Give up? Run away?”
Tonks hesitated for an instant, her wavering look not a good sign coming from her.
“They think it’s the safest measure for all the students, Harry,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “And you have to admit that no one’s really safe with... something... petrifying people in the corridors and spreading terror. With the attacks increasing in frequency, parents are in total panic. Some are already threatening to remove their children on their own, but they’ll have to wait. The Hogwarts Express will make a special one-way trip to Hogsmeade next Saturday.”
“But closing Hogwarts?” Harry shook his head, feeling a hot, familiar anger bubble up inside him, temporarily replacing the fear. “That won’t solve anything! The Heir of Slytherin will still be out there, won’t he? And if no one stops him now, what’s to stop them reopening the school only for it all to happen again? It’s happened once already, fifty years ago!”
Tonks shifted in her armchair, clearly uncomfortable, and her hair turned completely white.
“I understand perfectly what you’re feeling, I truly do. But it isn’t that simple. The Ministry’s applying pressure, the governors are terrified. And without Dumbledore in charge...” She sighed, running her hand through her hair, which now alternated between dark blue and purple, as if she were nervous. “Well, McGonagall will do her utmost, you can be sure of that. But even she has her limits within the structure.”
Harry clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. He couldn’t believe they were simply giving up, capitulating to fear. A painful tightness gripped his chest as he thought of Ron, Hermione, Neville, of all the Weasleys...
Hogwarts was infinitely more than a school.
It was the only home he had ever really had. Even being considered a pariah now was infinitely lighter than living with the Dursleys.
Here, he was not beaten.
Here, he had three hearty meals every day.
Here, he had friends.
He could have a real life.
“So... when exactly?” His voice came out hoarse and rough.
“As I said, within a week. But they might announce an emergency departure at any time too — which I doubt they’ll do, unless there’s another, more serious attack.” Tonks watched him closely, her gaze heavy with genuine concern. “All the petrified victims are going to be transferred to St Mungo’s, apparently they’ll prepare a specialised ward there.” She leaned forward again. “And, Harry, listen... I know this sounds unfair. It sounds like a defeat. But you have to promise me you won’t do anything stupid, all right?”
Tonks had been a mischievous student in her time, and she knew very well how to spot one.
She knew about the Philosopher’s Stone story with the so-called “Golden Quartet” putting themselves at risk when they shouldn’t have. And although she didn’t know exactly how Harry had ended up in a cat form in the hospital wing, it was probably because he’d got up to something. So he had a bad record.
Harry did not answer and looked away, fixing his eyes on the pattern of the worn Persian rug, unable to face her.
“Harry...” Tonks pressed, her voice gentle but firm.
“All right,” he muttered at last, still without lifting his eyes.
She sighed, not looking entirely convinced, but accepting the answer for now.
“Right. I’ll stay right here, outside the portrait hole, while you’re in your dormitory. If you need anything, just call.” She replied, putting her feet on the low table in front of the hearth, relaxed. “I advise you to try to get some sleep; it’ll do you good.”
Harry sighed, exhausted to the bone, and heaved himself up from his seat.
Tonks gave him one last assessing, penetrating look before nodding slowly.
“Good night, Harry.”
“Good night,”
He headed for the staircase that led to the boys’ dormitories, alone with his tumultuous thoughts.
Harry drew a deep breath, feeling his chest tighten with an anguish so deep it almost hurt physically as he climbed the steps.
The weight of that news was crushing, a sentence. He simply could not — would not — accept it. He could not simply fold his arms and passively watch Hogwarts be torn from him, be closed, as if it were something inevitable.
If no one was going to do anything... if the adults had decided to run...
Perhaps it was time for him to act himself.
But do what? How?
The question hammered in his mind with each accelerated beat of his heart as he passed through the dormitory’s oak door.
He had not the faintest idea.
No brilliant plan sprang to mind. But something had to arise. It had to. Perhaps it was just a matter of waiting for the right moment... or perhaps it was he who needed to create that moment, to improvise in desperation.
Dumbledore could no longer resolve the problem.
That meant that he, Ron, Hermione and Neville were the only people in Hogwarts who knew more than the rest — who knew about the diary, about Riddle, about Hagrid’s innocence.
If there was a chance, however remote, of stopping Hogwarts from closing, of clearing his name and finding the true culprit, that chance now rested entirely on his shoulders — the shoulders of a twelve-year-old boy.
The responsibility was terrifying. The fear was paralysing.
But beneath all that, a stubborn spark of determination began to flicker within him, fed by loyalty to his House and fury at injustice.
It was a small spark, but it was all he had.
The next day dawned painful and thankless.
Harry woke in the small hours, racked by disturbing nightmares that made him cry out softly into his pillow, and he couldn’t get back to sleep.
It was always the same dark, damp, mouldy tunnel, the same hissing, icy voice whispering in his ears, like a lingering shadow that refused to leave him in peace. When he properly woke, he was panting, with a throbbing headache that seemed to hammer at his temples.
At around three in the morning, he gave up trying to force sleep and resigned himself to sitting at the dormitory window, watching the stars pricking the black winter sky, trying to identify the constellations Hermione had taught him, to pass the interminable hours.
Even meditating on his Magical Sensitivity was uncomfortable and agonising. All for the simple fact that he would have to close his eyes.
