The Path Chosen

1 September, 1996.

Harry’s eyes tracked the barren moors of Northern England that seemed to stretch on to no vanishing point. Sunshine was scarce today; the Hogwarts Express was churning furiously on this overcast, drizzly first of September, though the sound of the engine didn’t quite reach his ears… Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting in a compartment they’d been lucky enough to hunt out. 

Ron and Hermione had had to carry out their Prefect duties upon departure and had only joined Harry later. For a while, there had been seldom conversation exchanged. Hermione was currently indulging herself in her thick Advanced Rune Translation tome, and Ron was mindlessly playing his fingers through Harry’s Invisibility Cloak… Until Harry suddenly dropped the non-sequitur he’d been mulling over for the last three hours.

“Don’t you see, it was a ceremony. An initiation.” 

Hermione didn’t even bother looking up, turning a page. “Stop, Harry, I know where you’re going with this —”

“It’s happened. He’s one of them.” 

“Huh? One of what?” Ron stirred.

“Harry is under the impression that Draco Malfoy is now a Death Eater.” 

Ron straightened up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You’re barking. What would You Know-Who want with a sod like Malfoy?” 

“So what’s he doing in Borgin and Burkes? Browsing for furniture?” said Harry dryly, only for Ron to shrug. 

“It’s a creepy shop. He’s a creepy bloke.”

“ Look . His father’s a Death Eater. It only makes sense—”

There was a sudden, dull snap as Hermione closed her book. “Oh, for goodness sake, Harry, not this again! We’ve been over this — we don’t know what we saw. You can’t just jump to such conclusions.”

Harry was actually starting to feel indignant. He already knew that Malfoy was a Death Eater, but he hadn’t told anyone how he’d come to know it. He didn’t think it would be wise to mention the whole vision incident, and moreover it was his irrational fear that his friends might get creeped out or start worrying if they knew his mind had slipped into Voldemort’s earlier this summer.

So, he was trying to prove to them that Malfoy was a Death Eater in a different way. Unfortunately, both Ron and Hermione were just as unwilling to listen as they had been whenever he’d brought up the topic over the remainder of the summer.

At least he’d mentioned his suspicions to Mr. Weasely before boarding the Hogwarts Express. He could find solace in that.

“I’m not,” argued Harry stubbornly. “But really, Hermione, you can’t tell me whatever Malfoy was doing there wasn’t dodgy. Besides, it wasn’t only him there. There were other Death Eaters there, too—”

“Harry! Will. You. Stop. It!” cried Hermione indignantly, emphasizing every word by hitting her book against her lap. “Yes, I agree that it was ‘dodgy’ and that he was probably up to no good… But it’s not our job to investigate this. I think…” She visibly bit her bottom lip. It took her a moment, then she looked into his eyes warily. “I think… you may be a little obsessed with this…”

Harry suddenly rose and gathered his Cloak from Ron’s hands. 

“Oh, Harry, don’t take it like that…”

“I need some air.”

The compartment door had just shut closed behind him when Ron’s voice emanated from inside, going, “‘Don’t take it like that’? Sure is something…”

“Well, it’s true,” rang Hermione’s curt reply. 

But however their conversation continued, Harry didn’t stick around to find out. In fact, he was intent on going to find an empty compartment to think. He was just about to swing his Cloak around his shoulders— when he suddenly felt something bump into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

“S— Sorry—” said a breathless Third-Year girl. Harry quickly helped her off the floor, assuring her there was no harm done. Once she’d regained her breath, she held out a scroll of parchment tied with violet ribbon. “I’m supposed to deliver this to Harry Po— Potter,” she stuttered out. There was quite a prominent blush on her cheeks as she met his eyes, then quickly averted her own.

“Oh. Uh… Thanks,” said Harry, taking the letter. No sooner had he accepted it than the girl nodded awkwardly and fled down the narrow corridor. 

Curious and perplexed at the same time, Harry unfurled the scroll.

Harry, 

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C. 

Sincerely, 

Professor H.E.F. Slughorn

~***~

 “Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?” beamed Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies. “Now tell me . . .” 

Whatever Harry had been expecting to find upon Slughorn’s letter, it was far from what he could only describe as a fan club. He, along with Ginny, Blaise Zabini, Marcus Belby, and Cormac McLaggen, were sitting in Slughorn’s rather spacious compartment. Everyone here seemed to have been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential — everyone except Ginny. 

