Reality Hiccupped, and Fate Derailed

Harry blinked up at the darkness above him, and cursed his summertime routine.

Well, he was awake now. He ate the fruit he’d saved from dinner the day before (relishing in the novelty of having food to snack on) and decided to take a quick shower. Closing the bathroom door (it had become very obvious the day before that the door was soundproofed in some way) he felt around in the pitch darkness.

His hands ran over the shower and taps, feeling a smooth but bumpy texture engraved in the metal. Really, given the decorations so far, he was willing to bet they were shaped like snakes. Probably silver snakes. They felt very realistic. He remembered when his primary school had a wildlife day and had a bunch of native wild animals brought in. The little grass snake had been strangely adorable and they had been allowed to gently touch it once they’d quietly lined up (even Dudley had settled down at the promise of touching a real live snake). Harry had been expecting it to feel rough and scaley, but it hadn’t. It was smooth, like a polished stone, or velvet. And it wasn’t as cold as he’d thought it would be.

Yes, the tap felt very realistic… but it didn’t feel like any tap he knew.

“How do I get water?” Harry muttered to himself in an old habit, the darkness and silence made him feel the need to fill it with noise (silence may be safe but it was also the worst and thinking out loud helped to halt that creeping loneliness). “Actually, how do I get warm water?” A warm shower sounded divine. The whole dungeon area was chilly and, unlike the bedroom, the bathroom didn’t have a fire.

Harry yelped and leapt back as the tap moved under his fingers. Then he yelped again as his shoulder bashed into the stall wall. Thankfully, his leap backwards prevented the sudden rush of water from hitting him, so he didn’t yelp a third time.

Rubbing his shoulder with one hand, he reached out with the other to feel the water. It was warm. Not quite warm enough, though.

“Can you make it a bit warmer, please?” Harry asked the room.

Nothing changed. Okay, why didn’t speaking work that time? Harry stepped forward, into the stream of water, and brushed his fingers over the scaly tap.

“Can you please make the water a bit warmer? Please?” Harry asked the metal snake, more uncertain this time.

The tap moved again, and Harry sighed in pleasure as the water heated up.

Showering in the dark was new, and extremely difficult, but he wasn’t on a time limit and that turned what should have been a tedious effort into an enjoyable experience.

Then, to test if he needed to touch the tap or just talk to it directly, he didn’t reach out before saying, “Thank you, I’m done. Can you please turn the water off?”

And the water turned off. Nice.

Drying himself was just as strange in complete darkness and getting dressed was… fun. He hung up his towel and slipped back into his bed. It was still warm, and soft, and he feel asleep just as quickly as last time.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

Harry jumped a foot in the air and froze where he lay, trying to reorientate himself. Groans and unhappy mutters sounded from outside the green curtains surrounding him.

“Malfoy, if you don’t stop that racket, I will,” Blaise hissed.

The bell stopped ringing.

“What’s the time?” an unfamiliar voice asked – either Vincent or Gregory.

“Six thirty,” Draco sighed.

“Better get ready, then,” Blaise said.

The sounds of shuffling bodies and shifting fabrics filled the room as everyone seemed to do just that. Harry, his heart finally settling down to a normal rhythm, sat up and pulled back his curtains to copy them.

The room looked completely different in the daytime. The ceiling emitted a soft, murky green light, that seemed to shift with almost-shadows. It produced enough light to see by, but the firelight still dominated it. The effect was… strange... the different colours shifting and flickering to different rhythms, lighting half of every object orange and the other half green.

There was plenty of light for Harry to be able to see his glasses sitting on a lowered shelf attached to the side of the desk, within easy reach, and he put them on to watch his roommates sleepily trudge around the room.

Despite having quick showers the previous night, Draco and Blaise both went to bathe again. Gregory, Theodore, and Vincent joined them this time, but Harry elected to take the robes he wore yesterday into his bed, closed his curtains, and got dressed in the privacy afforded by the darkness.

Harry then took the opportunity to organise the books in his trunk. Professor Snape had implied that they’d be led back to the Common Room after breakfast, so Harry assumed they’d be given their class schedules then and they’d pick up whichever books they’d need, once they knew which ones they’d need (the books were really heavy and Harry was not going to lug them all around for no reason!).