The feeling of being hunted, the paranoia he had been developing, now had a horrible, concrete basis: it was Tom Riddle.
After the whole experience with the diary, the fear that had taken root in him was so deep it now seemed to materialise as hallucinations. Harry felt that Riddle followed him everywhere, a ghost with dark hair and a cruel smile, always watching from a distance, never disappearing completely. That Slytherin boy, as real as the darkness itself, was always lurking, and it sent a deadly chill down his spine.
As he contemplated the night sky, an intense and familiar sensation settled over him — the clear impression of being watched.
His heart sped up instantly, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he swore he saw a tall, pale figure standing by the door ahead, staring fixedly at him.
But it couldn’t be Tonks; she wasn’t inside the room.
When he blinked, the shadow vanished, and Harry felt fear spread through his body like poison.
With trembling movements, he lit all the lamps in the room with quick wand flicks, bathing every corner in a golden light, and even used Lumos on his own wand; only then did he feel a little less on edge.
Meanwhile, he stroked Hedwig, who rubbed her head gently against his hand, hooting softly and anxiously. She had flown straight from the Owlery, pecking insistently at the windowpane to be let in, as if she knew by instinct that he was alone, separated from the rest of the school in the Great Hall.
Hedwig became his safe harbour and his only company during that endless night.
When the sun finally rose over the distant mountains, tinting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Harry already bore deep shadows under his eyes, purple smudges that testified to his vigil. The sleepless night, he knew, would exact its price later.
Tonks, who had taken the morning shift, firmly advised him to have his meals in the relative safety of the common room, far from the hostile looks and poisonous whispers of the Great Hall.
She sighed, planting her hands on her hips with a tired air.
“Here, at least—”
“No one’s going to kill me. Got it,” Harry finished, his voice loaded with a bitter sarcasm that came out harsher than he intended.
Tonks frowned, her hair momentarily turning a serious dark brown.
“No one’s going to kill you, Harry.” she declared firmly. “No student’s going to lay a finger on you while I’m around.”
Harry looked at his own feet, feeling a hot flush of shame rise up his neck.
“Sorry.” He blew the words out, barely audible. “It’s just... I’m tired. Really tired.”
Tonks stepped closer to him and, to his surprise, placed a firm yet gentle hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye — eyes that seemed to change colour with her mood — yellow, then blue and finally green — as if she were trying to decipher the turmoil in his mind.
“I know this is a colossal mess,” she said, her voice softening. “But I’m here, and you can be sure I’m not letting anyone lay a finger on you, all right? Even if I have ter turn every Slytherin into a hedgehog.”
Harry just nodded, swallowing.
“Great. I’ll ask a house-elf to bring something up. No going down to the Hall.”
To his relief, Hermione, Ron and Neville joined him shortly afterwards, flatly refusing to eat in the Great Hall without him. They preferred to share a simple but comforting meal in the common room.
Tonks, realising he needed the normality his friends provided, left them with a little privacy, taking a quick break to eat and rest, while Jacob stood guard outside the entrance, back to the Fat Lady’s portrait, his posture vigilant.
“Is all this really necessary?” Ron asked, scratching his chin as he chewed a slice of toast with jam. “I mean, having to eat hidden away in here and all that?”
“The threats and pointing fingers weren’t aimed at you, Ronald,” Hermione replied, crisply, gripping her teacup more tightly than necessary.
Ron dropped his gaze, feeling as if he’d just taken a verbal slap.
Hermione hesitated at once, recognising the unnecessary sharpness of her words.
“Sorry,” she murmured, more quietly. “I didn’t mean to sound so rude.”
Harry didn’t even react, lost in his own thoughts, eating mechanically and barely taking part in the conversation.
Neville looked at the three friends around him and let out a deep sigh.
“Everyone’s on edge, I know, but... we can’t let this split us up. We’ve got ter back each other, because out there...” He paused, swallowing. “...out there it’s not going ter get better, you know that. They’re not acting normal with us either, just because we were there when they found Filch.”
“No one’s been acting normal for ages...” Ron muttered, low, mouth still full.
“I’ve noticed they’re being particularly worse with Neville than with us,” Hermione observed, watching the steam curl from her teacup, still untasted. “After all, you were with Harry when Justin was petrified. The Hufflepuffs... well, they’re really not happy with you two.”
“What are they saying out there? I can’t believe it!” Neville exclaimed, his voice trembling with indignation. “We live together every day, we cheer together, have snowball fights in winter together, we even share the same table, I mean it isn’t the same... but... but it’s next to it and... it’s like none of that matters anymore! Nothing matters.”
Ron sighed, pushing his plate aside.
“I’m not doubting you, Nev. You’re right. It’s just... mate, I never thought we’d get ter this point, y’know? A nutter going round petrifying people, the school closing... it’s barmy how it all fell apart so fast.”
“It wasn’t fast,” Harry corrected, his voice sounding tired and hollow, speaking for the first time beyond mere yeses and nos. “It wasn’t fast at all. We’ve been dealing with petrifications and the threat of the Chamber of Secrets since Hallowe’en, and no one — no one — has got anywhere. We haven’t got anywhere. If only we’d done more... investigated more...”