Zabini, who had been interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold). 

As for Neville — it had been a very uncomfortable ten minutes while Slughorn had ranted about his parents, well-known Aurors, who had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of other Death Eaters. At the end of Neville’s interview, Harry had had the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents’ flair.

Harry sat tensely. He knew and dreaded his turn, which he knew was impending, like a ticking time-bomb. Unfortunately, leaving politely didn’t really seem possible… 

The sky outside was slowly turning to dusk, a pretty pink-orange gradient fading into the horizon as the clouds had cleared up, so he knew he’d been here for some time…  Sitting right across from him was Ginny; from the resting look on her face, he thought it perfectly conveyed that she would rather be listening to Professor Binns droning on about goblin riots than to be here. 

At precisely that moment, her hazel eyes darted to meet his, Slughorn still ranting in the background. Ginny pressed her lips together and gave him a small, bored shrug. Harry didn’t know why, but this caught him a bit off-guard, and for a moment he struggled to react. But at that very moment, Slughorn’s voice redirected his attention.

“And now,” he began grandiosely, shifting massively in his seat with the air of a compere introducing his star act, “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched the surface when we met over the summer!” He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, “‘The Chosen One,’ they’re calling you now!” 

Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him. 

“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching the boy closely, “there have been rumors for years. . . I remember when — well — after that terrible night — Lily — James — and you survived — and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary—” 

Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism. But then, an angry voice burst. 

“Yeah, Zabini, because you’re so talented . . . at posing. . . .” 

“Oh dear!” chuckled Slughorn comfortably, looking around at Ginny, who was glaring at Zabini around Slughorn’s great belly. “You want to be careful, Blaise! I saw this young lady perform the most marvelous Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I wouldn’t cross her!” 

This seemed to shut the Slytherin up, thankfully, who merely looked contemptuous with quite a flush. Harry tried to smother his sudden urge to snigger.

“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. “ Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn’t know what to believe; the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes — but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!” 

Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him. 

“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond — you were there, then? But the rest of the stories — so sensational, of course, one doesn’t know quite what to believe — this fabled prophecy, for instance —” 

“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it. 

“That’s right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual.” 

“You were both there too, were you?” said Slughorn with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but both of them sat clamlike before his encouraging smile. “Yes . . . well . . . it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course. . . .” Slughorn said, sounding a little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling me (Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies) —” 

He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by Neville and Ginny (towards whom Harry felt great pride and gratitude swelling in his chest.)

The late afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug Club” at Hogwarts. And though Harry, technically, hadn’t joined yet, he hoped he never would.

Finally the train emerged from yet another long, misty stretch of forest and onto a tall bridge stretching over a ravine, giving view of the now dark-red sunset over the black tree-top outlines. Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight. 

“Good gracious, it’s getting dark already! I didn’t notice that they’d lit the lamps! You’d better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails. Harry, Blaise — any time you’re passing. Same goes for you, miss,” he twinkled at Ginny, who in turn gave him a quick, polite smile. 

“Well, off you go, off you go!” 

Harry wasted not a moment in rising, but apparently he wasn’t the only one eager to leave. As Zabini pushed past him into the darkening corridor, the Slytherin shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. And now along with Ginny and Neville, they went a separate way back along the train. 

“I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Neville, expelling a gust of air. “Strange man, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry. “How come you ended up in there, Ginny?” 

Were it not so dark, he would have sworn he saw a trace of a smirk on her face. “Oh, yeah. He saw me hex Zacharias Smith,” said Ginny. “You remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened at the Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so much I hexed him — when Slughorn came in I thought I was going to get detention, but he just thought it was a really good hex and invited me to lunch! Mad, eh?” 

“Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother’s famous,” said Harry darkly, scowling at the thought of Zabini, “or because their uncle —” But he broke off. An idea had just occurred to him, a reckless but potentially wonderful idea. . . . 

In a minute’s time, Zabini was going to reenter the Slytherin sixth-year compartment and Malfoy would be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody except fellow Slytherins. . . . If Harry could only enter, unseen, behind him, what might he not see or hear? True, there was little of the journey left — Hogsmeade Station had to be less than half an hour away, judging by the wildness of the scenery flashing by the windows —

But it was Malfoy. He was up to something; it was clear as day! What would it hurt to discover something potentially useful?