As Harry reached up to close his trunk’s lid, a small movement caught his eye from the shadowed corner. Curious, he opened the lid and held it at an angle that let the firelight breach the darkness, and gasped when he saw a spider there.

It was Crawley!

Two left legs, three right legs… it was definitely Crawley! Harry hadn’t seen any of his spiders since he’d received his Hogwarts letter (Uncle Vernon had been the one to put his trunk into his cupboard and take it out again)! He was surprisingly glad to see a recognisable one (he couldn’t tell most of them apart from each other once they were outside their personal webs) here – in his new house.

He must have been hiding in a seam, maybe between the lid and body, and crept inside one of the times he opened it. At least he hadn’t gotten hurt and still had all five of his legs. Harry reached in with his free hand and gently encouraged him to crawl onto his palm. Once Crawley was safe and secure, Harry put him up into the corner of his four-poster bed.

Harry really had missed having his spiders above him as he slept.

He settled down to watch Crawley explore, keeping half his concentration on the bathroom door (What if his peers forgot about him? What if they left him behind? What if he got lost? What if they got lost? What if they leave without him?).

It didn’t take long for his roommates to finish up, and the whole group made it to the Common Room with five minutes to spare. The girls were settled in the chairs around the fireplace and looked like they’d been waiting for some time. Unlike the bedrooms, the ceiling in the Common Room was the same rough stone as it had been the previous night, with no new glowing or rippling shadows.

At 7am, on the dot, Juliana and Enid herded their sleepy-looking junior prefects into the Common Room.

“Ah, we all here?” Julian asked, before striding passed them. “If not, too bad. Come, come, little firsties, breakfast time!”

They all hurried after him, with the yawning younger prefects dragging their feet behind them. Julian didn’t slow for them, and they grumbled as they were forced to pick up the pace or lose the group.

The walk through the underground labyrinth was just as disorientating as it had been the night before, and the entrance hall was just as welcoming (though it wasn’t as impressive coming from the nook beside the stairs). They were led to the far end of the Slytherin table again, and everyone quickly brightened up at the food already set up along the table.

Breakfast was just as diverse as dinner had been, and Harry enjoyed a piece of toast with some scrambled egg. He also took the opportunity to pocket a few apples while the others were absorbed with eating.

As they ate, more and more students started trickling into the hall, and quite quickly, a buzz of conversation overtook the sounds of clattering plates and cutlery. Harry… didn’t like it. He had been too tired, or too excited, the night before to be bothered by it, but… he really didn’t like. Unless he concentrated hard, the conversations around him melded into the buzz, making it hard to understand what was being said.

The buzz was also a constant reminder that he was utterly surrounded by other people, which was uncomfortable. The pressure pressed down on him, and he felt energy (not his magic – that would have felt nice) buzzing inside him, complementing the noise unpleasantly.

They’d been there for an hour (during which a flock of owls had descended from tall windows near the sky-designed ceiling, bearing letters and newspapers, which had provided his peers with new topics of conversation Harry wasn’t really listening to), when Professor Snape swept down from the staff table and silently started handing out timetables.

The timetable provided no information on where the classes were held.

…At least he now knew what books he needed for the day!

Hogwarts was big. And everything moved. It was annoying and confusing.

But it was also amazing. Staircases meandered from platform to platform, doors pretended to be walls, walls pretended to be doors, the suits of armour littered throughout the halls didn’t move when there were witnesses, but they were never in the same place when you next walked past them. The painting frames that covered most of the walls didn’t move, but the subjects painted sure did, visiting their neighbours and seeming to spend most of their time gossiping (Harry couldn’t blame them – what else were they meant to do, stuck to the wall like they were?). Everything practically sang with magic.

Overall, Hogwarts was everything and more that Harry could hope for in a magical building – it was the furthest thing from ‘normal’ he could imagine. The classes themselves, though…

So far, for the most part, they were like every other class he’d had, subject matter aside. The exceptions, in some way, being History of Magic, Herbology, Astronomy, Transfiguration, and Potions. It was disappointing, but it did mean his fear of being behind his peers died a quick death.