“Like what?” Hermione cut in; her tone wasn’t challenging, but exhausted. “Harry, we already risked everything brewing that potion! And we’re the only ones who came close to finding out anything, and look how that turned out! That isn’t a compliment, it’s a sad fact.”
“Everyone’s given up trying!” Harry said, his frustration spilling over. “They want to close the school and I wouldn’t be surprised if they pulled the castle down stone by stone until they found the entrance to this bloody Chamber. Who knows how long that’ll take — if they even find it! I’m not giving up. If I can help the Aurors sort this, maybe we can still head off the worst.”
The three fell silent, looking at him, not quite sure what to say in the face of that stubborn, almost desperate resolve.
Harry sighed, pushing his plate of eggs away, losing what little appetite he had left completely.
“I... I just don’t want to go back to my aunt and uncle.” He swallowed, his voice almost a whisper. “I don’t want to leave all this behind. Hogwarts is my world. Magic is my world.”
They understood perfectly what he meant, and in a rare moment of collective tact, chose not to comment. No one wanted to make Harry even more uncomfortable by rubbing salt into the wound of having to return to that family.
Harry went on, without noticing — or perhaps not wanting to notice — the pitying, worried looks his friends exchanged.
“Dumbledore was the only one who knew how to sort this, and now, with him gone, it’s just us. No one else knows about the diary, except Ginny, but she doesn’t count — Dumbledore asked us not to talk to her about it, and... Either way, I need to find Tom Riddle.”
“It’s ‘we need’—you’ve a habit of putting everything in the singular.” Hermione murmured, correcting him with the gentle touch only she managed. “You know we’re going with you.”
Ron nodded, giving Harry a pat on the back.
“’Til the end,” the redhead said in an unusually grave voice. “But the thing is, Dumbledore also asked us not ter spread what happened with the diary.”
“I think he’s right,” Neville said quietly. “Who knows what Riddle could do if he finds out we know about him.”
Hermione bit her lip, her brain visibly working at high speed.
“We can act in other ways,” she said, drawing the three boys’ eyes to her. “We don’t need to give his name to everyone. I don’t think it would help much at this stage anyway. Who knows where he is? It could take an eternity to find him — if they ever did. But we’ve got other leads. We know several things that can help identify the monster in the Chamber. If they know exactly what they’re dealing with, they can send a task force of specialist wizards here. And when the creature is contained, or... or killed, everything’s resolved, with or without Tom Riddle.”
Neville shifted nervously in his chair, his face pale.
“And how do you plan to do that?” he asked, visibly curious, ready to help. “Because I have no idea where to begin.”
“The library, of course,” said Hermione, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I need to focus. If I make a list of all the clues we’ve got already — what we’ve heard, what the victims saw, what the books say — I can start ruling out the least likely creatures and try to reach a useful conclusion. Something tangible to hand to someone. It’ll take time, though, there are so many creatures and the possibilities are endless, but it’s what we’ve got.”
“I can help... if you want,” Ron offered, shrugging with reluctance but determination.
She arched an eyebrow, surprised.
“You hate the library.”
“Yeah, I don’t like it... actually you’re right, I hate it. It’s dead boring in there,” he admitted frankly. “But there’s nothing for it, so if I can help, even if it’s just fetching the list of books you need, I’ll do it. I’ll even get you a glass of water, but only one!”
His little joke eased the mood a bit and Hermione sniffed a small smile.
“Actually,” Ron reconsidered, “I reckon we should all go. Split the jobs, easier ter find this thing.”
Hermione shook her head at once.
“No, Harry and Neville can — must — go somewhere else. We don’t want to draw attention. Tonks has already told Harry not to get into any more scrapes, and... well...”
“I’d draw attention,” Harry sighed, resigned. It was an undeniable truth.
“And I’m the ‘accomplice’,” Neville muttered, unhappy.
Hermione hesitated before agreeing.
“Yes, you would,” she said honestly. “It’s better to find a more discreet spot. The library’s going to be full of people whispering and staring at us.”
“I was going ter suggest the greenhouse,” Neville said, a little more upbeat. “No one’s going there now, with all this happening. And we could unwind a bit taking care of the plants. It’s calm, you have to admit.”
“I want to be useful, Nev!” Harry burst out, his frustration and stress spilling over again. “Not staring at plant pots! We need to act!”
He stopped abruptly, realising how his words had sounded and how Neville’s face had closed a little.
“Blast,” Harry tried to correct himself, aggrieved, “that’s not what I meant—”
“It’s all right,” Neville gave a small, reassuring smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “If you want to be useful... well, then help me with the Mandrakes. It’s not solving the Chamber problem directly, I know, but they’ll be the only thing that can cure the petrified victims, and that’s crucial too. It needs doing as well.”
“Yeah... right.” Harry agreed, hesitant, feeling a little ashamed of his outburst.
He wanted, more than anything, to be on the front line, hunting that creature, facing Riddle. The agony of helplessness was eating him up inside. Even so, the greenhouses were relatively quiet and secluded. They were a good place to try to think, to try to devise a plan far from judging eyes.
It was a start.
A small, frustrating, but necessary start.
Before they left the common room after eating — Harry being the last — he felt that strange sensation of being watched again. His heart sped up, the paranoia rolling back in as if it came in hourly waves.
He looked back and froze.
