Prince of the Dark Kingdom: Book 1

Mizuni-sama

Prince of the Dark Kingdom: Book 1

1. Credits

2. The Secret Prince

3. The Prince and the Dragon

4. The Enchanted Fortress

5. The Prince, the Knave, and the Ace of Hearts

6. The Maiden and the Dragon

7. The Land and Its Vassals

8. The Prince’s Lady

9. Lords, Ladies, and Lessons

10. The First Quest

11. The Pilgrimage

12. The King and the Serpent

13. The Most Noble of Houses

14. The Gathering of Serpents

15. The Prince’s Choice of Steed

16. Crowning of the Prince

17. The Prince and the Grey Wolf

18. The King’s Justice

19. Return of the Prince

20. Ballrooms and Backrooms

21. The King and His Prince

Credits

Copyright © 2007-2014 Mizuni-sama (real name unknown)

Original publication on FanFiction.net

EPUB and MOBI edited by Brendan Long
Source code for these versions is available on GitHub

Based on the characters of J.K. Rowling, and her books:

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

The Secret Prince

In the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive, a boy of no more than ten, sat on his stool and surveyed his latest piece. Vivid blues, golds, oranges, and reds formed into the abstract of a flower, pouring out a vibrancy that clashed with the dull, gloomy image of its maker. Pale skinned, lanky, and dressed in dingy over-sized clothing, the only hint the boy held any sense of beauty lay in his vibrant green eyes, which flashed between his painting and his pallet in contemplation. With slow deliberateness, he dipped his brush into the black acrylic and set it to canvas. With a continuous, spindly line he completed his latest work with a single name.

Heinrich.

“Heinrich! Lunch!” a shrill call rang up from the kitchen.

Quickly, he set about collecting his supplies. Small tubes of acrylic paint, brushes, a spatula, and his pallet. He took them to a large bucket of water and began to clean them carefully and thoroughly. It would not due to be lectured on proper respect for his relative’s gifts. Especially, since they were the only gifts he received from them. One look around the stark, gloomy bedroom was testament to that. A creaky bed, small table and chair, and a wardrobe (that couldn’t decide if it was white or the color of rotten wood) were all the furniture supplied (in other words, already happened to be there when he first arrived three years ago). There were no photographs, posters, toys, or books. The only sign of personality were the few watercolor pictures he had painted himself, each with their own glaring flaw that made them unsaleable, and cheap enough to make so that his relatives didn’t destroy them because of his intentional waste of their gifts.

He left his stuffy bedroom, stopping briefly in the bathroom to wash his hands and a smudge of paint from his nose. Barefoot he reached the bottom of the stairs, and barely saved his toes from being crushed when Dudley, his whale of a cousin, nearly stomped them as he rushed into kitchen first.

“Watch it, ‘sauerkraut’,” the larger boy sneered, not even stopping.

‘Heinrich’ scowled at the back of his head. He could hear the television still on in the living room, blaring out a noisy, ridiculous dialogue of some cartoon super hero. Had Dudley been waiting for him to come down just to pick on him? Probably. Which meant his cousin was in one of his moods.

He entered the kitchen, making it a point to stay out of his cousin’s reach and intending to make it the trend for the rest of the day. His Aunt Petunia was just finishing up with lunch. She set a large slice of roast beef, carrots, and potatoes in front of Dudley, cooing at her ‘Duddykins’ like the fat baby he was, before turning to him. Her scowl made her horse like face look even longer, as she picked up what he assumed was his plate.

“Picture?” she asked.

‘Heinrich’ tilted his head, as if trying to understand her, then lifted his hand and made a gesture for ‘tiny’. She scowled and put her free hand on her boney hip.

“How long?”

Ah, now he was having a conundrum. If he told her it was done, then he would get to eat, but he might also be sent outside to garden, making him fair game for Dudley’s cruel, infantile jokes. If he told her it would take too many hours she might send him up to his room without eating, scolding him for being lazy. After considering for a moment, he held up two fingers. Her scowl didn’t ease up, but she handed him his plate. It was only carrots and potatoes.

“It better be done by then, or you can forget about dinner.”

“Danke, Aunt Petunia,” he said, sitting down. He pushed his chair as far from the table as he could manage to avoid his cousin kicking him, and ate in a sullen silence. Petunia joined them a moment later, nibbling at pieces of carrots as she flipped idly through a beauty magazine. Despite ‘Heinrich’s’ smaller portion, Dudley finished scarfing down his meal first and elbowed him sharply on his way back to the living room, abandoning his dishes on the table. When he finished, he gathered up both of their dishes, and washed them, along with his aunt’s, and all of her cooking utensils.

Finally, he made his way back up the stairs to his room. He hesitated when he reached the top of the stairs. Hadn’t he closed his door when he came down? With a sudden feeling of dread, he opened the door the rest of the way.

Dudley sat, a parody of deep thought, flipping through a sketch book. ‘Heinrich’ froze, a cold, heavy sensation settling in his gut. That was not his ‘project’ sketchbook. That one was large and spiraled at the top. That one looked more like small text book, with plain black binding. That one was his ‘private’ sketchbook.

“Hhhmmm,” Dudley said, looking at one picture with particular interest. “This’un isn’t half bad.” The fat boy turned to his cousin, tilting the colored pencil picture so he could see it. A woman in a sun dress and hat stood under a flowering tree, her hair a brilliant red and verdant eyes that mirrored ‘Heinrich’s’ own. She was smiling, a cross between sly and coy that had boggled him even back when he had attended primary school. Mom.

“Real looker,” his cousin said, turning the picture back towards himself. “Kinda of slutty looking, but hey… You know what a slut is, sauerkraut?”

The coldness in his gut suddenly turned hard, and the hardness spread into his chest, and moved into his shoulders, before finally reaching his hands that clenched so hard he might have shattered stones in them. Dudley leered at him.

“So they taught you that much at least, huh, stupid?” Abruptly, he ripped the picture from its binding. A corner was torn off, coming dangerously close to decapitating the beautiful woman. ‘Heinrich’ stepped forward quickly. Dudley took the remains of the picture in two hands, looking at his smaller cousin with sadistic glee. ‘Heinrich’ stopped. “Mind if I take this? Daddy won’t buy me girly mags yet, but this will due for a while..”

If possible, his insides hardened further, seeping into his head, crushing all thoughts except rage and horror. His vision was turning red, like the blood that was now seeping out between his clenched fingers. Dudley, stupid and arrogant, saw only the usual impotent rage, heedless of the danger and laughed. In a final act of cruelty, he stuck out his tiny pink tongue, and gave the image a lascivious lick.

What happened next, Dudley would relive in nightmares for the rest of his life. Though therapy and endless repetitions of ‘it was a bad dream’ would stave off the fear in his waking hours, sleep would bring the terror and incredulity of that memory back in all the vividness of the event itself. ‘Heinrich’ would remember it as his first conscious act of magic. It began as he stepped completely into the little bedroom. His cousin’s porcine laughter was abruptly silenced as the door slammed shut without being touched. For a moment, Dudley seemed merely surprised. The completed painting near the window suddenly bursting into flames quickly turned his confusion into blatant fear. He shot off the bed, dropping the notebook and the picture. He made a run for the door and ‘Heinrich’ was certain he would have been knocked to the other side of the room, if the thin sheets on his bed hadn’t suddenly seized the fat boy.

Dudley let an ear splitting shriek, shattering the stone-like power that had been crushing ‘Heinrich’s’ fear and surprise. His thoughts and feelings suddenly scattered into so many directions, leaving him weak and suddenly terrified of what was happening. On his bed was the rather hoaky idea of a ghost, a dingy grey sheet draped over some unseen person. Only there was nothing hoaky about this. Parts of the sheet had twisted themselves into tight spirals, forming skeletal hands that clutched and clawed at their fat prisoner, who beat at them uselessly. No matter how hard Dudley struggled the sheet wraith refused to relinquish its hold, intent, it seemed, on dragging him to the bed itself.

‘Heinrich’ floundered uselessly for a bit. A part of him wasn’t sure if he could help his cousin, and certainly not without becoming the… thing’s next victim. If that happened he certainly wasn’t going to get any help from his cousin. Another part whispered that the disgusting little Stück Abfall[1] deserved this. That he had wanted this to happen. That he had made it happen.

Oh God, he had made it happen.

He didn’t know how, but he was certain of it. He was bloody Carrie! Luke Skywalker! That girl in Firestarter.

A FREAK!

A new fear arose, almost as terrifying as his cousin being smothered to death in front him by the linens. A fear of his Uncle when he found his son smothered to death in the FREAK’s room. As if to taunt him, he could suddenly hear footsteps hurrying up the stairs.

“Dudders? Baby? What going on?” came his aunt’s voice.

“MUMMY! HELP ME!”

A moment later, the handle to the door was jiggling. But whatever power had slammed it shut was still holding it shut. Petunia let out a desperate yell, resorting to kicking and throwing her stick-like body at the door. Panicked almost as much as his relatives, for entirely different reasons, ‘Heinrich’ forced himself to move.

He ran around Dudley, snatching up his private notebook and the picture of his mother, leaping back quickly incase the sheet wraith attacked him as well. He went, ignored, to his opened bedroom window, careful to avoid the charred remains of the painting, and barefoot he made the jump he had longed to make for the last three years.

Behind him he heard the door finally give way to his aunt. He had no time to wonder what she would do. The ground came up to meet him, and he barely remembered to unbrace his legs and roll as he landed beside the shrubs. He laid there stunned by the impact, stunned by what he was doing, before stiffly climbing to his feet. His feet hurt from the landing, but nothing was broken or sprained. As quickly as he could, he hobbled away from number four, Privet Drive and prayed it was forever.

Mr. Dursley had never been so angry in his life. He was a man very prone to anger so that was saying something. He had been in the middle of yelling at some nitwit at work, when a call had come in from his wife. She had been frantic and stuttering, crying about ‘Dudders’ and about something that wretched nephew of hers had done to him. Nothing she had said made much sense to him, but he could tell it involved some of that Potter weirdness.

As he drove home from work, taking the day off and threatening to fire an entire department if even one person dallied while he was gone, his thoughts ran in a continuous angry circle. He knew, he knew, he should never have allowed that boy into their home. He knew that expenses had been a little tight, especially as Dudley was growing into more expensive tastes in toys and games, but the government stipend for his care and the boy’s rather impressive trust fund could not have been near enough to cover the mere inconvenience of housing the ungrateful wretch.

For one, he couldn’t speak a whit of English. His British parents didn’t have the bloody decency to teach their son the proper Queen’s English! They could shout and lecture him all day and he would just tip his head at them and look confused. Or worse, he’d start talking in that funny German way, and he knew it wasn’t anything good. No matter how patiently Petunia tried to teach him, just wouldn’t learn. Sending him to a proper English school was out of the question. They wouldn’t tolerate the sheer embarrassment it would cause them.

As if that wasn’t enough of an issue, the brat had the nerve to refuse the cupboard under the stairs as his bedroom. When they had first tried to send him to the little room, he had looked at them with utter disbelief. This was followed quickly by anger and a stubborn refusal to move. It hadn’t bothered Mr. Dursley much, as he a little twig of a kid, and he threw him in anyway and locked it. The brat had kicked up such a racket! He had screamed and kicked the door, and it had been amusing for the first fifteen minutes, but then he wouldn’t stop. All day and into the sleepless night, he kept kicking and screaming. Not even yelling or belting the boy had silenced him. Eventually, a very cranky Dudley had generously offered the smallest bedroom to his cousin if only to shut the other boy up.

That was years ago. Now all the little leech did all day was laze around the house and paint. A foolish past time, but apparently one his clever little wife had found profit from. That there were so many ridiculous people in the world who would call a child’s paint smudges art and actually buy it, was infuriating.

And worst of all, was the boy’s parents. What a perfectly abnormal lot they had been. Doing their silly wand waving and nonsense muttering and frog spawn cooking. And look at the trouble it had gotten them into? Run out of the bleed’n country (and good riddance too!) by their own foul ilk! Even then, they couldn’t settle for being normal! They went off and became a bunch of smelly, hippy artists! Which was only slightly better than… that other thing.

He didn’t care what his sister said about the boy not knowing any of their freakishness. If he knew how to paint, then the brat likely knew the other stuff. And this had just proved it. The moment he got his hands on that boy, he was going to beat all that nonsense out of him and use that trust fund of his to send him to the cheapest, most miserable, most far away boarding school he could find.

Mr. Dursley pulled into his driveway, his knuckles alternately popping and turning white as he clenched and unclenched his hands around the steering wheel. If he weren’t so furious with the entire situation, he would grin with anticipation. Finally, finally he would be rid of that miscreant, and the Dursley family would once again return to the perfect normalcy they had previously enjoyed.

He mounted the steps to the house, ignoring his neighbor’s friendly waving, and reached for the door. Yet, amazingly, before he could touch the knob, the door swung open. A tall man with a hooked nose and dressed in a formal black business suit stood before him. The man’s greasy, shoulder length hair, which was enough to earn Mr. Dursley’s disapproval already, but then the other had the nerve to be standing in hishouse.

“What-” he began to bellow.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dursley,” the man practically hissed, “You wouldn’t happen to know where your nephew is, would you?”

The next two days passed slowly for ‘Heinrich’. He wandered around aimlessly, his only precaution an avoidance of Privet Drive. All of the houses looked the same, all the gardens were unoriginal, and cars in the driveways were generic. Even if the monotony was not so all encompassing, he had nowhere to go anyway.