Charms, so far, really weren’t much different from ‘normal’ classes. Professor Flitwick spent their first lesson on every conceivable danger of his craft, making sure each student copied the ‘dos and don’ts’ (Harry pat himself on the back for bringing Dudley’s old pens – his first attempt at using a quill was messy, to say the least, and he foresaw a lot of practice in his future before he could write something legible). Professor Flitwick seemed quite easy-going, encouraging creativity (as long as the rules were being followed) and answering every question asked, saying “The only silly question is an unasked question!”. He was incredibly small (needing to stand on a stack of books to see over the teacher’s podium) and, maybe it was the size, or maybe it was the inhumanly sharp features, but he reminded Harry of the goblins that ran Gringotts bank. Was it an aesthetic choice, or was he some mix of human and goblin? (Was that possible? Did that mean the unnaturally giant Hagrid was also a mix of human and something else?). The class hadn’t gone much beyond theory yet, but they were definitely working up to it. Professor Flitwick had them practicing different wand movements and different pronunciations for accented words (Harry was starting to understand the diagrams in his book now! He wasn’t confident enough to try anything out himself, but he could tell which part of the diagrams related to what).

The same couldn’t be said for Defence Against the Dark Arts. The teacher, Professor Quirrell, was quite squirrelly – jumping at every sound or sudden movement, stuttering over every other word, wringing his hands, and twitching with small tics. Rumours around the Slytherin Common Room said he used to be the Muggle Studies professor before he went to research creatures in Romania in preparation for teaching DADA, and he wasn’t anywhere near as anxious before his trip. He, supposedly, ran afoul of some vampires (this was pure speculation, based solely on the garlic bunches hanging from the classroom ceiling, the vampire-specific talismans stuck to every classroom wall, and the strong garlic stench emanating from his turban, which he hadn’t worn before – Harry wasn’t sure how accurate the vampire information was, but there was enough consensus that he was willing to trust this theory). The teacher’s apparent new-found anxiety leeched into his teaching, and he very obviously ignored any questions about what spells they’d be learning that year, making it clear that they probably were not going to get passed theory that year (or the next year, if the complaints from the second years were any indication).

History of Magic was relatively exceptional because it was taught by a ghost, Professor Binns, and he gave the most boring lectures in existence. Every class consisted of the ancient-looking ghost entering the classroom via the wall, hunching behind the podium at the front of the class, and staring into the middle-distance as he monologued in the driest tone imaginable for the entire period. Harry used the class to catch up on the multitude of naps he’d grown accustomed to over the summer, as did every other student save for Hermione, who managed to not only stay awake, but concentrate enough on what Professor Binns was saying to make detailed notes (this said more about Hermione than the rest of them, since even the portraits seemed to have grown bored of the lessons, given their permanently empty frames). Harry sat next to her, as he did in every class that Slytherins and Gryffindors had together, and she was kind enough to lend him her notes to copy when they went to the library to study after class, for which he was eternally thankful and made sure to tell her so (the first time he thanked her she looked both shocked and pleased, and Harry was glad he was able to make her happy too).

Herbology was not ‘normal’ simply because he had never had a class about gardening before. Sure, gardening had been one of his main chores back before he’d received his Hogwarts’ letter, but he’d learned how to do that largely by having Aunt Petunia sniping at him as she towered over him critically or by figuring it out himself. So far, Professor Sprout seemed much kinder, with a dumpy, soft body reflected in her mannerisms and uncaring of the dirt staining her robes, carefully explaining the whys and hows of everything they were told to do, which is what made it novel since the plants they were working on weren’t obviously magical yet.

The most unusual class had to be Astronomy – not because of anything magical, but because it took place at midnight on Wednesday. Midnight. Sure, the whole class was about stargazing – primarily learning which start was which (in the future they’d learn to actually map the stars’ paths and how their positions could affect certain rituals, but that wasn’t for a long, long, time) – but couldn’t they do something like the ceiling in the Great Hall? Why did they have to spend an hour freezing at the top of a tower, listening to an overly enthusiastic Professor Sinistra gushing about how Mercury and Venus were unusually dim, while Mars was starting to brighten up, and Jupiter was-? It also seemed to ruin everyone’s sleep schedules. Not Harry’s, though. His first night had turned into a habit (waking in the middle of the night for a snack he scavenged at dinner, and showering while he was up, before going back to sleep). But it annoyed Hermione, so Harry was annoyed by it too.