At the far end of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, wearing a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a young man of aristocratic appearance was watching him.
It was clear and sharp now, in every detail, exactly as Harry remembered.
Tom Riddle.
Harry blanched and took a few steps back.
When he blinked, the figure disappeared.
“Harry?” Ron’s voice echoed down the corridor, bringing him back to reality. “You coming?”
He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe deeply.
“Yeah, I... I’m coming,” he answered, trying to hide the tension in his voice.
With one last glance at the empty corner of the room, Harry turned and followed his friends, but the image of that macabre smile remained stamped on his mind.
Harry decided it would be better not to tell his friends anything.
They were already worried and tense enough. Mentioning that he was seeing things wouldn’t help at all and would only make it worse. Hearing the monster’s ghastly whispers in the corridors, living with the tension of the petrifications daily and reliving those memories in the diary of the Heir of Slytherin himself... all of this was affecting him more than he liked to admit.
Jacob accompanied them, keeping a certain distance. He was quiet and always kept an impenetrable expression, trained not to reveal emotions.
As they walked, Neville tried to cheer the group with stories about the Mandrakes and how they were almost ready to be harvested.
“They’re huge,” he said, with a shy smile. “I think they’ll cure everyone in no time. Now that they’re adults they get more dangerous if handled carelessly, but they’re also less unstable than in their teenage phase.”
Harry only murmured assent as he let the three friends chat. Time and again he caught himself looking back, at the windows, at the depths of the corridors, anywhere someone might be watching him from.
And at a certain moment, he was sure he heard an indecipherable whispered voice just behind his nape.
He turned quickly and saw nothing, no one.
He swallowed and carried on trying to act normal.
Hermione and Ron parted from them, and the rest of the way was quieter, with Harry and Neville remaining silent.
Upon reaching the greenhouses, Neville opened the door carefully, and the fresh, damp air enfolded them. The plants swayed gently, and the distant sound of wind in the trees brought a measure of calm. Harry felt a little more relieved, but even so, his eyes raked the corners of the greenhouse, as if he expected to see something — or someone — hidden among the leaves.
Tonks appeared soon after and joined them. Neville invited her to stay, and she accepted with a smile.
“I’m dreadful at Herbology, just saying,” she remarked, adjusting the sleeves of her robes.
“That’s not what I heard,” Neville replied, with a timid smile. “If not for that, you’d probably still be scrubbing toilets ’til graduation, from what you told us.”
Tonks laughed, a light, carefree sound that echoed through the greenhouse.
“All right, fair point,” she admitted, holding out her hand, “pass the watering can, then.”
Harry, however, was still distracted, looking about frequently.
Tonks noticed his odd behaviour, but said nothing, limiting herself to watching him from a distance with a keen eye.
“Harry?” Neville called him.
“Hm?”
“All right?”
“Ah... sure,” Harry cleared his throat, trying to look normal, running a hand through his untidy hair.
“Shall we start?” Neville asked, picking up a pair of gloves and holding them out to him.
Harry took them with a nod, trying to focus on the task before him.
Neville hummed softly as they worked — and thanks to the singing lessons his gran had forced on him, he really was a good singer; his voice was gentle, almost melodic.
Tonks even complimented him, leaving his cheeks hot and red with embarrassment.
As he watered the Mandrakes — now truly much larger, their green leaves spilling over the sides of the pots — Harry felt a little of the tension ease. The manual work, the scent of soil and the sound of leaves stirring in the wind were comforting, if only for a moment.
Even so, at the back of his mind, that dark smile still haunted him. It felt as though he was always being watched.
Harry wrestled with himself over whether or not to tell Neville what he was seeing, but decided not to worry his friend.
He noticed Neville was far too happy tending the Mandrakes; bringing it up would spoil the lighter mood. Besides, strangely, even if he’d wanted to, he didn’t seem able to talk about it.
Only he seemed to see Tom, so it would be useless to trouble the others.
To his relief, Hermione, Ron and Neville joined him shortly afterwards, flatly refusing to eat in the Great Hall without him. They preferred to share a simple but comforting meal in the common room.
It was almost night when Hermione and Ron returned from dinner to the library. The curfew — though brought forward for safety reasons — had not yet sounded.
The rest of the few students who had stayed there had already gone. Hermione thanked her own sharpness in not calling Harry and Neville to the library when three of Slytherin’s biggest gossips were on the other side of the room, watching them.
Madam Pince had been summoned to a meeting with Professor McGonagall to settle the bureaucratic details of closing the library, but they’d been given permission to stay under the supervision of Penelope Clearwater, who, as a Prefect, had the authority to do so and didn’t mind leaving them there.
It was, in theory, a safe place.
“I’ll be studying over there if you need me — and when I leave, you’ll come with me,” said Penelope, with a slight smile.
She was one of the few who regarded Hermione as “nice” or “not so bossy”, since she also studied a great deal and was as passionate about the library as Hermione.
The Prefect was relatively distant, but her table was visible.
Penelope studied alone, and Hermione felt a flicker of relief to realise she wasn’t the only one who studied for pleasure at Hogwarts, even with the school’s imminent closure.
She also identified a little with the older Ravenclaw who, besides being considered the best in her year, also had curly hair — slightly darker than her own — and was Muggle-born.