He slept short, fitful hours in garden sheds, sneaking in after the houses had gone dark, and leaving before dawn. The hunger set in early the morning after the ‘incident’. He managed to ignore it until evening, where he finally gave into his body’s needs and stole tomatoes from a garden, feeling like a wretch with every bite he took.

His feet started to crack and bleed shortly after.

With every passing hour, the fear of the Dursley’s unknown retribution was being smothered by how utterly helpless he was on his own. He had no clothes, shelter, or food. He was filthy, tired, and hungry. He had no friends to stay with and no neighbors he trusted to take pity on him. There was no one he could turn to except…

But bloody hell, he hated the Dursley’s.

He hated them, but as evening came on and the air began to smell of rain he realized he needed them. With this miserable understanding, he finally returned to number four, Privet Drive. He was vaguely surprised to see the porch light was on. Had they left it on for him? Did they want him back? He snorted to himself. They probably just didn’t want the stigma of having their oh-so-grateful little orphan actually run away.

Steeling himself for the inevitable shouting and perhaps the worst belt thrashing his uncle had ever inflicted, he stepped up to the front door. The sound of voices stilled his hand over the door bell. There were several of them, faint and muffled, but definitely not his uncle’s thundering baritone or his aunt’s shrill tones. Had the Dursley’s actually called the police? Had they been called to find him or arrest him? Was there a charge for assaulting someone with a bed sheet?

With a little less certainty, he pressed the doorbell. The house went suddenly silent. Unease crawled into his gut, and he felt the distinct urge to run away. He turned around to do just that, but the door opened and he was hauled into the house by his collar. Letting out a startled yelp, he fell to the floor, barely avoiding the edge of the stairs. He whirled around on his hands and knees, expecting to see his uncle.

Instead, he met the coal black eyes of a complete stranger. The man was tall with a large hooked nose, and was dressed as if ready to attend a funeral. Bloody hell! They called the government. They’re going to dissect my brain!

“Young man,” the stranger said, his voice silky even in disdain, “Considering how tiny your brain is, I doubt anyone would be able to find it, let alone dissect it.”

He read my mind. That is so …awesome… or would be if he weren’t such a twat about it.

“Language, Heinrich. You’ve caused quite enough trouble to vex a great many people… you do not want to add me to that list. Get up and go to the living room. There are matters that need to be addressed.”

Reluctantly, he climbed to his feet and skirted his way around the stranger and made his way to the living room. There were two more strangers there. A woman and a man. Unlike the dark man, however, they looked considerably less dour. One was a middle-aged woman, attired in a rather nice blue dress with a matching ribbon tying back her blond hair. She reminded him of one of his school teachers back in Germany, who talked softly and always reminded everyone to play nice. The man was older, with thick white hair and a neat mustache, dressed in brown tweed and red tie. They both gave him a comforting smile when he entered, and he felt his lips twitch to return it. However, the sight of the Dursley’s kept his expression completely blank.

Dudley was, fortunately?, still breathing, although he was looking white enough he might have been mistaken for the dead. He was staring ahead at nothing, saying nothing. His aunt had a protective arm around him, rubbing his arm and shoulder as if he might be cold, cooing softly and telling him everything was alright. Vernon Dursley, however… well ‘Heinrich’ was glad he wasn’t alone with the man. The man glared mutinously at the benign pair, and turned even darker as gaze landed on Harry. When the Dark Man strode into the room though, his beady eyes quickly settled on the floor.

Harry quickly moved out of his way and took a seat on the ledge of the fireplace, next to ‘Mr. Tweed’. ‘Miss Blue’ smiled knowingly at him, and took a seat in his uncle’s sitting chair. The Dark Man planted himself directly behind the Dursley’s couch, his hands coming to rest on either side of the family patriarch. He couldn’t help admire the sheer dignity the tall man maintained while still exuded the highest level of malevolent intent. His uncle always came off as a raging walrus and Petunia merely looked like she had bitten into a lemon.

“Ah, good, we’re all here,” began the woman, her voice well suited to children and perhaps overly timid adults. “We were rather worried something had happened to you, Mr. Makowksi.”

‘Heinrich’ threw her a baffled look. I’m Makowski now? That’s not even a German name. The Dark Man gave an impatient sigh.

“Yes, yes. Burned at the stake and fed to Catholics, or some other horrible fate, but since the worse you seemed to have suffered is a brief stint to a third word country, perhaps we might move on to relevant matters.”

“Really, Mr. Snape-” his aunt began.

“Professor Snape.”

“Professor Snape, it’s pointless to ask him anything. He barely knows any English. He can’t string a sentence together to save his life.”

“Really? After three years under your tutelage and still so little progress? I suppose that’s why your not Professor Dursley then,” Snape sneered.

Petunia turned pink. Vernon, already red, turned purple and moved to stand. Snape’s hands were suddenly resting on the larger man’s shoulders. The effect was immediate. Mr. Dursley sat back down, his face looking as haunted as his son’s.

“Professor…” ‘Mr. Tweed’ admonished, although his expression was clearly amused.

“Why don’t we just try some questions first, and see how it goes. Will you answer some questions for us, Mr. Makowski?” ‘Ms. Blue’ asked. ‘Heinrich’ merely nodded, unused to a complete stranger looking at him with such affection. If she started cooing at him, he resolved to take the first opportunity to run away and stay away this time.

“Of course,” Professor Snape agreed, “Perhaps, we will luck out and someone here will actually tell the truth. It’s a novel idea, but one most conducive to one’s health, yes?”

“Now see here, are calling my family-”

“Shut up.”

Mr. Dursley’s mouth snapped shut. ‘Heinrich’ could barely suppress a laugh, but managed it rather quickly when those dark eyes suddenly fell on him.

“The truth, if you please, young man. What is your name.”

“We told you his name. It’s-”

“Madam, if you do not hold your tongue, I will make you swallow it. Am I perfectly clear?”

Somehow she managed to turn even pinker.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You bothwill remain silent until spoken to. I will not warn either of you again,” he said, his voice soft as silk and sharp as a knife. He turned his attention back to the subject of interest and found him watching him with rapt attention.

“How do you do that, Professor?” the boy asked, his voice carrying just the slightest hint of a German accent. Everyone in the room, even pale Dudley, turned to him, startled. Everyone except the Dark Man, who regarded him with cool disdain.

“There are those who strive for violence, young man, and those who live it. Those who strive so meekly can not possibly hope to stand up to those who live it. Like those who try and those who do. They are people on completely different levels. Now, your name.”

“Harold James Potter.”

A strangely sardonic look came across the professor’s face, and his scowl twisted up in a mockery of a smile. “Of course it is.”

1. Piece of trash↩

The Prince and the Dragon

“…Now, your name.”

“Harold James Potter.”

A strangely sardonic look came across the professor’s face, and his scowl twisted up in a mockery of a smile. “Of course it is.”

Harry frowned, wondering if the man thought he was lying. It would be the first time he had used that name since moving in with the Dursleys. They knew he was Harry Potter. At least Vernon and Petunia Dursley did. He wasn’t so sure about Dudley. The idiot only ever called him things like ‘sauerkraut’ and ‘lederhosen-boy’. Regardless, the Dark Man continued with his questions.

“Date of birth?”

“August 1st, 1996.”

“Parents?” Again that sardonic tone, as if he knew already and found it amusing.

“James and Lily Potter.”

“Siblings?”

“They keep my evil twin in the closet under the stairs.”

“Ha. Ha. Stay on topic, boy. Have you ever been informed of wizards or witches outside the relation of fiction or religious fanaticism?”

“Er… I wouldn’t know?”

“Do you have any objections to witchcraft due to religious beliefs?”

Harry hadn’t been allowed near the Christmas tree, let alone gone with the Dursley’s to church on Sundays, and his youthful memories of it with his parents had all seemed rather dull. He couldn’t ever remember them lecturing him against it in Sunday school. Why was he being asked such an absurd question to begin with?

“As long as Satan isn’t involved in anyway, I guess I don’t care.”

Snape looked ready to sneer, then seemed to remember something or someone, and moved on.

“Any allergies or health concerns?”

“Er… I’m allergic to penicillin.”

“And your eyes?”

“What about them?”

A sigh. “Near-sighted, far-sighted? Astigmatism?”

“Er… I couldn’t see a barn while standing next to it without them on?”

“Astigmatism, then. Is your prescription current?”

“I dunno.”

“No, then.”

“Are you taking any medication or nutritional supplements?”

“No.”

“Parasites?”

“What? Of course not!”

Snape eyed his dirty, ragged appearance critically. “We’ll see.”

“Hey!”

“Let us be on our way then. This has taken more than enough time as it is,” Professor Snape said with an air of finality. The other two strangers nodded in agreement and rose to their feet. Harry stood instinctively. The Dursley’s were about to stand as well when the three strangers each removed what looked like twigs from out of thin air, and simultaneously called out ‘stupefy’. His relatives suddenly slumped back limply onto the couch, their expression’s dazed.

“What did you do?!” Harry cried, moving to Dudley’s side to make sure he was still breathing.

“A simple stunning spell, Mr. Potter,” ‘Mr. Tweed’ said, patting him on the shoulder. “No cause for alarm. We’ve found it’s easier for all parties involved if muggles are stunned just before they’re obliviated. Less of a struggle. Less chance formishaps.”

“What? Stunning spell? Obliviated? What are you doing to my relatives?! Who are you people? What are you people?”

“Why, we’re wizards, Harold,” ‘Mr. Tweed’ said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Just like you.” Harry turned to him, looking for any sign of mockery or dementia. The elderly man stared back, his expression calm, his eyes sparkling with intelligence and confidence. A hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump. He looked up to see Professor Snape’s cool regard.

“It’s time we were on our way, Mr. Potter. Do not bother with goodbyes. In an hour, they won’t remember you anyway. You will take nothing…” With the speed of a cobra, he snatched away the sketchbook Harry had been clutching through the entirety of the strange interview. “…of your current or past life with you.”

Harry immediately went to grab the sketchbook back, but Snape held it above his head, and the boy was more than a little embarrassed that he was short enough for the tactic to be effective. But as the man had said earlier… there are men who try and men who do. Refusing to be defeated, he leapt up onto the back of the sofa, and then made a lunge from it once again. Snape was actually caught off guard, and rather than be taken down along with the boy, he released his hold on the book. Harry landed heavily on his arms, but with his prize in hand, he scrambled to his feet and made a dash for the front door.

He was half way down the hall, when he heard the shout of ‘ligo’ and his legs snapped together. He fell forward, his sketchbook flying the rest of the way down the hall. Shaking, and a bit stunned by the fall, Harry lifted himself on to is elbows. He tried to move his legs, but found them firmly stuck together.

The Dark Man strode forward, his expression promising violence. The boy cringed at his approach, but the man strode right past him to snatch up sketchbook once again. As he did so, however, the picture Dudley had assaulted days before, fell out of the binding and landed at his feet. Snape glanced down, seemed to disregard it, but then looked again. Longer this time. His expression turned inscrutable. He then turned to look at Harry, still sprawled out in the middle of the hall glaring daggers at him, and seemed to consider something. He finally picked up the picture, getting a closer look, then carefully replaced it in the sketchbook.

“Mr. Potter, I can tell you are going to make this difficult. I am sure I can make it doubly so. In the interest of your health and my time, which I would rather not spend filling out paperwork on why you are no longerintact, I am willing to make a deal with you. If you come along quietly and behave yourself, I will consider returning your little scribble book.”

“And if I refuse?” Harry snarled.

“I will burn it right in front of you, cast a full body bind on you, and drag you along… without consideration for stairs, broken glass, or any sort of foul matter we should happen upon along the way… to WYRA Headquarters. Don’t get the delusion that you actually have a say on whether you are going. You may only decide on how you’ll get there.”

“…WYRA?”

Snape smirked. “Don’t worry, Mr. Potter, you will be well acquainted with WYRA soon enough.” The man strode back down the hall, over Harry, and back to the living room to inform his compatriots that he was taking their charge on ahead. They cheerfully waved him off, then continued to do who knows what to the Dursley’s. He pointed his stick, Harry believed it was called a ‘wand’, and muttered ‘solvo’ at him. Immediately, Harry felt his legs release and he scrambled to his feet. Snape’s thin, powerful hand was on his arm before he had even balanced himself, dragging him purposefully towards the door.

They left the house and made their way to the street, where Harry was surprised to find a sleek black car, that looked better situated for the 1920s than the 1990s, was parked. The door opened for them and once both were seated in the back seat, it started and drove away without a driver. Harry balked, a thousand odd, incredulous thoughts flitting too quickly through his brain.

“So… a wizard,” Harry said, forcing himself to focus on something solid. At the moment, the most solid thing present was the snarkiest bastard he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

“Yes.”

“And you’re abducting me because I’m a wizard?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Snape didn’t turn his head from the front window, but his dark glittering eyes slide over to him. “Wizards belong with wizards.”

A jolt of excitement ran through Harry at the prospect. Other wizards? Like ‘Mr. Tweed’ and ‘Miss Blue’? Like him? There must be other children wizards then. Would he finally make friends? Would he go to school again? Did they have schools just for wizards and witches? Wizarding teachers? Wait…

“Do you teach at a magic school, Professor?”

“Yes, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the finest wizarding school in Europe.” There was a definite sound of pride in the man’s voice that time.

“Will I go to a magic school?”

“Can you read?”