The only classes in which they’d done something actually magical, was Transfiguration and Potions. Like Charms, Transfiguration had started with some warnings (this time about how difficult and complicated the craft was, rather than the dangers, since they wouldn’t be learning anything potentially dangerous for a few years). Professor McGonagall was just as no-nonsense as advertised, able to keep order in the classroom with nothing but a firm glare… which was probably a good thing since their first class involved both matchsticks and needles. Or rather, turning a matchstick into a needle. No one in his class had managed it yet, but Hermione had been ecstatic to show off her silverish, slightly pointed matchstick after her first lesson. She was more than happy to practice with him in an abandoned classroom and within the week her matchstick looked very much more like a needle, while Harry finally figured out he needed to push his magic through his arm and into his wand, and then trust his wand to send the magic to the matchstick (he kept trying to direct his magic directly rather than letting his wand do… whatever it was doing). His matchstick was still a matchstick, if slightly off in colour, but progress was progress.

Potions was a class in which they were not allowed to even think about taking out their wands (Professor Snape made that terrifyingly clear), but it had a different type of magic. Harry had thought it would be similar to cooking (which he had quite a bit of experience in), but it was much more precise and he could feel the magic in each one of the ingredients they used. Even the classroom was not ‘normal’. Class took place in the dungeons, a few corridors down from the Slytherin Common Room, with no natural light (only more of those lamps, thankfully quite a bit brighter than the ones in the hall). It had a very creepy atmosphere, mostly due to the pickled animals floating in jars along the shelves (which was kind of cool) and not helped by the professor. This was the only class besides History of Magic (and Astronomy, which had all the first years in the one class) that Slytherin shared with the Gryffindors, and Harry happily shared a bench with Hermione.

Professor Snape started the class by verbally quizzing random people. The first was the famous Neville Longbottom, who got mocked for giving a hesitant half-answer. Next was “Weasley”, then “Finnigan”, “Brown”, and finally Draco, who was the only one able to give a complete answer and get House Points (Hermione spent the whole quiz with her hand quivering in the air, but she was ignored). They were then told to pair up and make a simple potion, used to cure boils.

Harry paired with Hermione, who was happy to join him (him!) and they got to work weighing, crushing, and dicing ingredients, watching as the liquid in the cauldron drastically changed colours with every new ingredient and stir of the rod. Professor Snape prowled the classroom, giving harsh criticism to everyone (Harry had apparently been stirring too fast, but it’s not like the stirring speed was written down anywhere!), except for the Draco-Gregory pair. He had just finished complimenting Draco’s perfectly stewed horned slugs when there was an explosion of hissing and acid green smoke filling the room. One of the Gryffindor pairs (Seamus Finnigan and Ronald Weasley, if he was remembering the Sorting Ceremony correctly) had melting their cauldron into a twisted blob of pewter. Harry jumped up onto his stool to avoid the boiling hot liquid spilling over the floor.

“Idiot boy!” Professor Snape snapped, making the potion vanish with a harsh wave of his wand and leaving Ronald (who took the brunt of the splash) whimpering in pain and covering in boils. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire? Take him up to the Hospital Wing.”

A pale Seamus carefully tugged on Ronald’s sleeves, trying not to aggravate his wounds while pulling him passed Harry and through the door, whispering, “Sorry Ron, I’m sorry.”

While they were departing, Professor Snape rounded on the pair of Gryffindors seated next to the disaster pair, “Why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? Five points from Gryffindor.”

“Let that be a lesson to you all,” a much calmer Professor Snape spoke with soft malice when the door closed with an ominous thud. “Read my directions and follow them. At higher levels, these mistakes will result in death.”

Harry shivered. He would have preferred a lecture over that demonstration. Maybe the other teachers were onto something if it really was that easy for magic to go tragically wrong. Thankfully the rest of the class passed without incident and their potion ended with the same colour and consistency described in the book.

Unfortunately, that class was the point Harry became aware of the tension between Slytherin and Gryffindor. It had ended with Slytherin gaining five points, and Gryffindor losing five, which seemed to be the source of the tension. Slytherin gained three of those points from Draco delivering the best potion that day (Harry wasn’t sure how his and Hermione’s differed, but Hermione was determined to get the top spot next lesson), and Gryffindor lost points for letting their peers blow up their cauldron… even though a Slytherin pair had been just as close and hadn’t been chewed out for that.