To Hermione’s eyes, Penelope was infinitely prettier than she was — the sixth-year had rounder curves and a more tapered face — but it didn’t bother her as much as it ought.
Ron, for his part, was asleep at the table, his cloak pulled over his head as he snored softly.
Hermione had already grown used to the sound, so it no longer disturbed her as she read everything she could to discover what the monster ravaging the school was. She thought it noble of him to keep her company, even though he hated being there.
She had made a list of over fifty creatures capable of petrifying witches, wizards and small animals, like cats, without killing them.
More than a third had already been quickly ruled out, as they caused temporary petrifications or used that ability to defend themselves from predators, not to attack.
But the more creatures she crossed off the colourful list — divided by danger categories — the more nervous and tense she became.
Her hands sweated as she thought of the most terrible possibilities. All the milder creatures, written in green, yellow and orange ink, had already been eliminated. Their names were struck through briskly.
Now, only the worst remained, noted in red, the most dangerous and lethal category.
While Hermione furrowed her brow, completely focused on the book before her, a movement at her side made her glance away for a brief moment.
Ron was waking, his face creased with sleep and a bad-tempered grimace.
“Argh... I’ve got a backache,” he grumbled, rubbing his lower back as if he’d just fallen off a broomstick.
“The library isn’t a place to sleep,” said Hermione without taking her eyes off the page.
“Makes sense,” Ron muttered, stretching his arms lazily. “Any progress?”
Hermione sighed, running her fingers along the corner of the page before turning to the next.
“Yes... but still not as much as I’d like.” She turned one more page, finding nothing of interest. “I’m between a few options, but I want to be sure before I say anything.”
Ron nodded, scratching his nape.
“Well, in that case, I’m off to the loo. I know you wander too much as it is, so don’t leave that chair till I’m back,” he said, shooting her a teasing look.
Hermione sniffed a laugh and waved distractedly, already immersed in her reading again.
Ron stood up, yawning as he moved away, but when he reached halfway, he hesitated and turned back to her.
“Uh... Hermione?”
“Yes?” Hermione raised her eyes, curious.
“Don’t you think it’s weird that Harry can hear that thing?”
“Of course I do. Why?”
Ron shrugged, trying to form something in his mind that made sense.
“Dunno... First I said it was a dragon, but that'd be a bit absurd, wouldn't it? Now, a snake? Well, that makes more sense... I mean, the Chamber of Secrets belonged to Slytherin's founder, and they've got snakes all over the emblem, the decorations...”
Hermione pressed her lips together, her mind making connections a thousand miles an hour.
“I know exactly where you're going with this, Ron, and it was the first thing that occurred to me as well,” she said, drumming her fingers on the book-laden table. “But would it be that obvious? It's one possibility, yes, but we can't rule all the others out so quickly. It could be a vast array of creatures and species — just look how many are catalogued in here.”
She gestured to the various hefty tomes stacked beside her, volumes that detailed the most diverse magical creatures, from the merely strange to the profoundly dangerous and lethally venomous.
“But, like, there's this specific snake...” he continued, his face lighting up with the effort of dredging up a distant memory. “I don't remember its name. Charlie told me the legend at one of those bonfires we used to have in the garden. It was so scary I couldn't sleep all night. But I remember him saying the giant snake had killed everyone in a village with a weird name, definitely not English...”
“That's rather broad,” said Hermione, sounding a bit unhappy, as she flipped through more pages of bestiaries. “It could be any giant snake from a dozen different legends, but I take your point.”
“I know it's not much,” Ron shrugged, scratching his arm as if the memory itself made him uncomfortable. “But it was right nasty, the story. The Chamber of Secrets was a bit of a legend too until now, wasn't it? I wouldn't put it past this thing to be real an' all.”
“While I trust your intuition, and it does make sense on some level,” Hermione commented, “I'd rather make sure all other possibilities have been reviewed. But I'll save this story, it might be important.”
“Well, you’re the one leading this whole investigation thing.” He gave a roguish smile. “I’m just the cheerleader.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow, not understanding what he meant.
“Cheerleader? But you'd have to get pom-poms and...”
Ron rolled his eyes and, with a dramatic sigh, pretended to hold two imaginary pom-poms, shaking them exaggeratedly like a cheerleader in the middle of a routine.
“Satisfied?”
“Ah, Merlin I should have a camera,” Hermione gave a little laugh, shaking her head. “Harry and Neville would certainly like to know that we have the group's cheerleader.”
Ron waved his hand at her as if he didn't care what she was saying, though he did manage a smirk.
“Anyway, I dunno. It’s just an idea,” Ron scratched his arm. “Sometimes things are more obvious than they look, like when you know Snape’s going to give a horrible lesson and be a right pain before he’s even set foot in the classroom.”
“It’s an idea that makes a lot of sense, I agree,” Hermione said, “even though I think Salazar wouldn't have been that pragmatic about that sort of choice, he was already a bit mad by that point.”
Then he turned his back and headed for the exit, dragging his feet a little.
As soon as he disappeared through the door, Hermione laced her fingers over the cover of the heavy book in front of her, closing her eyes for a brief moment to concentrate.
“Right, Hermione. What haven’t we checked yet?” she said to herself, in a whisper that echoed through the empty library.