“Yes.”

“Can you write?”

“Yes.”

“Can you cause spontaneous combustion, seal a room, and animate bed sheets into relative-eating monsters?”

“Er… I guess.”

“Then the chances are that you’ll go to Wizarding school. Considering the level of accidental magic you performed, you’ll probably end up in Hogwarts, or maybe Redbridge if you continue to be an utterly incorrigible brat. Although… you’re rather a bit older than most children WYRA comes to collect.”

Harry shrugged. His thoughts were dizzy with the possibility of wizarding school. Of any school at all really. He hadn’t been to school since he came to live with the Dursley’s. They had been so convinced when the social worker dropped him off that he wouldn’t know a sniff of English they had immediately went off into a long, meaningless dialogue that would be the defining moment for the rest of his life with them. Out of spite, and more than a little fear, he had not disillusioned them. It had been a very small, but very real power he had held over them. The only form of control he had over his life.

“Tell me, Potter, where are your parents?”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Potter?”

“They’re dead, Professor. They’ve been dead for three years now,” he said finally, and then, just to keep the other man from asking he continued. “They… they were shot to death in a robbery. In the middle of the day. Just like that. No one saw a thing. Perhaps if they had…”

There was another pause, one that Snape shared with his charge in quiet introspection of some past memory. Finally, the man plowed through the silence.

“Where was this?”

“Cologne, Germany.”

“That would explain why it took so long for us to find you. You probably did accidental magic when you were younger, just not in England.”

“There isn’t a Child Abduction Squad in Germany?”

Snape let out a snort at the ridiculous title.

“WYRA’s jurisdiction extends only to the British Isles. Germany’s policies on magical children’s upbringing is considerably more… liberal.”

“But what is WYRA?”

“Look out your window and see for yourself.”

In the fifteen minutes Harry had been concentrating on Snape, the view outside his window had changed from a monotonous suburbia to… something else. The roads were cobblestone, although the car ran smoothly along, and everything outside seemed to come out of a Victorian novel. Gas lamps lined the narrow street, illuminating shop windows with store names like “Madam Madora’s Magical Menagerie” and “Popkin’s Artificial Anatomy and Prosthetics”. A few vendors selling jewelry, or furs, or small animal corpses were packing up for the evening, flicking their wands about until their stalls and wares folded themselves down to the size of a suit case. People strode about, many of the men dressed like ‘Mr. Tweed’ and the women in frilly full length dresses, most of them with robes of various colors in the place of jackets and shawls. Even as it was approaching eleven at night, the entire neighborhood was still bustling with activity.

Where were they? They couldn’t possibly be anywhere in Little Whinging. But where could a community this large and this… unusual go unnoticed? Just as he was about to turn ask Snape that very question, the car stopped in front of a large official looking building.

At first, Harry though it was a bank with its Greek style collumns and sturdy stone architecture, but then he noticed the statue. It was a bronze statue of a tall, handsome man with a young boy on his right side and an even younger girl on his left, both clutching either of his hands. Harry noticed that while the man was dressed in elaborate robes, the children looked like he had just pulled them out of a slum in their tattered clothes. It all looked a bit contrived to Harry. Then he noticed that there were words written on the pith of the statue.

“Wizarding Youth Reclamation Agency,” he read out loud. He turned to Snape, who was smirking at him. “It’s an orphanage!”

“It is not an orphanage,” the man snapped. “It’s just was it says it is. A Reclamation agency. Only in this case, they reclaim wizarding children.”

“And do what with them?”

Snape made a dismissive gesture. “Quarantine. Then adoption. Some preliminary education if necessary.”

“It’s an orphanage.”

The Dark Man sent him a rather wicked smirk. “Orphanages are for children whose parents are dead or abandon them. I assure you most of the children you find here do not fall under that category. Now, get out of the car.”

The car door opened, and Harry scurried out of it if only to avoid being mowed over by the taller man. He whirled around to face him, but was struck speechless when he realized the car they had arrived in had completely disappeared. He probably would have stood there gawking for several minutes, if Snape hadn’t grabbed him by the collar and pulled him roughly towards the Agency’s doors.

“Bloody hell, you really are a Child Abduction Agency. That’s sick!”

“Oh, Mr. Potter, you have not even glimpsedthe depravity of this world. This is likely the most humane aspect of our government that you will ever encounter. Now stop dallying. Your romp through wild suburbia has set us days behind schedule, and I do have more important matters to attend.”

“Need to go back to your lair to pull the wings off pixies, eh?” Harry groused under his breath.

“Now that you mention it, I am running low,” the man said evenly. Harry couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. There was really no winning against this man… bat… ghoul… whatever.

They entered through a set of large marble doors inlaid with a carving of a phoenix, which opened and closed with an ominous rumble. Inside, Harry was surprised it looked just as grand as the outside. There was thick gold carpeting, antique but comfortable looking couches, several small potted trees, and pictures of children decorated the wall. Strangely enough, all the children in the paintings appeared to be asleep. He was dragged to what seemed to be the reception desk, and as Snape began talking to the pretty woman behind the counter, he thought he might have seen one of the children yawn.

“Did that-”

“Yes,” Snape said, and then turned to leave. Confused, Harry moved to follow him, but the witch behind the counter placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him. She gave him a comforting smile.

“You’ll be with me for now, sweetheart,” she said.

“Oh.”

Just as Snape reached the door, Harry remembered why he had been following the man in the first place. He turned back, slipping out of the woman’s gentle grip, and ran towards him. “Hey! My book!”

Snape stopped. “What about it?”

“You said if I behaved and came along quietly I could have it back.”

“No,” he said, his voice dripping with cruel condescension. “I said I would consider giving it back to you. And I have considered… and decided against it. Goodnight, Potter.” With that, the man walked out the door. Flabbergasted, Harry just stood there, then made a rush for the door only to find there was no handle with which to open it.

“How the bloody hell- That slimy, greasy, lügen, diebstahl, Bastard. Ich töte ihn!” he raged at the door.

“Mr. Potter…” came a deep voice from behind him.

Harry turned around to see the pretty woman still standing where he had left her. Only now she was joined by an older, much larger man with a no-nonsense face that rivaled his previous warden’s. Though he wasn’t wearing what Harry normally associated with guards, there was a hardy blandness about his robes that reminded him of security guards. In one hand he held a clipboard, and in the other a wand.

“… I trust we won’t be having anymore trouble out of you, eh lad?”

The only thing Harry could do was nod meekly, and follow the pretty woman deeper into the mansion.

Severus Snape returned to his private quarters in Hogwarts just after one o’clock. He went immediately to his liquor cabinet and selected the strongest bottle of brandy he had. In thirty minutes, he had shed his robes and was nursing his third glass in his favorite chair. His thoughts twisted about, finding paths to old memories he had thought forgotten. Memories of less complicated days, when enemies meant fist fights and jibes, and his greatest responsibility was to pass his NEWTs. Nostalgia was strange company for someone like him, and memories of his childhood nemesis and crush were particularly unexpected.

He had heard about their deaths of course. Albus had mad a vague reference to it. Murdered by a muggle. Ironic. Sad. Vaguely pathetic. He had not thought about it much then. He hadn’t seen or heard from the Potters in seven years, when- in a rather unGryffindorish act- they had fled Britain and the fight.

He had completely forgotten that they’d had a child.

Forgotten about it until he came face to face with the incarnation of them. James’s, the plebeian narcissist, shaggy hair and stubborn mouth and Lily’s eyes, so brilliant they should have glowed in the dark. It had been… painful? to see those forgotten features in living form, no longer a past idea, but something that thought and spoke and felt. He had almost forgotten that James and Lily had been actual people.

He wished he didn’t remember.

He wished for purely selfish reasons, that whatever cruel bit of fate had thrown Harry Potter right back into the twisted hands his parents had fled the country from had never occurred. And knowing that wish was now utterly futile, he wished that he never saw the boy again. Yet even as he repeated that wish over and over in his head, his hand rested on the stolen sketchbook, twitching every so often as if to fight the urge to open it.

The Enchanted Fortress

The next three hours were likely the most uncomfortable hours of Harry’s short life. From the lobby, he was taken straight to a white tiled room lined with showers. While the pretty woman, who told him to call her ‘Edith’, waited outside, the large man, referred to as Mr. Mufflin, stood guard at the door and informed him in a tone the brooked no disobedience, exactly what he was to do. Reluctantly, Harry stripped off his ragged clothes and showered, scrubbing every nook and cranny until the man was satisfied.

Once he was done showering and thoroughly mortified, Mr. Mufflin flicked his wand about and muttered something, and Harry suddenly found himself dry. Another wand flick and mutter, and some clothes appeared at Harry’s feet. They were only a pair of draw string shorts and shirt that had to be tied close, in identical pale blue. No socks or underwear appeared. He dressed quickly. The moment he tied his shirt close, the name ‘Harold’ suddenly appeared in dark blue stitching over his left breast.

From there, he was taken to another room that vaguely resembled a doctor’s office. Only instead of cotton swabs and stethoscopes, there were shelves crammed with phials of different colored liquids and eye balls in jars that seemed to be moving. He sat on a stool as the boniest man he had ever seen hovered around him, holding up one of said eyeballs to his face and looking him over. Every so often he ‘hhhmmm…’ and gave him a phial to drink (he quickly came to dread that ‘hhhmmm…’) and scribbled something down. Finally, after what seemed like hours and twenty phials of liquified ‘ick’, Edith and Mr. Mufflin escorted him down a long corridor to a door the same pale blue as his clothes.

“Now, Harry,” Edith said, crouching down so she could look him in the eye, “I know this must be very confusing and frightening for you, but I don’t want you to worry. We’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you. You trust me, don’t you, Harry?”

Frankly, he didn’t. He didn’t know how she could expect him to trust anyone who participated in child abduction. Although, she did appear as if she was more experienced with children much younger and more gullible than him. In any event, he was tired and still embarrassed from the shower fiasco and just wanted to be left alone for a while, so he nodded.

“I’m glad. Now, I know you’re probably very tired, so we’re going to take you to the boy’s dormitory. The others are sleeping right now, but we’ll be sure to introduce you in the morning, okey-dokey?”

He nodded… or twitched. He wasn’t entirely sure.

They opened the door, and from the light filtering in from the corridor, Harry could make out eight small bed in two columns along each wall. Seven of them had little bodies in them, and as they walked quietly towards the one empty bed, Harry could see they were little boys between the ages of five and eight.

Something painful clenched in his heart as he stared at their peaceful cherubic faces, thinking of the mothers and fathers who must be out there worrying and crying over each stolen child. In a soft whisper, Edith performed a spell on his newly assigned bed, and it grew in height and length.

Depressed and suddenly fearful of his future, he slowly crawled into the bed. He did not think sleep would be possible after his intoxicating, frightening, frustrating thrust into a world where magic was a common as sixpence. However, there must have been a spell on the bed, because as soon his head touched the pillow the world went dark, and he felt himself sink into a warm, quiet place.

The seven beds were empty when Harry woke the next morning. He blinked owlishly, his vision blurry without his glasses, and sat up. After a bit of floundering, he found his glasses sitting on a night stand that hadn’t been there the night before and got a good look around. Sunlight filtered in through the two large windows that stretch almost floor to ceiling, through which he could see a peaceful countryside he knew could not possible exist since he knew WYRA was in a city. Each bed had an old-fashioned style gold bar head and foot boards with identical sets of dark blue and gold sheets, and a blue trunk with gold fastenings at the foot of the bed. If he looked closely he could just make out name plates on the trunk. Aside from that, only the colorful crayon drawings at the head of each bed differentiated them.

The rest of the room was decorated in creams, golds, and blues, from the furniture to the fixtures. A short shelf and an open toy chest revealed collection of children’s toys, coloring books, and puzzles. A grandfather clock beside the door read seven ten. There was another smaller door across the room, that he assumed was either the bathroom or a closet.

It was a rather depressing realization that this pseudo-orphanage was a lot nicer than his sad little room at the Dursley’s or of any non-wizarding orphanage he had ever heard of. It was also a bit depressing to realize he had been placed in a nursery. Sighing, he climbed out of the bed intent on doing some exploration.

Something grabbed his ankles.

“GAH!”

Harry immediately jumped back into the bed. A loud burst of giggles emanated from beneath him. Curious, he stuck his head under the bed to find seven impish faces grinning back at him. Somehow, all seven of his new dorm mates had squeezed underneath his bed to wait for him to wake up. He rather admired their resolve.

“Well, good morning to you too,” he said. The boys all giggled and pulled themselves out of their hiding spot.

“We got you good!” said freckle-faced boy. “You yelled really loud!”

A blonde child with a cut on his nose, mimicked him by shouting out a ‘gah’ and jumping onto the bed next to him. That brought another round of giggles, and even Harry managed to crack a smile.

“Your name’s Harold, ya?” the oldest boy of the lot asked. “That’s what it says on your trunk.”

Harry stood up and walked around the end of the bed. Sure enough, he had a trunk with the name ‘Harold’ engraved on the name plate. Where did these people get these things? Surely there weren’t spells for every little thing, right? He looked at the other boys, who were now all crowding to sit on his bed and looking at him eagerly.

“Call me Harry.”

“Just like me!” said the blond boy. “My trunk says ‘William’, but it’s really Billy. No one but the nurses call me ‘William’.”

“Yeah, the nurses are weird like that,” piped in another of the older boys. “My name’s Nat, even though everything here says I’m ’Nathaniel’. Blah.”