After that first class, he’d started to get some dirty looks from the first year Gryffindors whenever they came about him eating at their table with Hermione (thankfully, they both woke earlier than their peers did – Hermione because she liked to go over her books before class, and Harry because Draco’s alarm bell went off every day – so breakfast was usually peaceful, even if lunch wasn’t and he was exiled to his own house table for dinner).

The tension was apparent enough for Harry to notice in History of Magic (before the monotone droning put everyone to sleep, that was), which wasn’t a good sign for their upcoming Slytherin-Gryffindor flying class. According to the announcement on the noticeboard in the Common Room, the class was only compulsory for the second Thursday of the school year, but they had the option of returning during following weeks if they wished to continue.

Flying was something Harry was genuinely excited about. He knew he should probably be nervous about the idea of riding in the air on a flying broomstick, but he wasn’t. He wanted to fly.

Hermione was scared. She spent the days between the notice for class being put up and the class itself researching as much as she could about broomsticks and flying, getting upset when most books took the ability to fly on a broomstick as such a basic skill they didn’t bother with instructions. The only exception were advanced broom techniques used by professional flyers and those were… intimidating. Harry wasn’t going to try any of those anytime soon.

Thursday came by quickly and Harry followed the rest of the Slytherin first years from their Herbology class to circle around the castle towards a smooth lawn. Hogwarts grounds were as beautiful as the night-time peek on their first night suggested, and the weather that day was perfect for admiring it.

The sky was clear, letting a full sun bring out the bright greens of the sloping lawns and reflecting cheerily off the black lake. A light breeze caused a continuous rippling to flow over the slopes and swayed the dark trees of the forbidden forest. Even on a bright day like that, the forbidden forest looked ominously dark and shadowed.

Thankfully, the smooth patch of shortened grass which was hosting their lesson was on the opposite side of the grounds to the uninviting forest. There were twenty broomsticks, in five rows, waiting for them along the ground. The Gryffindors hadn’t arrived yet (not surprising, since the Charms classroom was much further), and neither had the teacher, a Madam Hooch, so the Slytherins stayed at the edge of the lawn, not wanting to get into trouble for touching the brooms if they weren’t supposed to (especially since the Gryffindors weren’t there to give them excuse to by touching them first).

It didn’t take too long for the Gryffindors to arrive, and the teacher trailed along not far behind them. The woman swept passed them all and settled herself in front of the lines of brooms, body standing unnaturally still as her head turned to observe them. That, along with her short grey hair and yellow eyes, really made her look like a hawk, perched and surveying the area for its next meal.

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

The Slytherins, having been there first, were closer and rushed to fill up the front rows. Harry was left as the remainder and took a position at the end of the third row back. Hermione hurried next to him and the rest of the Gryffindors took the last two rows. He and Hermione were alone in the middle row.

Harry took the opportunity to examine the broom by him. All the brooms looked old (at least, compared to the sleek, brand-new ones Harry had seen at Diagon Alley – compared to brooms that were used for sweeping, these looked immaculate, with their lightly worn handles and occasionally bent bristle). Madam Hooch gave a short, sharp whistle to gather the straying attention of the class, before starting the lesson.

“Stick your right hand over your broom,” she ordered, demonstrating over thin air, “and say ‘Up!’”

“UP!” everyone shouted.

Harry’s broom immediately obeyed, but it was one of the few that did, from the sounds of it. Hermione’s simply rolled over. Under his hand, Harry could feel the magic lightly buzzing, making his own magic in his hand buzz alongside it. It didn’t feel uncomfortable… but it was… odd. It was similar to his wand, except it seemed to rely on its own magic more than his – more of a resonance than a vacuum.

“Hey, how did you do that?” Hermione asked him.

Harry shrugged. He just did what it sounded like everyone else had done. “Try again?”

“Up!” she shouted, joining the chorus of other people’s new attempts. This time, her broom twitched up in attention, but it still didn’t jump into her hand.

“What am I doing wrong?” she asked him.

Harry didn’t know. But, there was one thing that all the magic they’d learned about, even those only vaguely hinted at, had in common; visualisation.

“Are you picturing the broom going to your hand?”

Hermione paused to think about it. “No… I don’t think I am, actually – my mind keeps returning to what we’re going to do – and my fears for that. Yes, that could be my problem – thank you, Harry!”