Though his conscience had different plans. It replayed Snape’s words in his head, perfectly on cue. The exact same ones he’d remembered in Diagon Alley:

“…It is imperative that you do not, in any way or sense, try to meddle or interfere with Mr. Malfoy’s mission… Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong… Not to meddle in affairs that are not your own or do not concern you. I am asking you to trust me… ”

But had Harry directly promised Snape?

No. His exact words to Snape had been ‘I’ll try’.

So, damn his conscience. He’d already gone to Knockturn Alley — from that, who wasn’t to assume the blond might be bringing some cursed artefact or other forbidden toy or plan with him to Hogwarts? Harry couldn’t miss out on this opportunity. This could be invaluable information for the Order, for all he knew.

“I’ll see you two later,” said Harry under his breath, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak and flinging it over himself. 

“But what’re you — ?” asked Neville. 

“Later!” he whispered, darting down the opposite direction after Zabini as quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train made such caution almost pointless. Fortunately, the corridors were almost completely empty now. Nearly every one had returned to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack up their possessions… He emerged in a carriage with no separate compartments, only seats, and spotted out Malfoy’s and Zabini’s heads straight away. Only problem was — he had no way of getting closer without increasing his chances of getting exposed.

Unless…

Moments later, chaos erupted. The carriage became enshrouded in thick, black smoke. Students started coughing, crying out — but no one was the wiser of the Lion amongst the Snakes, deftly pulling himself up onto a baggage shelf right above Zabini’s head.

“Relax, boys,” said a girl Harry recognized as Pansy Parkinson. “The lights went out, is all. Come, Draco. You won’t have time to change. We’ll be at Hogwarts before you know it.” 

Malfoy was on his feet, cynically looking around with his wand clutched in his hand. Harry thought he looked like he was preparing himself to duel… Parkinson patted his seat encouragingly. But before the blond plopped himself back down, his eyes briefly darted to the bag right beside Harry’s foot. 

“Hogwarts. What a pathetic excuse for a school. I think I’d pitch myself off the Astronomy Tower if I thought I had to continue on for another two years,” Malfoy muttered while Parkinson was stroking his hair, gently twisting one of his locks. She suddenly stopped.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s just say I don’t think you’ll be seeing me wasting my time in Charms Class next year.”

Harry watched a confused Parkinson glance at Blaise, who snorted derisively. 

“Amused, Blaise? We’ll see just who’s laughing in the end…” 

Blaise shook his head, smiling as he looked out the window at the darkness. Just then, to the concealed Gryffindor’s horror, he felt his foot accidentally collide against a bag. Malfoy’s eyes played over it, narrowing just slightly…

Not before long, the Hogwarts Express was pulling to a stop, sending the engine wheezing. Zabini and Parkinson rose to leave along with the other students slowly filing out, but to Harry's confusion and surprise, Malfoy took down a bag from the rack above him, gripping the handle thoughtfully, but seemed to be refusing to leave.

“You two go on. I want to check something,” he said. 

Harry dared not to breathe. He only prayed that, by some Merlin-sent miracle—

Malfoy slid shut the door to the carriage once everyone had filed out. He next let the blinds down… A beat—  

“Didn’t Mummy ever tell you it’s bad manners to eavesdrop, Potter? Petrificus Totalus!” The blond wheeled around, pointing his wand at the luggage rack. His hand only halfway to his holstered wand, Harry felt his body go rigid, and then the world was spinning, ending with a loud and painful thump . 

The Invisibility Cloak was stripped off him. Paralyzed on the floor, Harry stared into Malfoy’s cold, grey eyes. And meanwhile, the Slytherin grinned.

”Oh, right, she was dead before you could wipe the drool off your chin.”

Crunch.

Fire-hot pain seared from Harry’s nose to his skull. For a moment, he saw fireworks sparking in his vision. Now, something warm and irony was oozing down the side of his face.

Malfoy was already snatching up the Invisibility Cloak and pitching it over Harry. 

“That’s for my father. Enjoy the ride back to London.”

~***~

As they annually did, the students began to spill into the Great Hall, taking their seats amongst their peers at their respective tables. From the teachers’ podium, Severus’ eyes scrupulously scanned over the sea of heads, mainly searching out two particular ones…

Something about this year felt different… odd… A feeling that left Severus on-edge. It was a forbidding feeling; one, he noticed, that seemed to have settled not only over him, but over the whole Hall, shared and palpable. Many students were glancing around with unmistakable concern, others with curiosity and suspicion. Severus spotted many keeping to groups; it uncannily reminded him of Diagon Alley. From Albus Dumbledore’s report, many students’ parents had decided to withdraw their children from attending this year — a testament of this were the several empty seats at each table when practically everyone was already seated..