She had always had the habit of talking to herself since she was little, when books were her only friends. It was her way of organising her thoughts. It helped her set her ideas in order, to silence the inner chaos.
“According to what Peeves said,” she began again, opening her eyes and fixing them on a distant point on the shelf, “the creature is big, it’s fast for its size, it’s got green skin and... it makes a dragging sound... a dragging sound?”
She pursed her lips, passing the quill over them thoughtfully.
“How does this thing get around the castle without anyone seeing it?” she asked aloud, her voice echoing softly between the stacks.
It was then that an idea arose, clear and sudden.
According to Hogwarts: A History, the old pipes and conduits of the castle — built before modern vanishment charms for waste existed — were so big and wide that a person could stand upright in the central systems with extreme ease.
“A person... or something bigger.” She murmured under her breath.
She pulled from her bag a fresh piece of clean parchment — the one she’d been using before was completely covered in scribbles and theories. At the top of the page, she wrote in her firm, precise hand:
Probably uses Hogwarts’ pipes.
“Ron’s got a point,” she murmured, nibbling the tip of the quill. “Harry can hear this monster... but only he can? As far as we know, yes, only he does. Well, let’s say only he can, and there isn’t anyone else hearing it who’s kept quiet... in that case, either it’s another ability he has and doesn’t know — which would be unlikely — or he can hear it because the creature really is a...”
Hermione stopped mid-sentence, her quill poised in the air. Her eyes widened as they fell on her previous notes.
A name, written in bright red ink on the white parchment days ago, made her shiver.
It was the worst of the options, the most terrible of all.
She was stubbornly trying to take this option seriously, especially given its gravity. It was as if her mind, in a veiled panic, was trying to prevent her from seeing this option and making excuses to never follow her intuition.
Hermione preferred logic to intuition, but now, she seemed to be being overcome by her instincts.
“It couldn’t be, could it?” she thought.
With almost frantic movements, she began to set down every clue she knew on the page, from the first petrification to the most recent descriptions of the events Harry had witnessed inside the cursed diary.
She blinked a few times, her brain working at breakneck speed.
“Perhaps... perhaps I was wrong about this possibility?” she questioned herself, her heart racing. “It’s a horrible option... is that why I didn’t see it?”
Everything began to slot together with a frightening clarity. The pieces of the puzzle joined to form a terrifying picture.
She remembered strangely specific things that had happened that year, events that could have been actions by the Heir to protect his creature.
The roosters mysteriously killed, for example — that was still a hushed-up event. Hagrid would be afraid to tell and incriminate himself further, and Filch... well, Filch wouldn’t care enough to report it.
“But the Aurors probably know that, they have to know,” she answered herself, her voice a logical whisper. “But dead roosters is an isolated event. On its own it changes nothing. Roosters are threats to various creatures, including those that like to kill them just for sport, like Galipolos.”
The Galipolos were another option for a deadly creature she had considered and were even on her list.
They were humanoid beings, hunched, with gelatinous, slimy skin, excellent swimmers. They had large claws that worked almost like razors to slice prey and a fishlike mouth with three rows of sharp teeth to tear victims apart. They lived hidden in waters — fresh or salt, it didn’t matter — or in wet mud-burrows they dug. Although able to walk on land, to run they were forced to drag their feet that looked like flippers. They loved killing roosters and rabbits for sheer sadistic pleasure and petrified their victims with a psychic attack.
For some obscure reason, they fed on Grindylows and cephalopods like squids and octopuses, but wizards were also on their menu.
It was, in fact, a plausible suspect. And a very dangerous one.
Hermione did not doubt that the Aurors might have it on their list. By the record, Hogwarts had a huge lake beside the castle. The creature was green — and perhaps they wouldn’t take Peeves’s exaggeration about the size so seriously — and it could easily have gone to Hagrid’s hut to kill the roosters and returned to some hideout.
Hermione took the Galipolo into serious consideration. But although it was classified as a Wizard-Killer and Remorseless Murderer, with the worst rating for a magical creature, and incredibly fit many of the clues, it did not explain one in particular.
“The spiders...” Hermione murmured, finding another crucial piece in this mad jigsaw.
At every scene of petrification, the spiders were always fleeing, always in panic. And Galipolos did not inspire specific terror in spiders... but another creature, far older and far worse, did.
Her heart began to beat faster.
She pulled one of the heaviest, oldest books in the pile closer, with a faded dark-green leather cover with detailing and lettering in gold almost worn away — Compendium of Magical Serpents by Frederick Grantim — and began to leaf through it nervously, her hands trembling. Of the various options for magical serpents, based on all the clues gathered, it could only be this one.
Hermione's fingers flew through the pages quickly, making a gentle whirlwind until she reached the correct page, in the exact middle of the old tome.
Unlike the others which had standard layouts, these had margins outlined with scaled borders and a nobler appearance, as if this serpent were the most imposing of the entire compendium.
A magnificently detailed and frightening illustration of a huge greenish serpent, with scales that seemed to drip venom, full of dagger-sharp teeth and with a yellow, utterly deadly gaze, was drawn on the left-hand page.
A title written in dark, Gothic letters crowned the image:
The King of Serpents.
On the right-hand page, a long and detailed description began with the name:
BASILISK.