Her broom gently rose into the air on her next attempt. It was a little wobbly and hesitant, but it reached her hand, and she beamed. Satisfaction and pride warmed his chest. He’d done that. He’d helped her. This wasn’t enough to balance out all the help she’d given him, but it was a start. It was proof he could help her like she helped him.

Her newfound confidence held up until Madam Hooch demonstrated the proper mounting technique and the seating position used for travelling at the front of the class and directed them to copy her, at which time Hermione seemed to remember that they were expected to go up in the air at some point in the class. Contrastingly, Harry was almost vibrating in excitement. Madam Hooch walked along the rows to correct everyone’s holds (everyone - even the people like Draco and Neville who’d had tutors in flying, had something needing correction).

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch when she was satisfied with everyone’s stances and returned to the front of the class. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forwards slightly. On my whistle – three – two – one –”

The whistle pierced through the air and Harry jumped up, pulling the broom up with him. At the pressure of him pulling it up, the broom immediately moved up with him. Surprised, he put his weight down on his hands in an attempt to balance himself… and the broom steadied into a hover. Following the instructions, he tilted the broom forward slightly, and it slowly lowered, until Harry’s feet touched the grass again.

That was… easy. Very intuitive.

Hermione didn’t seem to think so. She struggled to keep the broom in the air, panicking the moment her feet left the ground and immediately pushing down on the broom. It was probably the first class that she struggled in since starting to Hogwarts. It was also the first class that Harry thrived in. Harry took to flying like he was born with wings.

Madam Hooch slowly built up the time they hovered in the air, flying between the rows to fix students’ poor grip and posture, until most of the class could stay still in the air (Hermione was one of the few who kept listing to the side). They then learned how to move – starting with a spin in place, moving forward, moving backwards, and turning – before being allowed free reign.

They had to stay over the trimmed lawn and go no higher than ten metres (at which point their brooms would vibrate in warning), but even with these restrictions, Harry was loving it. The sun was shining, the wind was pleasantly cool, the birds were singing, and Harry was flying. His broom moved how he wanted it to, when he asked it to. It was the first time in his life that something came effortlessly to him.

On the other hand, Hermione refused to go further than about a foot off the ground, her toes brushing the shortened grass for most of the hour.

“This class is such a disappointment,” Draco sniffed from where he was hovering near in the top corner of their boundaries with Gregory. “Flying in a play pen? My tutor let me fly free years ago. I expected more from Hogwarts, but of course they’re babying us. The mudbloods are dragging us down.”

“Watch your mouth, Malfoy!” Ronald Weasley shouted, flying over with the rest of the Gryffindor boys. Harry quickly glanced around for Madam Hooch, but she was at the other side of the lawn, teaching Hermione one-on-one. “You’re not so great, either! We all saw Madam Hooch fixing your grip. How much money did your parents spend on that tutor? Ha!”

Draco’s cheeks were starting to dust pink, in embarrassment or anger, Harry couldn’t tell. “At least we have the money to pay for tutors, Weasley. You were probably taught by one of your brothers, on the brooms your parents had at Hogwarts.”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Neville Longbottom interjected, as the other Gryffindors bristled.

Ronald ignored him. “You want to fight, Malfoy!?”

“Oh, yes, how brave. Four against two. Are you sure you belong in Gryffindor?” Draco sneered. His knuckles were white where they gripped his broom, though.

Harry didn’t know what to do. Gregory was larger than all the other boys, but he couldn’t possibly fight off all four of the Gryffindors singlehandedly (Draco did not look like he’d do well in a fistfight). Four against two was a little too close to bullying for Harry’s taste, but the fact that Draco was fighting back just as viciously really blurred the lines too much for Harry to comfortably call it that.

And what could he do?

He may have heard the entire confrontation, but Harry wasn’t sure what started it. Something Draco said upset Ronald, but Harry didn’t know what and he didn’t know if Ronald was overreacting or if it really was that bad. And the whole argument had escalated very quickly.

He really didn’t want to get involved when he didn’t know who was in the right. Maybe he should get the teacher?

“I’ll take you on any time!” Ronald declared. “One on one, so there’s no bodyguards for you to hide behind!”

“Alright, then,” Draco smirked, satisfied and relaxed. Harry felt his own tension drain away as the immediate fight simmered down. “Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only – no contact.”

“I accept! My second’s Neville, who’s yours?”