“So…” Harry said, pointing to the two boys. “Billy and Nat. And the rest of you lot?”

“Edgar!” called one the smallest boy, his smile missing half his teeth.

“Brandon!”

“Norton!”

“Freddy!”

“Michael!”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry said politely.

“Hey, how come your so old? You’re way older than Norton,” cried Edgar. The boys all nodded in agreement, and Nat and Norton threw him a suspicious look. Harry felt suddenly nervous. He didn’t have much experience with younger children, and for the life of him he could not remember what he was like when he was their age. He didn’t remember being that hyper.

“I don’t know. Snape said it was because I didn’t come to England until I was older,” he said finally. At the mention of his main kidnapper’s name, the boys each shared a look of horrified disbelief.

“You actuallytalked to him?!”

“No way!

“He didn’t make you eat your tongue? He said he’d make me eat my tongue when I started asking questions!”

“Does his head really twist all the way around? Norton said he could turn it all the way around like an owl, but I don’t believe him!” said Freddy, who had been quiet until then.

“How would you know, you got picked up by a girl!” Norton retorted.

“I still don’t believe you!”

Seeing that things were quickly escalating into…something, Harry spoke up to distract them. “I didn’t see his head turn all the way around, but he is a wizard. He could probably turn himself into an owl and do it for sure.”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t think of that,” Freddy conceded.

“That would be brilliant! I want to turn into an owl!”

“I want to turn into a tiger!”

“When I’m a real wizard, I’m going to turn into whale and swim all over the world! Even to the bottom of the ocean!”

“What about on land, stupid! If you’re a whale you can’t climb a mountain or swim up a creek.”

“Ha! I’d turn into a whale and a…a… dog! Or monkey! Or anything I want!”

Pretty soon the boys were all speculating on what sort of animals they would turn into and what sort of adventures they would go on. It wasn’t long before they were all acting out their future plans, barking and flying and climbing all over the place. Harry sat on his bed and watched, baffled at his current predicament. How long was he going to be staying with this band of mayhem incarnate?

Just as Norton was about to be set upon by a pack of shapeshifting lions, the door opened and a jolly looking woman walked into the room dressed much like Edith had the night before. With her plump, rosey cheeks, Harry thought she looked like she should be serving cookies to Santa in the North Pole. The boys immediately stopped what they were doing, some of them looking rather guilty. The woman took a sweeping inventory of the room, put her hands on her hips, and scowled (and still managed to look cute while doing so).

“I don’t suppose you’ve all brushed your teeth?” she asked.

“No, Miss Marilyn,” they replied in practiced unison.

“Have you washed your faces? Changed your clothes? Gotten your bags ready?”

“No, Miss Marilyn.”

“Well, then hop to it!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Go! Go! Go!”

Or else I’ll tell Santa to put you on the ‘naughty’ list, Harry mentally added.

The boys broke apart into well organized chaos, some heading for the second door which did turn out to be the bathroom, while others dived for their trunks. Harry just stood there, unsure what to do. Miss Marilyn, quick to spot him, marched right up to him.

“You must be Harold then,” she began, a little less sternly than when she’d walked in. “You are a bit older than we’re used to, but don’t worry. I’ve been here since WYRA first started, and have seen young men and women older than you pass through these doors. You’ll do fine.”

“Ma’am, with all due respect… what exactly will I be doing ‘fine’ at?”

“They didn’t tell you about WYRA when you came in? No, I suppose you came in a bit late… Well, just get ready for the day. I’ll give you a proper introduction while the boys are having their lessons.”

“Lessons? Like wizarding lessons?” he asked, eager to start those himself.

“Oh no, just reading, writing, and math. Spells and such aren’t taught until they’re at least eleven…”

“I’m almost eleven…” He couldn’t hide the eagerness in his voice. For all the uncertainty of his future, he could not help but think that becoming a true wizard would somehow clear everything up. After all, there was a spell for everything. Certainly there were spells that help him get even with that Snape bastard and well on his way to Germany. Snape did say the German wizards were more liberal and didn’t go around kidnaping children. He could be happy there, right?

“Yes, well… we’ll talk about that later. Norton! Come here and help Harry. Show him what to do, just like you did with Edgar and Nathaniel, ok?”

She quickly wandered off to help some of the younger children dress and find their supplies, and Norton quickly appeared and led Harry away to the bathroom. Harry mimicked the younger boy as they prepared for the day. The bathroom had a low shelf with small baskets of personal hygiene items. They brushed their teeth, washed their faces, and Harry made a half hearted attempt to tame his hair. Back in the room, Norton opened Harry’s trunk and pulled out a plain black school bag. As the younger boy started loading it with pencils, a notebook, and other items; Harry changed into the set of slightly darker, but otherwise identical set of clothes. They had just finished getting ready when Miss Marilyn called everyone to the hall.

The children all lined up from oldest to youngest (except for Harry who lingered in the back of line), and made there way single file through the hall, where they were joined another line of boys in green and two lines of girls in pink and purple. Altogether there were about forty children, five nurses, and two large ‘guards’ in the procession.

They all made their way through a series of corridors to a large dining hall, where two sets of parallel tables and one shorter table at their head. The girls went to one long table and boys to the other, while the adults took the short table so that they might oversee them all. The tables were all fully set and there were large dishes piled high with all sorts of breakfast sorts. When everyone had settled, everyone bowed their heads and took their neighbor’s hand to pray.

“God bless Britain,” Miss Marilyn began.

“God bless Britain,” everyone repeated.

“God bless the Community of Magic. And God bless me, that I might grow powerful, wise, and fearless. Bless my brethren, that they may grow powerful, wise, and fearless beside me. And bless the Father of the New Wizardry of Britain, so that he may lead us to a world of glory and justice for all wizarding kind. Amen.”

When the prayer was done, leaving Harry feeling strangely like a foreigner, the dining hall broke out into a wordless chaos as children eagerly gathered up food onto their plates and passed dishes around. Harry grabbed some waffles, eggs, and sausage as he realized how truly starving he was. He hadn’t had anything but a few tomatoes the morning before. Gradually, as tummies filled, the children all started talking and gossiping.

The atmosphere was all very amicable, and Harry wondered how these children couldn’t be even a little distressed at being ripped away from their families. Certainly all their parents hadn’t been nearly as wretchedly selfish and neglectful as the Dursley’s had been to him. Yet no one mentioned their father or mother or siblings or past friends or pets. It was as if they had completely forgotten about their life outside of WYRA.

He had a dreadful premonition that it was a sort of magic, and as he looked down at his wonderfully delicious breakfast he couldn’t help but wonder if it was enchanted somehow. If he stayed at WYRA long enough, would he too forget about his family? He certainly wouldn’t miss the last three years spent cloistered at number four, Privet Drive with the Dursley’s, but what about his parents? What about the memories of summers they’d spent together wandering the beach, spring festivals, and Christmas? What about all the quiet moments they spent together in the studio, his mother teaching him about perspective and proportions, and his father teaching him the proper way to mold clay?

Only half done, Harry pushed his plate away.

He spent the rest of breakfast listening to the other children, and piecing together what life was going to be like at WYRA. It all seemed a bit like boarding school. Everyone got up at the same time, went to breakfast at the same time, took lessons on generic subjects like math and geography, had lunch, had recesses and activity times for play, a story time, study and homework time, a shower just before dinner, a nightly prep, and finally lights out. Although it wasn’t said directly, he got the impression there were no weekends or holidays. And then he overheard a conversation at the girl’s table involving ‘quarantine’.

“Miss Rachel says I’ll be done with quarantine this Friday. I’ll get to go with you guys next Saturday if I don’t get sick,” said an eight-year old girl with ebony hair pulled up into pig-tails and a purple outfit. Her friend in pink beside her squealed in delight, and started speaking in an Irish accent.

“Tha’s great! It’s non fun going anywhere without ya. Beth picks on me when yar gone.”

“If she tries it while I’m there I’ll pop her in the nose, and then see who wants to adopt her!” The little girls laughed and started talking about Beth and all the mean pranks they could pull on her when the adults weren’t looking. Harry turned to Norton.

“What happens on Saturdays?”

Norton made an unpleasant face. “Adoption parties. They’re a real drag. We just wander around a room and adults talk to us about stuff. Sometimes a kid gets adopted, but mostly it’s a waste of time. The food is always really weird too.”

“Adoption parties? Who adopts us? Who get’s adopted? What’s quarantine?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. Quarantine is just us waiting around to see if we get sick. Sometimes a kid gets something like chicken pox, only they get blue spots and the lights turn off every time they sneeze. If you go so long without getting sick, you get to go to the parties. I don’t know who adopts us… wizards and witches I guess.”

“How long does it usually take to get adopted?”

“I dunno. The younger kids usually get picked up pretty quick, though. I’ve been here three months, and I’ve been here the longest of our class,” he said, fairly glowing with pride. He didn’t seem to release that him being there so long meant no one wanted to take him home. Harry didn’t have the heart to suggest it to him. Frankly, he was probably in the same boat. Who would want to adopt someone as old as him? If it was as Snape suggested, he would going off to school soon, so there really wasn’t much point was there?

Breakfast ended, and while the nurses and guards escorted the children to their lessons, Miss Marilyn pulled him into a small office for a private chat. The office looked like an office, only it ran itself. The mail slot seemed to be having an ongoing battle with the filing cabinet, spitting out or swallowing pieces of parchment as they zipped through the air. A diagram on the wall depicted WYRA headquarters in its entirety with little colored dots that moved about it. Harry suspected each dot was a person, which seemed to be confirmed by the blue dot and the black dot that occupied the room they were currently residing in.

“Now Harry, I just wanted to take a moment to see how you are doing and explain a few things. You seemed be taking everything in stride so far, but I’m sure this must be disconcerting for you,” she said.

“Oh…well, yes… I dunno. It’s strange… kinda scary, but… not too strange really… not yet anyway. The kids all seem well taken care of, even if you do kidnap them.”

The woman coughed into her hand at his last statement. “Yes, well… there are good reasons for that, I assure you. Most importantly, it’s dangerous, for both the child and their non-magical families to suddenly have a witch or wizard in the family. Neither one understands what is happening and the outcome can be… tragic. Before WYRA was founded there were a lot of horror stories about wizarding children being abused or killed by parents who mistook their magic as a sign of demonic possession or the anti-christ. You understand, I hope, that all the children here, you included, were removed for your protection?”

He didn’t like it.

Parents should at least be given a chance, he thought. The idea that his parents could possibly reject him because he had magic seemed absurd to him. He couldn’t help but think they would have been delighted at the idea. At the same time, his parents had been artists. They were weird by most people’s standards. The Dursley’s certainly wouldn’t have been a safe place for a child with any unusual talents. Would they have doted on Dudley if he’d started levitating things or turned into a owl or something? And of course, WYRA did seem to think they were doing what was best for the children.

Except for maybe Snape. How that callous, lying, greasy bastard could be allowed anywhere near children was beyond him.

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“I’m glad you understand. Now, I know you didn’t get a proper explanation about what we do here at WYRA when you came in. Basically, we’re a transition center. Children who display magical abilities are brought here from all over Britain. First we register them as citizens of the Wizarding Community of Britain, they’re given a thorough health exam, vaccinated- I’m sure you recall all those awful potions you had to drink when you first arrive?- and then held over a period of three weeks to make sure you don’t get sick. Understand that despite the vaccines, a lot of children still get Blue Pox or the latest magical flu. This waiting period also helps children adjust to being away from their families, become used to magic, and the like. Our main purpose, however, is to place all the children here into proper wizarding homes.”

“So that’s what the adoption parties are for?”

“Ah, so you heard a little something about those?”

“I heard the younger children are the first to get adopted. I can’t help but think I’ll be here for a very long time.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile.

“That’s what I really wanted to talk to you about, Harold. I’m afraid the chances of you being adopted are… well, very slim. The good news, however, is that you’ll be old enough to attend a wizarding school come September. Since you are old enough that childhood ailments are less of a concern, we’ll let you skip the quarantine period and attend some of the adoption parties- just to give you a fair opportunity- but if you’re not adopted, then when you go to receive your education, you’ll become a ward of the Community and under the guardianship of your school’s administration. Do you understand?”

“If I’m not adopted by a wizard family, I’ll be adopted by a school… Do I get to keep my last name then?”

“Of course. I must say, young man, you’re taking this all rather well.”

Harry gave her a sardonic smile. “I’m used to big, sudden changes in my life.”

It wouldn’t be until later that evening, as she settled down to more carefully review Harold James Potter’s file, that Miss Marilyn fully appreciated exactly what he meant. His records played out like war-time drama. His parents turned out to be wizards, which would have been a major benefit to his future, if it weren’t for the fact that they had both been very high on You-Know-Who’s Most Wanted list. They had been in league with Dumbledore, James Potter was even an auror, but they had pulled out of the country and the fight shortly after their son was born.

No one knew what had happened to them. There were apparently some reports that they had gotten to France, but after that there was no documented information. Snape’s report suggested they had hidden themselves from the wizarding world completely, living as muggle artists in a studio apartment in Cologne. Harry didn’t know anything about it either.

They had died with their secrets, and without anyone knowing Harry was a wizard, he had been returned to England to live with his muggle relatives. And what a wretched lot they seemed to be! Padlocks on the bedroom door, no formal education, and Dr. Helm found evidence of malnutrition!