In a specific passage of the description, a warning leapt to Hermione’s eyes, written in big, scarlet letters that seemed to scream from the page:
DANGER = XXXXX
The XXXXX danger level, she knew, was the highest and most fearsome rating granted to magical creatures. Such creatures were known as wizard-killers, often killing for pure pleasure or instinct.
Besides that, they were impossible to tame. Even so, there were always exceptions.
Hermione continued reading, her voice now a trembling, horrified whisper as her eyes devoured every word:
Born from a chicken’s egg hatched by a toad under the light of a waning moon. The creature was first conceived by Herpo the Foul in his dark hideout on the island of Crete during Ancient Greece, and remains one of the most terrible and deadly creatures ever recorded in the annals of Dark magic.
Herpo, born a Parselmouth, could fully control his basilisk through Parseltongue. Just as any other Parselmouth is capable not only of communicating with a basilisk, but also of mastering and commanding it, that is, provided the creature does not already have a master.
Although extremely rare, there have been famous and catastrophic cases of its creation and use by Dark wizards over the centuries, such as the infamous Massacre of 1287 in the wizarding village of Lóngyǐn Zhèn, in China, perpetrated by the powerful Parselmouth and Dark wizard Zhao, self-styled “Lord of Serpents”, who used a basilisk to annihilate the entire population of the village in a single night.
Its methods of attack are among the most extraordinary and deadly in the wizarding world: besides its extremely venomous fangs, the basilisk possesses a lethal direct gaze. Any living being who fixes eyes directly upon its own will suffer an almost instant, agonising death. Those who see its eyes indirectly — through a reflection in water, in a mirror, or a polished surface — will be petrified indefinitely, in a state of suspended animation, unless treated with the Mandrake Restorative Draught.
As it is a creature born of a magical aberration against nature, it suffers deeply adverse magical effects from its origin, and therefore its greatest weakness is the crowing of a rooster.
And then, the final words that seemed to burn on the page:
KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. RUN IF YOU SEE ONE. THERE IS NO GLORY IN DYING TO A BASILISK. DEATH WILL BE CERTAIN, SWIFT AND HORRIBLE.
The blood drained completely from Hermione’s face, leaving it as pale as the parchment she held. Her lips trembled, her eyes wide, fixed on the words that confirmed her worst nightmare: this was the creature.
Ron, in his simple intuition, had been right.
“My God...” she let the air out in a shocked breath, the quill falling from her inert fingers and rolling across the table. “It can only be.”
A mortal shiver ran down her spine.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, and all her senses sharpened in an instant of pure, raw terror.
Hermione lifted her eyes from her studies, blinking several times to reorient herself.
How long had she been submerged alone in those books?
She couldn’t say.
She had the old habit of forgetting the world entirely when she studied something deeply, spending hours as if they were mere minutes without even noticing — a direct result of years of intensive, solitary study throughout her academic life.
The library’s silence, once comforting and familiar, now seemed laden with an invisible, palpable threat. For the first time, she noticed that the only light around her came from the solitary lamp over her table, the rest of the vast hall plunged into oppressive, profound darkness — with the exception of the Lumos Penelope was using at her seat — the tall shelves casting threatening silhouettes against the walls.
And then, a question emerged in her mind like lightning, cutting through the fog of her concentration:
“Where’s Ron?”
He’d said he was going to the loo... but it had been some time now, right? Far too long.
It was at that moment of mounting alarm that Hermione felt something cold and wet at her feet. Looking down, she froze instantly.
Water.
A dark, cold puddle was creeping towards her shoes, spreading across the stone floor as if someone — or something — had opened a giant tap in the depths of the castle.
Or worse, as if it had come straight from Hogwarts’ own pipes.
In the total silence around her, Hermione heard what sounded like the muffled beginning of a scream that never finished, followed immediately by a chair scraping and something soft and heavy hitting the floor with a dull, sinister thud.
ssssssSSSS...
A long, drawn-out hiss echoed in the darkness, as sharp and threatening as a keen blade sliding over stone.
Hermione whirled round with a start, her heart leaping to her throat.
The trembling light of a wand fallen on the floor, dimly illuminating an area near the Astronomy shelves, was slowly fading. The place where, seconds earlier, Penelope Clearwater, the Ravenclaw Prefect, had been seated studying.
Her stomach lurched violently. The air fled her lungs as if she’d been punched.
Fear — pure, primal and absolute — froze her in place, merciless. She knew that paralysing sensation — she had felt something similar in her first year, cornered by a mountain troll in the girls’ bathroom.
But this time it was infinitely worse.
Far worse.
Because this time, the monster wasn’t a stupid troll that would bash anything that moved. This time, the monster spoke the language of snakes, was guided by a malignant intelligence and, she knew with an icy certainty, had a very definite target.
Her.
There was movement in the darkest corner of the library, a shifting of shadows.
Hermione saw only a glimpse — something colossal, sinuous, sliding between the stacks on the far side of the library. It was far too big, far too long, a dark shape that took up almost all the space between the tall shelves.
She averted her eyes at once, smothering a sharp intake of pure terror with her hand over her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird trying to escape.
“If I look, I die.” Her survival instinct screamed inside her mind, a terrifying mantra.
Her rational mind screamed at her to run, to hide, to do anything — but her body flatly refused to obey. She was trapped in absolute terror, unable to move a single muscle, her legs shaking in an almost uncontrollable way.