Draco sized up Gregory, glancing at Vincent who was nearer to the beginners in comparison. “Goyle. Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room, that’s always unlocked.”

With that, the gang of Gryffindors flew away. Harry took the opportunity to flee as well. That was enough drama for the day.

“You know, flying really wasn’t as bad as I expected – Madam Hooch was careful to keep everyone safe, which was a relief. I still don’t think it’ll become my choice of transport, but at least now I know I can fly if I ever need to.”

Hermione and Harry were taking the long way back to the castle, exploring a bit more of the grounds since they were already outside.

“I liked it.”

Hermione giggled. “I could tell. You were really good, too! It’s like you’ve been taught before. Maybe it’s a boy thing, because Dean Thomas was muggle-raised like us and he picked it up quickly, too.”

“Yeah, I saw him. He was flying with the other Gryffindor boys.” Harry couldn’t help but frown slightly at the memory.

“Huh? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, uh, that group got into a fight with Malfoy. Do you know what a mudblood is?” ‘Mudblood’ was the biggest question mark he had from that conversation.

Hermione’s eyes unfocused as she scanned her (impressive) memory. “No, I’ve not come across the term - I’ll look into it. And what do you mean, fight? I didn’t notice anything!”

“It was more of an argument, and it ended pretty quick. They’re having a wizard’s duel at midnight to settle it.” Whatever a ‘wizard’s duel’ was, it sounded fairer than the fight earlier, if only because both sides seemed happy with the idea.

“What!? But we’re not allowed to go wandering around the school at night – it’s against the rules! They’re bound to be caught, and then they’ll lose both Gryffindor and Slytherin house points – how selfish! We need to tell someone!”

Harry wasn’t so sure about that. Yes, it was against the rules, but they weren’t hurting anyone and if they don’t get caught it would be fine. Won’t they still get into trouble for planning it, even if they were snitched on before they could do it?

But Hermione was adamant, and in no time at all, Harry found them standing in front of Professor McGonagall’s office… which was empty.

“Well, Professor McGonagall is awfully busy – with her position as the Transfiguration teacher, Gryffindor’s Head of House, and the Deputy Headmistress, of course she is – Professor Snape is the Slytherin Head of House, correct? We should inform him, too – I’ll tell one of the Gryffindor prefects after dinner. Percy will listen to me – he seems to be one of the few Gryffindors to respect the rules – he’ll put a stop to this.”

Harry did not think Professor Snape would appreciate being bothered by a ‘petty squabble’ like this. But maybe since it was Gryffindor against Slytherin and not two Slytherins against each other, it would be okay?

(And if it wasn’t, it would still be nice to have a better idea of Professor Snape’s rules and the punishments he could expect if he was accused of breaking them. Harry knew he should probably go and tell a prefect instead, but with Hermione there it seemed a safe time to test boundaries.)

Harry managed to lead Hermione through the dungeons to the Potions’ classroom, after which they backtracked to find Professor Snape’s office. It would have been quicker to go directly there, but neither of them knew the dungeons well enough to blindly navigate through the dark halls. Frankly, Harry was just proud that he could find his way to the classroom without needing to ask for help – all the exploration to find both the Great Hall and the Common Room was paying off!

Hermione knocked on the heavy wooden door and it took almost a full minute for a brisk “Enter!” to respond.

Professor Snape’s office had an identical aesthetic to the Potions’ classroom (flaming torches dimly lighting the room and shelves full of pickled dead things) but it was warmed considerable by the fire burning brightly in the fireplace and the unnaturally bright candle lighting the occupied desk. The man himself, working at the desk, didn’t deign to look up from the parchment he was… marking? There was a lot of red, whatever he was doing.

“Professor Snape?” Hermione appealed, voice unusually hushed.

The man’s quill paused over the parchment as he finally looked up. “Miss Granger.” His eyes slid passed her and bored into Harry. “Mr Potter. To what do I owe this… pleasure.”

Hermione relaxed and happily walked into the room, apparently immune to the disdain in Professor Snape’s voice. Harry hesitated for a moment in the doorway, trepidation making him pause, but quickly followed, staying half a step behind her as she came to a stop in front of the desk.

“Professor Snape, Malfoy and the Gryffindor boys are going to go out after curfew tonight – for a wizard’s duel! Harry overheard them arguing during our flying class.”