It was cases like this that made Miss Marilyn proud to have supported You-Know-Who during the war and taken on a position at WYRA. Who knows what would have happened to poor Harold? Raised by abusive relatives to be an ordinary muggle, never comprehending the strange things that followed him through his life. On the off chance the former government had spotted him, he would have been thrust into society without a leg to stand on, and likely failed miserably into the dredges of society.

With WYRA hard at work though, no child was ever left hungry or floundering for guidance. They would raise all their children to be obedient, productive, proud members of society. How fortunate Harold was, how all wizarding children were, to have such a compassionate ruler as You-Know-Who!

The Prince, the Knave, and the Ace of Hearts

Four days passed in a routine that was the same as the first morning Harry had arrived. He did pretty much everything the younger children did, except lessons, which he took to studying on his own (he hadn’t had any formal schooling since he was eight, but he’d done a lot of Dudley’s math homework at the Dursley’s and knew a fair bit of Geography), and playtime he usually spent reading “Witches, Wizards, and Whatevers; a Practical Guide to Modern Culture in Wizarding Britain”. Miss Marilyn had given the book to him so he would stop bugging everyone else with questions.

The book was pretty vague and its references obscure or inaccurate, but Harry got a general idea of the Wizarding World. Non-magical people were called muggles, and since he was born from muggles he was called a muggleborn. Not exactly common, but not really rare. Wizards and witches who had wizarding parents were called purebloods. Harry wondered what they called a magical person born from a muggle and a witch or wizard. There was no reference for it, so Harry assumed it just didn’t occur very often.

According to his book, even though wizards lived amongst or beside muggle communities, there wasn’t any real interaction. Wizards had their own government, economy, education, and culture completely separate from Muggles. As far as the Muggle world knew, there was no such thing as magic. In fact, it was apparently illegal to do business with or marry a muggle. It would explain why there weren’t any muggle/wizarding children.

Otherwise, the Wizarding World ran a bit like the muggle world, only everything seemed to involve magic. They had radios (although not televisions oddly enough), newspapers (the photographs actually moved!), and all sorts of magazines (He was curious as to what Potion’s Weekly involved). There were sporting events (Quidditch was apparently the national sport of choice), a wide selection of hobbies, festivals, and Halloween and Christmas had their own particular traditions. While none of them looked familiar, many of them did look like fun. The government was a cross between a monarchy and a bureaucracy, and a representative body called the Wizengamot that didn’t really seem to have a purpose. He also couldn’t figure out who was the head of the government, and only knew that it wasn’t a king or queen or some other form of royalty. They referred to this person as You-Know-Who, but since Harry really didn’t know who it was very frustrating.

He was almost to the chapter that went into magical vacation spots when Saturday arrived. All the boys spent an extra long time grooming themselves and their younger friends in the bathroom. There were light hearted bets about who might get picked that day. After a particularly energetic breakfast, everyone went to lessons, but groups of four or five would routinely be called out of class. When they returned their hair was trimmed or curled or modestly styled. Harry got a turn as well, and in the shower room he was set on a stool. His barber, an elderly man with neatly trimmed mustache, took one look at his wild mop and declared it hopeless.

As soon as lunch was through, most of the boys and girls were gathered up into two lines. About a dozen remained behind, some of them marking their fellow’s departure with a distinct pout, and went on to playtime and study period. Harry and the children were escorted by two nurses and two guards to a room that he had never seen before. It was a small room with plain white walls and wood flooring. The only thing there was a large cabinet standing directly in the middle of the room. It was carved of dark wood and had a small brass nob shaped like a lion, and as Harry moved closer he could make out symbols burned along the outer edges.

Miss Marilyn went to the door. She took a moment to check her pocket watch, nodded to herself and then tapped the cabinet lightly with her wand. “Aquo questo portello all’atro lato.” The dark symbols turned a electric purple, flickered into light blue and then faded to dark. When the symbols had faded completely, the door fell open.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, looking through the door to see not a cupboard, but a the parlor of a large mansion.

“Harold!”

“Sorry, Miss Marilyn.”

She let it slide, and moved out of the way so that the children could file through. As Harry moved through the door he felt the briefest moment of disorientation, as if he had just stepped off of an elevator. He quickly moved aside to allow their guardians to step through behind him, and looked back. They had all apparently stepped through someone’s grandfather clock, and Harry could only shake his head at the concept. Did the cabinet and the clock connect only to each other or did they connect to other places? If wizards could do this sort of thing, why had Snape taken him to WYRA in a car?

Harry lingered close to the adults at first, but the other children quickly scattered into little clusters of friends to play games or investigate the room. It was a very lovely room with an air of antiquity Harry was coming to understand as the norm for the Wizarding world. There was an enormous white marble fireplace, engraved with dragons, a phoenix, and other fire related creatures that he couldn’t identify. Elegant furniture that looked more beautiful than comfortable was scattered about the room, and a long table stood laden with an assortment of finger food.

“Where are we?” he finally asked, to no one in particular.

“Gnarlsbriar Manor,” replied one of the guards offhandedly, watching closely so that none of his wards broke anything. “Summer estate of the Brimwoods Family, just south of Edinburough.”

Harry glanced up to see a enormous gold and crystal chandelier laden with plain wax candles. “Are all wizarding homes this nice?”

The older man snorted. “They certainly like to pretend they are. Run off, Harold. My job isn’t answering your nosey questions.”

He frowned, but did as he was told. He found himself standing by an open window, looking out over a verdant Scottish countryside. In the distance, he could make out the dark shape of horses grazing behind stone paddocks. Trying to keep his thoughts from speculating on what strange thing might happen next, he kept his attention on those horses and their strange reddish hues. The longer he looked at them the stranger they began to look. Were those wings?

The sound of doors opening and the muffled thump of many footsteps drew Harry’s attention to the other end of the parlor. Approximately twenty witches and wizards entered the room, all of them in pairs. At first Harry assumed the pairs were spouses, but there was one pair of only women and two of only men. As he pondered the peculiar arrangement, the witches and wizards (for that was the only thing they could possibly be dressed in their elaborate robes and some even with pointed hats) filed into the room and without preamble began cornering children. When ever a child was corner, they’d stop what they were doing to talk to the pair. Some of the children were better at it than others. The bolder ones smiled brightly and chatted as if to one of their friends, while others stammered or looked down shyly or nearly burst into to tears. Harry had a feeling he was going to fall into the second category, and even though he was incredibly curious, he turned back towards the window and prayed no one would approach him.

For a while, it seemed to work. The adults would always pass him by, occasionally turning curious glances at him, but never stopping. With this blatant disregard, it wasn’t long before Harry began overhearing conversations he was certain he shouldn’t have been privy to. One of the pairs of males, both young, slender, and dressed in a way that reminded Harry of accountants and investors, stopped not two feet away from him and began gossiping between themselves.

“Not much to pick from, is there Robert?” said the darker of the two.

“Josephine did say it was to be expected. It took her two years and eight parties just to find Carolyn. It’s always a gamble when dealing with Muggle-stock.”

Muggle-stock? What were these men here for? Children or cattle?

“The little black haired boy might be worth looking into.”

“He’s a bit of a scaredy-cat.”

“He’s five. He can be trained.”

Fetch. Speak. Sit. Stay.

“I wanted a brunette or a blond. If he doesn’t look at least a little like one of us then we’ll look like a rather motley family. You remember Dorsey, right? His wife’s has a light complexion just like him, but they kept adopting red heads. Their family portraits look like they’ve been mobbed by freckled woodsprites.”

They both laughed loudly to each other, and Harry felt an up-welling of resentment towards them. Suddenly, both men stopped laughing, and slowly turned around to look at him. They both seemed startled to see him there, and even more startled at the malevolent look in his brilliant green eyes.

“Oh…h-hello,” the blond said first, obviously embarrassed. His partner ( Harry believed they were in fact one of those ‘special couples’ his mother had told him about) looked startled, but recovered quickly and looked down on him with a certain smugness. It was certainly more dignified than Dudley’s infantile smirk, but no where near as grating as Snape’s had been. Now, Harry may not have known how to be polite and sociable to adult witches and wizards, but he certainly knew how to be rude to them. Rude was easy.

“Hallo. Mein Name ist Harry. Ihr seid unheimlich eingebildet, oberflächlich und aufgeblasen. Ich würde euch nicht einmal eine Katze adoptieren lassen, geschweige denn einen kleinen Jungen,”[1] he rambled off. The wizards both looked at him blankly for a moment, then the blond one hurriedly opened up a pamphlet he was carrying and flipped through it. At first, Harry though he was looking up what he’d said, but was proven wrong a moment later when the blond found what it was he was looking for.

“Ah… Harold James Potter. English born, but raised in Germany. Returned to England around eight or nine. Oh look there… almost eleven already. WYRA just picked him up last week. Imagine that? You rarely see them this old.”

“Kein Grund so mich anzugaffen, du Fisch.”[2]

“Are you sure the German wizards didn’t just throw him back?”

“Robert!”

“He’s mocking us, Kyle.”

Harry grinned, all teeth.

“Er… yes, well… he isa brunette though. And your mother’s eyes were green too.”

Both Harry and Robert turned a disbelieving look at the smaller man.

“Don’t even suggest it. Does he even speak English? Never mind, of course he does. It’s bad enough dealing with backtalk in one language, let alone two.”

“Why not? You can each have your own language of sarcasm,” Harry offered.

“Yes, now see there,” Kyle continued. “You’d get the English sarcasm. You of all people should appreciate that.”

Despite himself, the corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. He still did not like them, but they were…a cute couple? The moment Kyle saw the little slip he broke out into a full out grin.

“Oh and he’s cute! He’s almost eleven and stillcute.”

Harry blushed, which only seemed to delight Kyle further.

“No,” Robert said firmly. “Absolutely not. Aside from being a brunette- and we can’t be certain that bird’s nest is his natural color or it just hasn’t been washed properly- he’s the opposite of everything we were looking for to begin with! He’s too old, he’s disrespectful, doesn’t look a thing like me, and come on… it took ten years for his magic to pop up? He’s probably a wink and a whistle from being a squib.”

“Hey, I don’t go calling you seafood…” Harry objected. “Oh, wait…”

“Squib, squib, not a squid. A muggle born from wizarding stock. God, what do they teach you all day?”

“How to make puppets out of popsicle sticks, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll be going away to a real wizarding school come September, and that will be that.”

“There! See? He’d be in the house for what? A month? And then he’d be off to some trade school to making candles from the rest of the year.”

“Aww… but Robby-”

“For the last time, no! Now I’m going to go check out that blond kid, you can join me when your common sense returns.” With that, the man stalked off, leaving Harry alone with Kyle. The man put his hands on his hips and his expression was such that Harry was suddenly, and painfully reminded of his mother. He quickly went back to staring out the window.

“I’m sorry, Harold, but he’s being quite unreasonable,” the wizard said, ignoring the fact that his young companion was ignoring him.

“He sounded perfectly reasonable to me.”

There was a silence, and he wondered if Kyle hadn’t taken the hint and left. But no, the man merely moved closer towards the window to see what he was looking at. There was a look of surprise on his face, and then understanding as he looked towards the young man.

“You can see them, can’t you?” he said.

“What? The horses? Yeah, my eyes aren’t that bad.”

“Harold, those aren’t horses. They’re thestrals. Beasts of the underworld. Only someone who has seen death up close can see them.”

“…”

“Harold-”

“Harry. My name is Harry.”

“Harry, then. Why are you so against getting adopted?”

“I’ve been adopted before, thank you very much. I’d rather be on my own now.”

“Ah…” They said nothing for a moment, Harry pondering thestrals and death and family and how they were all connected in his life. He had almost forgotten Kyle, when the man put his hand on his shoulder. “If you should ever change your mind, you can reach either Robert or me here.”

He handed Harry a business card. It read:

ROBERT ALLEN REIGER

ATTORNEY AT LAW

CRIMINAL DEFENSE AND CIVIL SUITES

165 TAPERTY RD, LONDON

“I’m his personal assistant, so if you write there you’ll get to me first.”

Harry studied the card and then Kyle, more than a little baffled. “Thank you, sir, but… why are doing this? I’m a complete stranger and you’ve no benefit in befriending me.”

“I’ve got a feeling about you, Harry. I think you’re going to make something out of yourself. I’ve seen all sorts in my line work, and I can just tell. You’ve got character. It glows out through those pretty eyes of yours. Ten or fifteen years from now Robert is going to be kicking himself for missing out on the opportunity to adopt you. I’d bet my wand on it.”

Harry blushed, not expecting the compliment and unsure if should believe the man. He certainly didn’t feel special. He felt tired, small, and a little bit lonely. Kyle gave him an encouraging smile, a pat on the shoulder, and wandered off to find his husband? boss? Harry gave the business card a long speculative look and then slipped it into the folds of his shirt.

For the remaining hour and a half, Harry remained undisturbed by the other wizarding couples and eventually his gaze returned to the thestrals. Gradually, the adults left, a few of them taking a child in hand as they went, but most of the children were left and started to join him by the windows.

“Hey, Harry,” began Norton, tilting his head curiously. “What are you looking at?”

“Thestrals,” Harry said automatically.

“What’s a thestral?”

Now Harry wasn’t sure what to say. Could he really explain something as sinister as a horse that only one who has seen death can see them to an eight-year old? He didn’t like the idea that he was ten and could see them.

“It’s a type of bird. Those little brown birds hoping in and out of the grass.”

“Oh…I thought those were just sparrows.”