Fools if they think they are safer in their homes than here. 

And just then, something caught Severus’ eye — there he was: Draco, walking through the heavy oak doors just as they were being shut. Though curiously enough, he wasn’t accompanied by any of his close Slytherin peers. Parkinson and Zabini spotted him and beckoned him an invite with their heads, both already seated. As the blond trudged his way to them, his grey eyes met Severus’. It was a fleeting moment…

But one that left quite an impression on Severus. He’d tried to use Legilimency on the boy, but it had failed… Perhaps due to the distance. 

He would brood on his suspicions later.

Severus’ gaze next quickly darted over to the Gryffindor table. As expected, there was that usual mass of redheads bunched together, paired with Granger’s bushy hair…

But no Potter.

Scanning the rest of the Great Hall, the bespectacled boy was nowhere to be seen. The last students filing in were quickly taking their seats, and just then the massive oak doors were closed shut.

A premonition settled in Severus’ gut, churning within uncomfortably. He looked back at Weasley and Granger, who were turning their heads, evident confusion — and in Granger’s case, concern — written on their faces.

Severus glanced at Dumbledore. Their eyes met, and between them a tacit message passed. He was already halfway out of his seat— when suddenly, a small orb of pale-blue light appeared. Unmistakably, it was a Patronus, fortunately not big enough to draw any of the chattering students’ attention. The orb floated to the Headmaster, and once it had diminished, Severus approached, ignoring the curious stares of the other professors.

“Severus. Miss Tonks is with Harry down by the gates. Do be so kind as to escort him here,” said the aged wizard quietly. 

Severus needed no further instruction. He left the Great Hall through the back door and strode through the castle outside, mind brooding.

What on earth had Potter gotten himself into now? Utterly foolish, reckless— First Severus had seen him wandering near Knockturn Alley ( indubitably the three Gryffindors had gone in there! ), and now this, with Merlin-knew-what having happened. Severus’ mind was reeling with a myriad of potential possibilities: a dark artefact that had been smuggled onto the train by a student? A fight? An attack? Draco Malfoy’s doing?

It was a long fifteen-minute walk down to the gates. Or so it felt like, at least. The entire way down, his chest felt oddly constricted, that same feeling of a premonition having returned… Only when he spotted two figures on the other side of the gates, one shorter than the other, did his ribcage somehow feel lighter. 

Meanwhile, Harry internally blanched once he realized who the dark figure approaching them was. Dressed in his dark-purple suit and cloak, Snape stood before them on the other side of the gate, greasy hair, hooked nose, and all. His eyes immediately fell on Harry. And though it was dark and it was hard to tell, Harry could have sworn the man was taking in his appearance, studying him as if trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle. There was a glimmer of something in his tunnel-like eyes. Something akin to worry.

Well, considering Harry’s face was covered in his own blood and his nose was still searing (Tonks had just been about to fix it for him), it was a no-brainer as to why.

“Well, well, well,” sneered Snape, taking out his wand and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “Nice of you to turn up, Potter, although you have evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance.” 

“I couldn’t change, I didn’t have my —” Harry began, but Snape cut across him. 

“There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite — ah — safe in my hands.” 

“I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Tonks, frowning. 

“As it stands, Hagrid is late for the start-of-term feast, just like Potter here, and the Headmaster asked me to take it instead,” said Snape factly, standing back to allow Harry to pass him. He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they slithered, clinking, back into place. Without a single glance back, he spun on his heel and started down the path leading up to the castle, his long robes fluttering in his wake. Harry gave Tonks a fleeting glance back — she looked a tad flustered. 

“Good night,” Harry called to her over his shoulder, as he began the walk up to the school with Snape. “Thanks for . . . everything.” 

“See you, Harry.” 

…

Snape did not speak for a minute or so. Neither of them did...

Until they covered some distance from the gates, enshrouded in the pines’ darkness. And then, suddenly, Snape brandished his wand once again. An orb of light appeared at its tip. And before Harry had time to register that properly, he was suddenly being spun around by the shoulders. His eyes immediately met Snape’s dark ones, which were calculatingly scanning over his face with a definite note of turbulence in them. 