“Did he,” Professor Snape said, his voice far too flat for it to be a question. “Did you witness this incident, Miss Granger?”

“No, professor.”

“Then get out. I will question Potter further.”

Well, that didn’t sound good. That first ‘trick of the light’ scowl was starting to look less and less than a trick of the light. Harry’s first instinct that Professor Snape disliked him was holding strong, even with Harry trying to convince himself it was just his paranoia. Everything from the professor’s eyes when he looked at him, and the tone of voice when he spoke to (or about) him, was screaming at Harry that this man hated him.

And now he wanted to talk to him. Alone.

Harry could only hope his instincts were wrong.

“Thank you, professor!” Hermione smiled, and turned to Harry. “I’ll meet you in the library when you’re done.”

And then she was gone, leaving him alone with one of the more intimidating professors in the school. A professor whose eyes Harry could feel burning into his face (Harry kept his own gaze fixed firmly on the desk - Uncle Vernon saw eye contact as a sign of defiance (granted, it usually was) and Harry was not taking any chances with making this situation worse). At that moment, feeling the pressure of that stare, Harry realised that Professor Snape had been avoiding looking at him after that first glance. During Potions… while he had been distributing their timetables… even the rest of his welcome speech… Harry would have felt those eyes if he had looked at him. But he had been so subtle that Harry hadn’t even noticed him avoiding it!

“So, Potter,” Professor Snape’s silken voice finally broke the silence, so smooth it slid over his skin and made all his hair stand on end. “Your second week of school and already causing trouble. It’s not unexpected but it is still disappointing for a Slytherin.”

Harry didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

Don’t do anything to provoke him.

“You’re even more like your father than I feared. Do you think yourself above the rules set for everyone? You’re not. You will be held to the same standards as your peers, and I will not hesitate to punish you if you fall out of line. Fortunately, it’s early in the year and we have an hour until dinner, so I shall indulge you now. It will be my pleasure to nip this in the bud.”

Harry didn’t bother defending himself. It wouldn’t do any good (if anything, it’ll just get him into more trouble for ‘lying’). He also made sure not to show any interest at the mention of his father. It was always best to take the scraps of information about his parents as if they were never dropped – just pretend they never said anything, because the moment they realised he was paying attention to their words they clammed up.

And it worked just as well here as it did back at Privet Drive – Professor Snape kept talking as he led the way through the gloomy halls towards the Potions’ classroom!

“I don’t know which member of his fanclub,” he sneered the word with hatred, “raised you, but I won’t tolerate any disruptions within my house. You are a Slytherin, whether we like it or not, so you will act like a Slytherin. Slytherins support each other in the face of adversity. We stay united. I will not allow a Potter to tear us apart from the inside.” He swept into the eerily empty classroom with a dramatic flare of robes and pointed to the back corner of the room, where a stack of dirty cauldrons were waiting. “These need to be cleaned by hand. Gloves, brushes, and soap, are under the sink.”

Harry was grateful for the mindless physical labour - it allowed him to absorb what had been said… and gave him a distraction from the icy nausea crawling up his throat.

His father… was a bully?

Professor Snape may not have outright said it, but Harry wasn’t stupid! He knew the bitterness coating the word ‘fanclub’ (it was the same that coated Dudley’s ‘gang’). He knew the loathing dripping from ‘Potter’ (it was the same resentment he could feel growing inside him every time he was pushed down and humiliated).

Did his father bully Slytherins? Was Harry just being paranoid when he heard that implication? Would his father have bullied him if they’d gone to school together? Would his father have been angry that his son was sorted into Slytherin?

Harry didn’t want to believe it… but it’s not like he’d ever met his father. His parents were strangers to him. The only things he knew were what he’d been told by others.

(Maybe it was time to accept that there was a reason that nobody who knew them had a kind word to say about them.)

By the time his work was deemed (barely) satisfactory, dinner was halfway finished. Harry sullenly picked at the food, his stomach too busy twisting itself into knots to be hungry, and went straight to bed once dessert disappeared, thoughts endlessly circling.

After an hour or two of staring up into the darkness above him, he listened as his dormmates entered and got ready for bed. Not long after that, he listened as their breaths deepened with sleep.

Harry kept staring into the darkness above him, wishing he could forget the whole afternoon.