Edgar, the smallest of the boys there, stepped close to Harry looking off towards the meadows. He looked up to the older boy and gave him a confused looked, but said nothing.

It was an epiphany for Harry. The realization that death did not care where and on who it landed, and it did not care who it left behind. It was a scary, horrible truth. It made Harry feel older and more prepared for his life to come, and he was glad it had been revealed to him.

1. Hello. My name is Harry. You are conceited, shallow, and pompous. You best bet is to adopt a cat, not a little boy.↩

2. That’s no reason to gape, you codfish.↩

The Maiden and the Dragon

Edgar did not return with Harry and the other boys that Saturday. Neither did one of the six year old girls, but he had never met her. When they returned to WYRA headquarters, Harry was surprised to find that the boy’s bed and trunk were gone, along with all his crayon drawings. None of the other boys questioned this, and in fact seemed to think Edgar had some how beat them in a game and cursed him good naturedly. For Harry, his disappearance was devastating. That he or anyone of the children could simply disappear and not a trace of them remain…

When everyone else had gone to sleep, Harry avoided his bed like the plague, feeling some foul sort of enchantment had been placed on it to make him forget Edgar, forget his parents, forget himself. He spent the entire night drawing sketches of the missing child with colored pencils and crayons in the blank pages of his student notebook. When he was done, he tore out the pages and hid them in his book, along with the business card Kyle had given him. The parallels between his new secret sketches and his old ones made him simultaneously nostalgic and terrified. Surely his new life could in no way resemble the drab, bitter existence he’d had at the Dursley’s?

The next day proceeded as all the days previously had in a comfortable routine. At night, Harry lingered behind the other boys, pretending to stay up late reading until they all had gone to bed and were magically enchanted into sleep. He would place stuffed animals underneath his covers and hide in the bathroom until the final bed check of the evening around nine o’clock, and then spend an hour or so sketching the other boys, or the staff, or the Reigers, or anyone he could remember and then hide them away in his book. Then he’d strip his bed of the pillow and comforter and sleep on the floor. His sleep was light as it had always been at the Dursley’s, and he always woke earlier than the other boys so that he might make his bed and start his bathroom routine early without anyone being the wiser.

Life continued in this strange cross of comfortable routine and intense paranoia for three weeks. There were more adoption parties. Harry went ignored and was glad for it. He never saw Kyle or Robert Reiger at any of them. He wondered sometimes if they had adopted Edgar or perhaps the little girl he’d never met. Norton was finally adopted to a congenial pair of witches whose daughter had left for Redbridge and were looking for another child to open their home and lives to. Harry was happy for Norton, who had seemed as thrilled to be adopted as the witches had been to adopt him. At night, though, he would think the blue room had begun to look so very empty.

A boy named Alfred turned up one day shortly afterward. He was the first black boy Harry had seen at WYRA, and he was also the first child he had seen cry for his mommy. He cried all day, wouldn’t touch his food or take a nap, and nothing the staff or the other boys did seemed to comfort him. When Alfred woke up the next morning, he didn’t shed a single tear and ate his breakfast with as much enthusiasm as the other boys. Harry hadn’t remembered feeling so alone since he was eight.

June rolled around, although Harry wasn’t sure of the exact date, and Miss Marilyn pulled Harry into her office for a chat. At first, he was terrified at the possibility of her finding out he hadn’t been sleeping in his bed and that she was going to take his sketches away. It didn’t take long for her to alleviate his fears.

“Professor Snape is going to be dropping by tomorrow,” she began, pulling out a file with his name on it. Harry frowned, thinking of the greasy bastard who had tricked him and stolen his sketchbook. “He’s going to administer a magical aptitude test to determine your level of magic. Depending on how high you rank will determine which school you will be going to. Either way, things are going to get a bit hectic for you. After the test, you’ll only have about a day or two before you’re sent to your new home. You’ll attend a school sponsored summer prep class with some other muggleborn children, and then attend proper classes with pureblood children at the start of term. Usually September first. Do you have any questions?”

Harry thought for a moment.

“Will it hurt? The test, I mean.”

“No, Harold, it doesn’t hurt at all,” she said with a smile.

“… Can I take the book that you gave me? You know, in case I get confused about something?”

“You know you’ll get new, even better books at the school don’t you?”

“Yes… but, those will be the school’s books. I was wondering if I can have the book. You know, so it would just be mine?”

Miss Marilyn gave him a compassionate smile. “I don’t see why not. I have extras and they’re pretty out of date. Why not? You can keep your book, Harold. I don’t mind.”

Harry gave her the brightest smile he could manage. “Thank you so much!”

All of the following morning and afternoon, Harry waited anxiously for Snape’s arrival and his subsequent test. He wished now he had asked his current guardian when the man would arrive, but now it was too late. The woman was in her office all day working on paperwork and organizing the details of the next adoption party. Now all he could do was wait and wonder what exactly his test would entail. Miss Marilyn had said it wouldn’t hurt, but that didn’t necessarily mean it wouldn’t be difficult.

Would it be a written test? Would he have to try to do some spells? Would one of the staff doctors poke and prod him until they learned what they needed to know? What if there had been a mistake? What if he wasn’t a wizard at all? What if some wizard or witch was playing a cruel joke and had caste a spell through his open window that day at the Dursley’s? What if Dudley had caste that curse by accident and not him? Would he be sent back to the Durlsey’s? Would they erase his memories and abandon him in some muggle orphanage? Would they dice him up into little bits and use him for dark rituals and potions ingredients?

His mind swam with these thoughts, and any and all attempts to distract himself failed to work for over a few minutes at a time. He paced during play and study periods, fiddled with his food during breakfast and lunch, and scanned his book from front to back in hopes of divining his future.

Finally, FINALLY, the time came and he was pulled away from dinner table by Miss Marilyn and taken to another room he had never seen before. It was large study with a giant fireplace, walls lined with enormous tomes, and set of comfortable looking chairs . A girl, no older than him, sat in one of the plush violet chairs already. She had spikey black hair with a tuff of purple running through her bangs, and wore a dark violet dress, black knee-high socks, and heavy black boots. She was the most normal looking girl he had seen in a month.

“Who are you?” she asked suspiciously, eyeing his bland clothing and wild hair critically.

“Harry Potter. And you?” He took the unoccupied seat across from her, and tried not to fidget.

“Emily White. Did they kidnap you too?”

Inside, Harry cheered. Finally, someone who thought of this entire matter as kidnaping. Really, how old did you have to be to figure this out?

“Yes, almost a month ago. Did they just pick you up?”

Emily visibly relaxed, although she looked suddenly confused.

“Yes. My family and I were going on holiday to France, and we were taking the ferry across the channel, but then… something happen. I remember going over the rail and then I remember landing in my bed at home, but I can’t remember what happened in between.”

“Sounds like you apparated by accident” Harry offered.

“Apparated? Is that a magic thing? I didn’t even have an hour to try to sort things out when these…people just burst into my house and dragged me here. They kept saying they were wizards and witches, and they did such strange things, and they said I was a witch too but that’s impossible. I can’t do magic like they could.”

“Apparition is a sort of magic. Have you always lived in England?”

“Magic? Me do magic? No way, no way. That’s awesome! Mum and Dad are gonna flip!”

“Um… Emily…”

“Oh, no! I completely forgot about them! They probably think I’m at the bottom of the channel by now! Do you think the weird wizardy people got a hold of them? How did they even know I did magic to begin with? Hey, could my parents do magic too, do you suppose? Perhaps, they know what happened already and they called them to come pick me up?”

“No, Emily, listen…”

“Is this a sort of… I dunno… magical police station? You know, in case children accidently apparate away by accident? Is that what happened to you? Are you waiting for your parents too?”

“Emily, my parents are dead.”

The gabby girl’s mouth finally shut with a audible snap. She gave him a sheepish, apologetic look before saying speaking again at a more reasonable rate.

“I’m sorry, Harry. Listen to me blathering away, but it’s just so exciting. This has to be the biggest adventure I’ve ever had, maybe the biggest one I’ll ever have in my life, ya know? But, if you’re parents are… you know, then what are you doing here.”

Mentally, Harry cursed WYRA and the predicament they had just put him in. How was he suppose to explain all this to a girl no older than himself? He didn’t even understand half of what was going on! Bloody insensitive bastards! He came here for a test, not… not… grief counseling!

“I…um… well… it’s um… It’s an orphanage… of sorts. Well, technically, it’s an adoption center since…well… no one here’s really an orphan… except me, of course, but I had relatives looking after me… so… really, it’s a kidnaping center… kidnaping and adoption center… They’ll never let you see your family again…Er…”

“WHAT?!”

She was on her feet in an instant, racing for the door. She tried the knob, but it held fast. She kicked at the door, lightly at first and then with full blown karate kicks but it wouldn’t budge. She screamed and hissed and cried and begged. Finally, she was reduced to sobbing and turned back towards Harry who stood helplessly watching her from behind his chair.

“How can they? How can they just take me away from my mum and dad? What are they going to do with me? I can’t… I can’t do anything with out them…”

Harry timidly walked towards her, afraid at any moment she might lash out at him like she had the door, but he had barely reached for her when she suddenly leapt into his arms. She clung to him tightly, sobbing into his shoulder even though she was probably and inch or two taller than him. He hugged her awkwardly, unsure of what to say or do, but she didn’t seem to care. Finally, she collected her self, a sniffling she pulled away to search for kleenex and trying to ignore everything else, including the boy she had cried on for ten whole minutes. Harry let her go, and just as he took his seat the study door opened.

Snape stalked in, his beaked nose and black robes making him look more like a vulture than Harry remembered. The vulpine man glanced at them both and sneered.

“Of course. A starving artist and a drama queen. I always manage to get the fun cases.”

“You!” Emily began, snapping out of her distraught state in order to point an imperial finger at him. “I demand you bring me home at once! My family-”

Snape’s wand came into his hand with a fluid familiarity of a maestro with his baton. He made a single gesture and Emily was suddenly silent. She kept talking, angrily by the looks of it, but Harry could not hear a thing she said. Though as she seemed to realize something had been done to her, he could guess at the rush of foul things she was spitting out at him. Snape merely regarded her with his usual smirk.

“Ms. White, your family believes you are quite drowned and will thus not be looking for you. You should mark yourself lucky. You at the very least, have a family that will remember your existence with some, no doubt exaggerated, fondness. A benefit no other muggleborn here can claim.”

This silenced Emily for real, and she marked him with angry, but silent regard. Harry frowned angrily at the man, both for his insensitivity to the girl and-

“I want my book back.”

Snape regarded him with a vaguely curious look. “I am surprised, Mr. Potter, that you can even recall said item after a month at WYRA. So either the memory charms are starting to weaken, you have a one track mind, or… you haven’t been sleeping like you should.”

Harry squirmed a bit under his dark gaze. He was unsure how the memory of his book might have exposed the avoidance of his bed. He also wasn’t sure how to take the confirmation of the fact that spells were being used against him and the other children.

“I want my book,” he said by way of distraction.

“Of course you do,” Snape said, moving away from both children so that he might set his bag on the study’s desk. He gestured towards Emily, and she let out a loud, audible gasp. “Unfortunately for you, it has already been destroyed, as per WYRA regulations. You had best forget about it and any other misguided attachments you may have formed in your previous life. It is time for you to keep focused on your future, and not your past, or you may find yourself without either. The wizarding world is not a kind, safe place despite the impression this… facilitymight have given you.

“Now come,” Snape continued, setting a two vials of clear blue liquid and an instrument that reminded Harry of those toy recorders they handed out in elementary music class. “We all have more important matters to attend. Miss White, you first.”

Emily glowered at the dark man, but her posture was more wary than aggressive. She looked quite prepared to stay exactly where she was, and Harry pondered if she wasn’t a bit spoiled.

“Now Ms. White!” the man snarled, making both children jump.

Harry, seeing that Emily was now stuck out of genuine fear and not just stubbornness, took her by the hand and walked her over to the desk. Snape sneered, and both gave him twin glowers.

“Drink this.” He handed Emily one of the blue vials.

“What is it?”she asked.

“Even if I explained it to you, you would be too ignorant to understand. Now, stop wasting my time and drink it.”

“It could be poison.”

Snape smirked at that. “Yes, that’s true. Now drink.”

Emily turned to Harry, who could only shrug. Reluctantly, she uncapped the vial and took a swig. And just as quickly, spit it back into the vial.

“UGH!!! That’s awful!”

“Oh for the love of Saint Francis, why do I work with children? You have to SWALLOW it, Ms. White. Imperio!”

Harry bolted out of the way as Snape lifted his wand, shouting out his spell at the girl. Emily jerked once, stiffened, and then relaxed. Her dark brown eyes turned glassy and when she drank the potion a second time she did not even grimace. Snape nodded in approval, apparently to himself, and glanced over at Harry.

“Pay attention, Mr. Potter, this is one of the most notorious spells of the wizarding world. The Imperius curse. A spell so powerful it can subvert the will of almost any it is cast upon. I say almost any, because the ironic truth of the matter is that if a witch or wizard is powerful enough to cast it, they are powerful enough to fight it off. Ms. White, clearly is not powerful enough. Ms. White, blow into this.”

Snape handed her the recorder-like instrument, and she did as she was instructed. The instrument gave off a dull whistle, and small white peg popped out of one of the key holes. Snape took the instrument, and smirked.

“As I thought, a low 4th level ranking. Barely more than a squib. Finite incantatem!”