Harry held his breath. Snape’s lips thinned into a tight line, and his pupils dilated.

“Why is it you are always covered in blood?” he asked sufferingly. Snape was adjusting his grip over his ebony wand’s handle. Meanwhile, Harry stood a but confounded, caught off-guard by the question. It sounded so absurd that he could have laughed. 

Could have.

Meanwhile, Snape was still scrutinizing his face almost clinically… Harry’s green eyes tracked the wand cautiously.

“W— What are you—?”

“Hold still… Episkey !”

Crack!

“ —Augh!”

Stars and fireworks danced in his vision again, pain radiating throughout his skull. Keeled over, Harry tried to regain his composure.

“A warning would have been nice,” he grunted, voice thin.

“And a smidgen more conscientiousness from you,” remarked the professor’s taut voice, which then turned darker and colder. ”Where were you?”

Harry flippantly shrugged as he straightened up. So, it was back to ‘Potter’. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated it . 

“It’s a lovely evening, sir, thought I would explore the grounds,” he threw out casually.

Snape hummed. “How delightful . And I suppose you ran into a bit of a — ah — complication en-route?” 

“Suppose so, sir.”

“Insufficient answer. Try again.”

Something ugly settled in Harry’s stomach, a feeling of discomfort and regret. Anything he said could exacerbate matters, and he certainly didn’t want to start a whole debate about sodding Malfoy or anything here and now. It already sucked enough that his skull was on fire (though at least it felt fixed), and now his and Snape’s first interaction, after their last conversation a month ago, was already so… terse. 

Yes, off to a brilliant start.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The civil relationship he and Snape had somehow established over those two weeks was already fragile, and now it just felt like it was being held together by hair-thin tendrils.

What was more: ‘Potter’ — It was back to ‘Potter’. Snape was definitely pissed.

Classes hadn’t even started, and already things were off to a bad start.

“Really, sir. The feast is about to start, and I wouldn’t want to miss Professor Dumbledore’s speech…”

Harry had started hedging his way around Snape, but unfortunately made it only a few steps before a hand caught a fistfull of his sweater’s sleeve. 

“ Not so fast,” the Slytherin drawled smoothly. He looked at Harry calculatingly again, his brows knitted together. “We shall discuss this at a more opportune time, Potter. Have no doubt about it.”

Fan-bloody-tastic. But Harry didn’t pause to ponder his feelings; instead, the Gryffindor tried his best to clear his face of all emotion and jerkily nodded. Snape’s hand loosened its grip on him only then.

“Come. And don that Cloak of yours, provided you have it on you.”

Those were the last words spoken between them as they trudged back up to the castle. The walk was a deafeningly-silent fifteen minutes, but in the meantime Harry’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was brooding on everything that had transpired — so much so that, before he knew it, they were standing at the closed doors of the Great Hall.

But again, before Harry could go in, Snape’s hand landed on his concealed shoulder — this time, surprisingly enough, with a softer touch. Harry let the cloak fall off his head. Now, the wizard was glancing round them at the empty corridors, and only then raised his ebony wand again to mutter:

“Tergio!”

Harry hadn’t even realized there had been stiff, dried blood covering his face until it was gone.

“Thanks— Thank you,” Harry corrected himself. Snape’s expression was rather unreadable at that moment, however; he was already spinning around and pushing the oak doors open, entering first and leaving Harry to follow after.

A blast of heavenly smells immediately punched Harry’s nose. The four tables set along the middle were loaded with all kinds of foods, mostly dessert now, indicating just how royally late he was. A few students had turned to look towards the entrance upon the two arrivals, but the interest quickly died out. Approaching the Gryffindor table, Harry quickly spotted his friends. It amused him to witness Hermione hitting her book against Ron’s shoulder (whose hands were occupied with turkey legs).

“... You— Stop— Eating!? Your best friend is missing!” 

“Oi— turn around, you lunatic. He’s right there!”

Ginny and Nevile, who were also sitting beside them, turned to look as well, for Harry had finally taken off his Cloak. Only now did his appreciation for that scourgify fully sink in; he could only imagine the sight his bloody face would have caused. 

“Where’ve you been, Harry? What happened? We were worried…” said Hermione, scooching aside to give Harry room to sit.

“Later. What’ve I missed? Hat say anything interesting?”