Then, in the back of her mind, like a distant but powerful echo, a familiar voice rang out like thunder:
“HERMIONE, RUN!”
It was Harry.
It was as if he, wherever he was, inside her own head, were trying to wake her again, as he had in that bathroom with the troll, an eternity ago.
She gasped, the shock of that imaginary voice — or was it? — breaking the trance of fear that held her.
The monster of the Chamber of Secrets was there. A few paces from her. And if she didn’t do something now, she wouldn’t leave there alive.
ssssSSSSS....
The sound of the ghastly hiss was now heading towards the only exit she knew. It would be deadly folly to try to go that way.
With trembling hands that barely obeyed, Hermione, in an act of pure instinct and haste, tore out the two crucial pages of the book she was reading — one with the creature’s horrible illustration and the other with the deadly description — trying to make as little noise as possible. She also grabbed her sheet of notes, where she briefly explained about the pipes.
Without hesitating, she drew her wand and murmured a transfiguration charm as quickly and silently as she could.
In seconds, a mirror materialised in front of her — rough, dull and full of imperfections, but functional.
She could not risk looking directly at the monster. She knew she would die instantly if she did.
Placing the torn papers in each pocket of her robes, clutching her wand tightly in one hand and holding the shaky mirror in the other, she began to move.
Crouched, almost crawling, she slunk between the shelves in the deep dark, every fibre of her body screaming to run — but she knew, with a visceral certainty, that any sudden movement, any noise, could seal her fate in an instant.
ssssSSSSSSS….
Another hiss, louder, closer. The basilisk was hunting. Actively.
Hermione crawled with extreme care, keeping the mirror tilted before her, trying to see her surroundings reflected without risking a direct look. Her heart beat so loud and fast she was absolutely certain the creature could hear it, that frantic drum of terror.
The basilisk was there. Closer. She could feel its presence, a palpable malignancy in the air.
sssSSSSSSSS...
Another hiss dragged through the heavy air, reverberating between the wooden shelves and turning the once-familiar library into a terrifying maze of threatening shadows. The wet, heavy sound of its body sliding over the stone floor grew louder and closer.
Even knowing that place like the back of her hand — every little corner, every shortcut — Hermione’s mind was now fogged and muddled by panic.
She slipped behind a particularly dense row of books, pressing her back to the solid wood of the shelf, and squeezed herself against it, trying to make herself as small as possible, holding her breath until it hurt.
“If I make a sound, I’m dead.” She thought it, the thought cold and clear amid the turmoil of panic, fighting not to succumb entirely to the horror.
She heard something very heavy sliding over the stone floor behind her — on the exact other side of the shelf where she was leaning. The sound was coming closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
She pressed the improvised mirror to her chest as if it were a talisman.
If she looked at the basilisk now, she might know exactly where the creature was going, might have a crucial advantage. But what if the creature also noticed the mirror’s movement? What if it sensed her indirect gaze?
Seconds dragged like hours in slow motion.
SSSSSSSSSS.....
The hiss was very close.
Hermione felt her whole body shrink involuntarily. Now, every inch of her being trembled uncontrollably.
Swallowing hard, she raised the mirror with her trembling hand, very slowly, millimetre by millimetre, and turned it towards the dark aisle between the shelves.
Even in the near-total darkness — lit only by a few silver rays of moonlight filtering through the high windows — the dull glass reflected indistinct outlines, blurred by the hasty transfiguration.
At first, only dancing shadows.
Then, something moved.
Something huge.
A gigantic, triangular serpent’s head, covered in dark green scales.
Hermione had no time to process it, to react.
On the other side of the mirror, two enormous yellow eyes, with slit vertical pupils, met her own reflected in the pane.
It lasted an instant. An infinitesimal fraction of a second.
A wave of absolute ice swept through her from head to toe. All the air fled her lungs in a silent gasp. Her wand froze in her numb fingers, impossible to loose or move. An overwhelming torpor, heavy and implacable, took her completely, as if she were being pulled into a black, icy whirlpool of unconsciousness.
The mirror reflected her own expression, frozen in a moment of pure, absolute shock, her mouth open in a silent scream, her brown eyes wide as they faced the creature’s yellow ones.
Her sight darkened in shades of grey even before her body, now rigid as a statue, toppled heavily onto the cold floor.
And then, only silence.
Hermione Granger was petrified.
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Jhtolsen on Chapter 2 Wed 12 Mar 2025 12:56PM UTC
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bellairestrella on Chapter 2 Wed 12 Mar 2025 08:30AM UTC
Last Edited Wed 12 Mar 2025 08:37AM UTC
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Jhtolsen on Chapter 2 Wed 12 Mar 2025 01:16PM UTC
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Mr_YK_Potter on Chapter 2 Sat 15 Mar 2025 02:45AM UTC
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HeadlessThompson (Guest) on Chapter 2 Wed 26 Mar 2025 10:39PM UTC
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Jhtolsen on Chapter 2 Thu 27 Mar 2025 01:52AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 27 Mar 2025 01:56AM UTC
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HeadlessThompson (Guest) on Chapter 2 Thu 27 Mar 2025 06:51AM UTC
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SWHPfan on Chapter 2 Mon 09 Jun 2025 02:46PM UTC
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