Emily let out loud gagging cough, and Harry rushed back to her side to see if she had been hurt. She didn’t seem any worse for ware, although she seemed desperate to get that awful taste out of her mouth.

“What happened?”

“As much fun as I am sure Mr. Potter is having witnessing the assortment of spells I have been casting on you, it is his turn, and I recommend you go sit down quietly over there.”

Emily gave him a nasty look, but then she was already looking green, and did as she was told without protest. Harry looked towards her and then back at Snape, who held out another blue vial. He briefly considered refusing, but the thought of being under the other man’s control- literally and not just figuratively- prompted him towards obedience. He accepted the bottle, and plugging his nose he swallowed it quickly.

It tasted like spoiled milk and kool-aid. He started to gag immediately, but nothing would come up. After a few moments, he regained control himself. Snape handed him the instrument and he blew into it. Once again a white peg appeared, this time in a key hole farther up. Snape regarded it critically for a moment, and then turned his dark glare towards Harry. The boy felt a surge of panic, wondering what he could have possibly done wrong and what sort of curse the greasy bastard was going to throw at him because of it.

“Mr. Potter, have you ingested any potions recently? Perhaps some given to you by the medi-wizard? Or picked something up, a curious bauble or unusual plant from one of the parties?”

“…I don’t think so… Why?”

“Your magical reading is unusually high.”

“So… the Imperial curse won’t work on me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. And it’s the Imperius curse, not the Imperial curse. The Imperial curse involves a generational contraction of very unpleasant venereal disease.”

“…”

Snape let out a frustrated sigh and threw his instruments and empty vials back into his bag with enough force that something should have broken, but didn’t. He reached in and pulled out two pieces of parchment. He handed one of the letters to Harry and then thrust the other in Emily’s hand. He then stalked towards the door, his black robes billowing out like a malevolent shadow. Just before he stepped out of the room he turned sharply to Harry.

“Congratulations on your acceptance letter, Mr. Potter,” he snarled, “I look forward to seeing you at the start of term!”

The door slammed shut.

The room fell into a deep silence, a calm in the wake of Hurricane Snape. With a vaguely horrified expression, he turned to Emily for some sort of sanity. She gave him a tired, sickly grin.

“Better you than me.”

The Land and Its Vassals

It turned out Harry had just over a day and a half to get ready. The letter Snape had given him had been an acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and summer classes he was required to take before the start of term began that very Monday. Miss Marilyn had been ecstatic when she heard the news, and had been brimming with tears she was so proud of him. It had been really embarrassing as far as Harry was concerned.

Emily had also gotten a letter, but it was for a place called Fellshire Magical Craft and Trade school. Harry worried about her. After Snape had left she had fallen into a depressed silence. He had tried to explain to her as much as he could about WYRA and how to avoid the memory spells, but he did not think she was listening or even cared. Once one of the nurses took her off to see the medi-wizard, Harry never saw her.

As much as Harry wanted to find her, and make her feel better, he was suddenly much too busy to do anything but look after himself. While Miss Marilyn puttered away about what a prestigious school Hogwarts was, how it was every parent’s dream to have their child attend there, and how proud she was of ‘Harold’; Harry was dragged from corridor to corridor and room to room, gathering up familiar and strange items as they went. His usual trunk was replaced with a larger, black standard school trunk and all the usual blue toned nic-nacs he had taken for granted like his toothbrush and notebook where all replaced with brand new black versions. His clothes were replaced too, with normal- as normal as wizarding clothes got- slacks, button up shirts, belt, vests, ties, and blessedly shoes and underwear all in an assortment of mix and match colors. Additionally, he was given a set of plain black student robes, and was told he would get a school badge once he was assigned to a house. Even his awkward, thick glasses where replaced with a set of elegant gold rims.

When Harry finally got a look at himself in the mirror he barely recognized himself. Gone was the poor waif in his baggy, thread-bare clothes and paint smeared hands, sulking in his room. Gone was the disoriented boy, clean and well kept like a pet dog, pacing the night away between the rows of peaceful children. Now he stood, dignified if a little rough around the edges, preparing to move towards an unknown future in an unknown world. Suddenly, he could see the man he wanted to be, and would become. He was terrified, but couldn’t even fathom returning to what he once was.

When he returned to his room for the night, all the other boys were fast asleep. He wandered up and down the room, memorizing each of their cherubic faces and offering silent prayers that they would leave WYRA and find memories worth keeping and futures with families as loving, if not more so, than their old ones.

He woke in a chair at the work table before the other boys, startled out of dreams of life in Cologne with his parents and wizards and Emily and Snape. Miss Marilyn stood at the door, eyeing him with an unreadable expression.

“Harold, did you sleep there all night?”

Silently, Harry berated himself. He had fooled everyone for almost a month, why was everyone finding him out now? “Er… sorry, I-I-I was just …so excited and nervous. I couldn’t bring myself to lay down, ya know?”

She nodded, but her expression was just as unreadable as before.

“We’ll be leaving in a few minutes, Harold. Your first summer class at Hogwarts starts at eight-thirty sharp and you’ll need to meet with Headmistress Lestrange and get your books before that. Go wash your face and brush your teeth, and try your best to tame that wild mop of yours.”

Harry did as he was told, thankful that she had apparently dismissed her suspicions in favor of staying on schedule. When he left the bathroom, his bed was gone and only his new black trunk remained.

“Can’t I say goodbye to the others?” he asked.

“It would be better if you just let them sleep. They’re so used to goodbyes they don’t mean much anymore,” she said dismissively, leading him out into the hall.

Harry knew she was probably right, but only because of those blasted memory spells. He prayed that the school beds weren’t similarly cursed or that he would soon learn the counter spell to override it. What was it Snape had used to end his silencing spell? Finite Incatem? Incantatemum?

She caste a few more spells on his trunk, making it as small and light as a deck of cards, which he then placed in his pocket. She caste another spell on the clothes he was wearing, smoothing out the wrinkles he had gained from sleeping in them, and then they were off. They passed through the corridors, offices, dining room, and into the lobby Harry hadn’t seen since he had first arrived. It seemed smaller than he remembered, but he didn’t get to ponder what that might mean as they continued at a fast clip out the large marble doors and to the black familiar car waiting for them outside.

They climbed into the back, and this time Harry kept his attention glued to the outside, determined to see if they would be magic away like he had from Surrey. In the early morning, it was less crowded with people, and those present were hurriedly on their way to work. However, they were much more unusual in the light of day than they had been in the cover of night. The old-fashion cut of their clothes did not inhibit their sense of color, and by all accounts some of their outfits were quite garish. Bright pinks, purples, lime greens, canary yellows, pin stripes and polka dots, stars and moons, hieroglyphs, and peacock feathers were as common as black, whites, beiges, blues, pocket watches, and flowers. Occasionally, the car would stop at a crosswalk, and a pedestrian or shopkeeper would smile and wave at him. They all seemed so kind and friendly that Harry wondered why Snape had been so cynical about it.

Maybe the man had just wanted to scare him.

Maybe he was just paranoid.

Maybe he was scared of nice people?

The car passed through an alley, and once it had ended, they found themselves in the middle of the Scottish countryside. The land was rich green and partitioned into acreage by short stone walls. There were flocks of grazing sheep and cows here and there, and as far as Harry could tell they weren’t in anyway magical. When he looked back in the direction they’d come from, it appeared they had merely passed under a small stone bridge.

“What just happened?”

“It’s the same sort of magic we use to take you all to the adoption parties. It’s rather complicated, but I’m sure you’ll learn all about it in school. Speaking of which, Hogsmeade should be just over this next hill and it’s only a short walk from there to Hogwarts.”

Sure enough, not a minute later they passed over a hill and found themselves in a small wizarding village. The shops and business here were more quaint than those he had seen in the wizarding city, with mostly specialty shops, an inn, and a tavern. There were a few horse drawn carts and even some people walking around with broomsticks, but no other cars. They parked between The Hogshead and Honeydukes, and started the rest of the way on foot.

As they made their way towards an earthen road out of town, Harry could see what looked like an enormous castle off in the distance.

“Oh wow,” he said, staring awestruck at the beautiful monolith. There was no way anything so large and beautiful could have ever been made by means other than magic.

“Wait until you see the inside,” his guide said, off-handedly. Harry turned towards her, startled.

“Inside? You mean…that’s Hogwarts?”

When he had thought of Hogwarts he had thought of all those fancy boarding schools from TV shows and movies. Wide, two-story buildings with tall windows, wrought iron gates, and expansive grounds. He had not thought of centuries old castles sitting at the top of a large hills, massive lakes, or thick primeval forests. If he’d had a horse, he would have felt very much like a knight on errand to the king of the land.

Or perhaps a squire tagging along.

It was half a mile walk to the castle, and the closer they got the more in awe Harry felt himself become. Not only was the castle rich in detailed statues and structure, but also in exceptionally good shape without a trace of wearing by weather or time. There was also additional structures coming off the castle, including a large green house, an impressive little stadium, a boat house, and stables. A quaint little cottage stood between the stables and the border of the thick forest, and he could just make out the shape of a gaunt looking man and an exceptionally short woman working around the garden surrounding it.

They were met near the castle gates by a witch with a stern look and a streak of silver in her black hair. Harry thought she looked very much like a headmistress at an all girl school should look like. Miss Marilyn, who had been going at a brisk pace, smiled as soon she saw the other woman and spoke rather breathlessly.

“Headmaster Lestrange, I presume?”

The old witch gave her a wry smile.

“Unfortunately, no. Professor Lestrange is very busy at the moment, as is the deputy headmaster. I am Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor house and transfiguration professor here at Hogwarts. I will handle things from here. You have the paperwork?”

“Oh- oh, yes, just a moment.” Miss Marilyn checked her person, pockets, and hat before finally removing a full sized folder from her billowy sleeves. The transfiguration teacher accepted the file, and examined its contents. She suddenly grew pale. Looking up, she resolutely marched around Miss Marilyn and right up to Harry who had been looking out at the lake. He turned to look up at her, and felt concerned by her stricken continence.

“The resemblance is uncanny,” she said, almost too softly for him to hear. Then she smiled at him, and Harry couldn’t think of last time he had seen a smile so sad or so genuine. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Harry.”

He blinked owlishly at her. No adult had called him Harry since his parent’s death. He had always been ‘Harold’ or ‘Mr. Potter’ or bloody ‘Heinrich’. Could she know him? That would be impossible, of course. She was a witch and wouldn’t have known his muggle parents, and he didn’t think she was the type to who would ever go visit little art studios in Cologne in any event. It was just coincidence and rather undue familiarity. Nothing more.

“Thank you, professor,” he replied politely.

“You may go, Madam McLaury. I will handle things from here. You will have your paperwork by Wednesday evening at the latest.”

Once again, Miss Marilyn looked flustered, apparently not used to being dismissed so readily. McGonagall took no notice, and with a gentle touch on Harry’s shoulder, she began leading him down towards the little cottage. As they walked, the professor seemed to recollect herself and began to lecture him.

“Mr. Potter, as you probably overheard, I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor and your soon-to-be transfiguration’s teacher. After today, you probably won’t see me until the start of term. Most of the Hogwarts staff is either away enjoying their vacation or busy re-warding the school or making lesson’s plans in preparation for the start of term. As such, the school itself is off-limits to the public, that includes you, until September.”

“But…where will I be living? And where are the summer classes held, then?”

“You will be living with Mr. and Mrs.Sleuw, our resident ground keepers. They are both very busy year around, so if they should ask you for some assistance keeping house or on the grounds, I expect you to mind them as you would your own parents, is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. We will get you settled first, then I will take you to where your summer lessons will be held. Ah, here we are. Mr. Sleuw! Mrs. Sleuw!”

Up close the pair looked even more ridiculously disproportionate than before. Mr. Sleuw was a good six and a half feet, sun-darkened, and almost handsome except that his expression was slack and bland. His wife on the other hand barely reached his navel, had wild honey colored curls, and bounced about like a filly in spring. They were both tending the garden, but dropped what they were doing when McGonagall called them over.

“Oy, now. Is this the lad, then? A strapping young man, tisn’t he, although a wee bit thin. Don’t you think so Bert?” Mrs. Sleuw gushed, smiling from ear to ear at him. Harry blushed and made a thorough study of his shoes.

“Uhnnnn…” Mr. Sleuw replied, expression as dead as his response.

“Yes, yes, Maggie. His name is Harold James Potter. You can all get better acquainted after his morning classes. Is his room ready?” McGonagall asked.

“Of course, just leave his things there and hurry along. We wouldn’t want him late for his first day of class, now would we?”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.”

McGonagall lead him to the little cottage, and opened the door for him. Harry walked in and his jaw dropped. From the outside the cottage didn’t look like could hold more than a small kitchen and an even smaller bedroom, but the inside was a different matter altogether. The interior was the size of a large farm house, with a full sized kitchen, sitting area, dining room, and a set of stairs leading up to a second floor that could not possible have been there. It was all very cozy and rustic, with hand made quilts over the sofa’s and chairs, rough wooden furniture, and dried flower decorations scattered about.

They went upstairs and entered one of four rooms there. It was clearly a guest bedroom, and only sparsely furnished. The brass framed bed had a light blue and yellow quilt, the wardrobe matched although the paint was starting to peel, and blue table with an oil lamp stood in the corner. A quick peek out the window revealed the Mr. Sleuw pulling up a particularly tenacious weed and confirmed to Harry he had not been transported through one of those magic portals.