Across from him, Ron shrugged, still eating. “Sorting Hat urged us all to be brave and strong in these troubled times — easy for it to say — it’s a hat, isn’t it? First Years seemed to enjoy it, though. Wankers.”

“Dumbledore mention Voldemort at all?” asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart. 

“Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the feast, doesn’t he? It can’t be long now.” 

“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast —” 

“You’ve seen Snape? How come?” said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau. 

“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively. 

“Hagrid was a few minutes late,” confirmed Hermione. “But he’s here now. Look, he’s waving at you, Harry.” 

Waving from the staff table, Hagrid was beaming at Harry and his friends, who all waved back convivially.

“You’ve blood on your face. Why is it you’re always covered in blood?”

Harry’s head whipped around at Ginny’s voice, his hand automatically flying to his face. Hadn’t Snape scourgified everything? Maybe he’d missed…

“Harry,” repeated Hermione in a stern voice, “ what happened ?”

“I said later , Hermione. It’s fine. Alive, aren’t I?”

Harry reached for a serviette and a pitcher of water, wetting the thing and trying to locate the alleged blood stain in the pitcher’s reflection. He heard a ‘pfft’.

“Not even close, genius. Let me.”

The serviette was plucked out of his hand, and before Harry knew what was happening, Ginny, sitting on his other side, started dabbing at the side of his face.

“Thanks…” said Harry, feeling his face attaining a bit of a flush.

Just then, the light in the Hall began to gently dim and all eyes turned to Dumbledore, now standing at the top of the Hall, his ashen hand raised to the enchanted ceiling, where clouds were responding to his gestures and shrouded the gleaming full moon.

A few curious whispers broke out at the sight. 

“What’s happened to his hand?” whispered Hermione with a nauseated expression.”It looks as if it’s died…”

“The very best of evenings to you! First off, please join me in welcoming the newest member of our staff, Horace Slughorn.”

While a round of mild applause ensued, Harry only clapped perfunctorily, his eyes drifting to the entrance of the Hall as a pair of Aurors stationed themselves to flank it…

“That’s the new Defense bloke you told us about, right, Harry?” piped up Ron. Harry nodded his head distractedly.

Little was he prepared Dumbledore’s next words.

“...Professor Slughorn, I’m happy to say, has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master. Meanwhile the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts will be assumed by Professor Snape.” 

“ What !?”

Amidst the spur of surprise amongst the students, Harry’s voice rang loudest, causing many heads to turn in his direction. The boy didn’t care; he was staring at the staff table, utterly befuddled. For a moment, he met Snape’s dark eyes, which narrowed slightly at him — perhaps in warning — before then quickly looking away.

“But, Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!” said Hermione. 

“I thought he was!” replied Harry, racking his brains to remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but now that he came to think of it, he was unable to recall Dumbledore or Snape ever telling him what Slughorn would be teaching. 

Over at the staff table, Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore’s right, did not stand up at the mention of his name. He merely raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause from the Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could detect a look of triumph on his features.

Dumbledore raised both his hands for silence, and continued. But now, his tone was darker: grim. It bore such a note that it gave Harry a chilling feeling.

“Now, as you know, each and every one of you was searched upon your arrival tonight. You have a right to know why… Once there was a young man who, like you, sat in this very Hall, walked this castle’s corridors, slept beneath its roof. He seemed, to all the world, a student like any other. His name? Tom Riddle.”

His words cast a dead silence over the Hall like a veil. 

“Today, of course, the world knows him by another name,” he continued knowingly. “Which is why, as I stand looking out upon you all tonight, I am reminded of a sobering fact. Each day, every hour, this very minute perhaps, dark forces attempt to penetrate this castle. But in the end, their greatest weapon remains... you.” 

Seen on the other end of the Hall, Harry eyed Malfoy, slouched low, lazily levitating a fork with his wand, as if Dumbledore were unworthy of attention.

“...Just something to keep in mind. Now, off to bed. Pip pip!” 

Not many were willing to speak after the Headmaster’s speech, his words having left an indent in the air. Scarcely a word was exchanged between anyone, only seldom a few whispers passed (“That was cheerful,” Ron muttered), as the students gradually began filing out of the Great Hall. 

It was later that evening in bed, the room dark, that Harry lay staring up at the ceiling of his four-poster bed, mind reeling with all that had happened in such little time. 

Malfoy was up to something. Something big. 

Snape now taught Defense.

And a storm was coming.