“Do you have your trunk, Mr. Potter?” asked McGonagall. Harry nodded and removed it from his pocket. He set it at the foot of the bed, and with a flick of her wand the trunk resized itself. “Gather up your notebook and pen, Mr. Potter. You can unpack the rest of it after class.”

He did as he was told, and they left the little cottage. Harry did a double take once they were outside, still baffled by the dimensional disparity. They headed back towards the castle, but instead of returning the way they came, she lead him around the back. The castle turned out to have been built partially in the lake, but a tunnel and bridge allowed them to pass without resorting to a boat. Once on the other side, Harry could see a large tent had been set up, similar to those he and his parents had dined in during German festivals or weddings. His guide stopped him just outside the tent.

She pulled two books, one dark red and the other black, literally out of thin air and handed them to him.

“These are your textbooks. Lessons will be held here, Monday through Saturday at 8:30 am til 11:30 am. You may return to the house for lunch or eat with your classmates in the classroom. Classes resume at 12:30 pm and continue until 2:30. You may remain in study period until 4:00pm, during which time your professor will be available for questions. After that you will be expected to return to the house immediately, and under no conditions are you to ever wander into forest without Mr. or Mrs. Sleuw. Again, stay out of the castle. You are not permitted to swim, fish, or boat in the lake without an adult present, but I’m sure if you help the Sleuws with their chores they might spare some time to take you. Do you have any questions?”

Harry gave her a weak smile. “Only a million and one.”

She smiled back at him, her expression softening considerably. “Don’t worry Mr. Potter, that’s what these summer lessons are for. Now, I have to go talk to the professor about your sudden admittance before class starts, so why don’t you go in and find a seat? Class is going to start in five minutes.”

He nodded to her, and taking a deep breath he entered the tent, prepared to start his first day as a wizard-in-training.

McGonagal left Harry Potter feeling shaken. It had been many years since her self control had been tested so strongly. But to see him… to see the ghost of two dear friends made singular and whole in one frail, nervous little boy…

She didn’t know if she wanted to weep or sing.

The entire situation seemed so utterly right and so utterly wrong. Lily and James’ son at Hogwarts? Perfectly natural. Lily and James’ son right under Voldemort’s nose? She’d sooner see Snape cuddle a werewolf. Of course, Snape cuddling a werewolf wouldn’t necessarily have been a bad thing to see in her opinion…

But by Merlin, how had Harry ended up here?

The Gryffindor professor took a brief detour on her way to the Headmistress’s office to look through the papers she had been given. Lestrange wouldn’t miss them for few hours. She probably wouldn’t have missed them for a few days.

She considered holding onto the file for awhile yet, but when Snape’s name came up as Harry’s sponsor she quickly thought better of it. If that man knew Harry was coming, had actually sent him, than he doubtlessly be double checking or even triple checking his own reports. Since Lestrange had one up-ed him into becoming Headmistress, he’d been obsessive about crossing every ‘t’ and doting every ‘i’.

Lestrange was exactly the opposite. Since her promotion, she’d been increasingly lackadaisical in her duties. Although her sense of competition with Snape had hardly dimmed. If the crazy hag didn’t manage to off the other man or humiliate him completely in Voldemort’s eyes, than she doubted she’d be calling Lestrange ‘Headmistress’ for long. As much as she despised Snape at times, she despised Lestrange even more and at all times.

Merlin’s beard, she hoped she could keep her Gryffindors out of that mess. Both Slytherins were notorious for taking their frustrations out on her house, for which she had little defense. They were favored by the Dark Lord, and she, well, wasn’t. Sure he had let her remain on as Gryffindor’s head of house without persecution for supporting Dumbledore during the war, but that had been a political maneuvering in her favor. The students and parents were familiar with her, trusted her, and her no-nonsense demeanor lead most to respect her. She had been spared, not out of kindness, but to grease the wheels for the new regime.

And that’s how it all made her feel.

Greasy.

But if she could protect the children, ones like Harry who had no one left to protect them, to fight for them, to face this degradation for them… She could live with being a little greasy.

With a quick glance around the hallway, she ducked into a little nook and began to read.

The Prince’s Lady

Once inside the school tent, Harry was once again introduced to the same wizarding trick that had been done on the Sleuw’s cottage. Although the tent’s yellow cloth walls remained, they were lined with a series of shuttered windows that remained open to allow in light and fresh air. The floor was not grass or dirt, but wood and tables were arranged three by five with a mobile chalk board and a teacher’s desk stationed at the front. At the very back of the class were three large book shelves packed with books.

Most importantly, the room was filled with students. Like him, they all wore their black student robes, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Harry was little more than an orphan, these children were obviously from good families. They all had an air of health and confidence about them, and mingled with each other in a sort of familiarity Harry envied. It seemed impossible to him that they could be muggleborns, ever questioned the strange nature of their world, or walked the halls of WYRA headquarters. They huddled about in small groups, playing games with small magical objects or showing off some magical nic-nac they had gotten for their birthday or with their allowance money. It seemed so unfair that they should have gotten such a large head start on him. Bloody hell, why couldn’t he have cursed Dudley when he was eight?

Realizing he was just standing at the door stupidly, and people were beginning to notice, he searched the room for a place to sit. He spotted a single empty seat at the front left corner nearest the board, right next to girl absorbed in an impressive looking tome.

“Is this seat taken?”

The girl, rather pretty with wavy auburn hair held back with a french braid, looked up at him as if startled. She looked around the room, and seeing it quite full, she turned back to him.

“Help yourself,” she said dismissively. He took the empty seat, setting his notebook and pencil down. He caught her looking curiously at his supplies, and felt embarrassed when he noticed her much nicer leather bound notebook and calligraphy pen. “I haven’t seen a notebook like that since I left WYRA,” she said, regarding him with a bit more interest and then introduced herself. “I am Hermione Granger of the Malfoy family, by the way.”

“Harry Potter. Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand. Again she looked at him curiously, and then much to his despair she closed her book in favor of studying him.

“Have you gotten your wand yet, Potter?” she asked.

“Hm? No, not yet. I don’t turn eleven until August 1st. Have you?”

“No. I turned eleven last April but my foster father won’t let be get one until just before term starts. I wouldn’t be allowed to use it yet anyway, of course, but I can’t wait. I’ve been reading up on so many spells, and it’s so hard not to be able to try them out. I’ve got an entire notebook just filled with spells I’m going to try once term starts. What about you? Do you have any spells you’d like to try?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably under her intense scrutiny. Now here was a witch who knew what she was doing. She already had lists of spells at her disposal. How could he even begin to think he was ready for this?

“Er… I dunno… I haven’t exactly seen a lot of magics really. I’d like to learn that trick where can get from one place to another just by passing through a door or a clock or tunnel or something.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to start asking him more questions about himself, but then her expression became vaguely dreamy.

“I believe that’s called ‘warping’, and I don’t think they teach that until seventh year… although you could look it up on your own, you know? Hogwarts has one of the finest libraries in Britain. They’ve got books up there that date back to the Founders. I heard there are even plans to add an extra wing for the extremely rare books and then another wing for experimental spells. Can you imagine-”

Her little lecture was interrupted by the loud, mocking snores of a black-haired boy sitting next to them. The others sitting around him broke up into laughter, and the ‘sleeping’ boy opened a greenish-blue eye and grinned over at them.

“Bloody hell, Granger, can you talk about anything other than books?”

“I don’t know, Houghton. Can you say anything and not have people laugh at you?”

Everyone chuckled and ‘ooohhhed’ at that, except for Harry who just wasn’t sure enough of himself to join them. He was spared having to respond by the teacher walking through the door. He was a middle-aged man with barely any hair and coke-bottle glasses. He wore a magenta colored robe over his beige slacks and plaid sweater vest, and despite looking utterly ridiculous he held a dark scowl that rivaled Snape’s. The only difference was this man didn’t have a sense of humor, not even a sarcastic one.

“My name is Professor Timbal,” he began without preamble, flicking his wand so that the chalk began writing his name. “I will be your professor until the start of term- September first. I will be preparing you for Entry Level Fundamentals or E.L.F. tests.”

The board wrote the short hand of everything the professor said, and feeling nervous, Harry started writing it all down. It couldn’t possibly hurt to remember the teacher’s name or look up something later. He was vaguely surprised to see Hermione was taking notes as well.

“Should you fail your E.L.F. you will not be permitted to enter Hogwarts, and shall be held back a year or until you are capable of passing it, at which point you will assigned to a trade school of my choosing. So if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life making candles and polishing broomsticks I recommend you pay attention.”

Yes, Harry thought, that was definitely a good motivation to pay attention. Inside, Harry despaired his future. How could he possible keep up with the others in this class, when they all had at least three years more experience with the wizarding world than him?

“While some of you may think yourself already prepared for these tests, think again. As you are spontaneous wizards, you are held under a stigma of ignorance that must be dispelled before you ever enter the most prestigious academy of wizardry in Great Britain. Much of what you learn here is not even common knowledge for your pureblooded siblings or commonwealth adopted parents. If you wish not to make fools of yourself, and more importantly of your country, then I expect you to study. Alone, in groups, with your parents, tutors, and yes, even with me.”

Well… perhaps he was on more even ground than he thought? Glancing to his right he could see Thomas and his friends looking green. Glancing to his left he saw Hermione leaning forward in her chair, eagerly awaiting the man’s every word. He wasn’t sure whose reaction worried him more, but it all had him feeling vaguely ill.

“Now, for formality’s sake, we will begin by introducing ourselves in the proper wizarding fashion. Who here can tell me the proper way to introduce yourself in a formal gathering?”

Hermione’s hand shot up so fast, Harry flinched away on instinct to dodge it. Professor Timbal pointed at her and she stood.

“First one gives their birth name, followed by their family association, and then any formal positions starting from active government positions and leading down to honorary titles.”

“Correct. Now please introduce yourself to the class in the proper manner.”

Hermione turned sharply to face them all, her head held high and eyes defiant.

“Hermione Louise Granger of the Malfoy family.”

“Very good, now you young man,” the professor said, pointing to Harry. Harry blanched. What was he suppose to say? He knew his own name, but he didn’t think he had a family association. What the hell was a family association? Reluctantly, he stood anyway and faced the class.

“Harold James Potter,” he said evenly, and then sat down quickly.

“Hey, he didn’t finish it!” protested a girl in the back.

“If Mr. Potter was somehow lacking in his answer, I assure you I would be the first to point it out!” Mr. Timbal snapped, and the chalk on the board flew across the board, creating an ear-splitting screech. The entire class cringed and fell into dead silence, and Harry thanked god that it was not his error that had brought it on. “Now, shall we continue. You, sir.”

The black haired boy stood up, looking almost as timid as Harry felt. “Clyde Houghton of the Stone family.” The next fifteen minutes went on similarly, until everyone had named themselves. Harry doodled a little diagram of their names, family associations, and basic description determined to memorize it later, perhaps even makes some sketches so he would remember them better. After that was through, Timbal handed out their work books. They were heavy, bound in brown leather with the title ‘The Ways of Wizards; Practical Exercises for Young Wizards’ by Antonia Majora’ printed in gold letters. This was followed by a syllabus and lecture on the general structure of the class.

Every morning would start out with a quiz of what was learned the day before, this would be followed by lecture, and practical demonstrations if necessary. They would break for lunch, and then return in groups of threes, fours, or fives to research the topic of the day and write a brief summary of their findings. The last part of the day would be dedicated to group discussion and off-topic questions. Fridays were for tests and reviews and Saturdays were for field trips- of which there would apparently be many.

Through it all Harry felt a mixture of trepidation and elation. He was becoming a wizard, a wizard for love of king and country! If only he had any idea what that meant!

Their first topic of study was wizarding government, which was of personal interest to Harry since he wanted to know more about WYRA and who exactly ran wizarding Britain. Unfortunately, Professor Timbal had only just begun on the history of the Wizengamot when it was time to break for lunch. The Professor instructed everyone to push their chairs together to form a single long table. Harry and the rest had no sooner tucked in their chairs when their giant table was suddenly laden with food that appeared out of thin ear.

“Why can’t they warn us before they do this sort of thing?” Harry lamented quietly to himself. Lunch with his class was similar and yet different than that at WYRA. Everyone was certainly lively and chatty as they filled their plates, but their topics of discussions were more real. The jokes were dirtier or more clever, the emotions varied between ecstatic and deeply depressed, and they spoke of their past, their families, and their future plans in ways the WYRA children had been unable to.

“I know most of the people here,” began Clyde who had sat across from him, loading up his plate with more sweets than nourishment. “Or at least recognize their family associations. But I don’t recognize you… and you didn’t have a family association, which is a bit odd, eh? So what’s your story?”

At this several of the other kids, including Hermione who pretended (rather badly) not to care, leaned closer for his answer. Harry shrugged, and tried to ignore them.

“I was never adopted. I don’t have a family association… That’s the family that adopts you right?”

“What do you mean you weren’t adopted? Everyone gets adopted eventually,” Clyde protested. “Did you get sick or something?”

“Clyde Houghton, really!” Hermione objected. “Could you be anymore rude?”

“Oh, like Ms. Know-it-all isn’t dying to know it all too!” remarked a blonde girl, smirking. Harry hoped they would start a fight and he would be forgotten, but he had no such luck. “So what’s the deal? Sickness, runaway, reject? Come on, we’ll find out sooner or later.”

Harry threw her a dark scowl. “Weißt du was, du Wichtigtuer. Ob ich adoptiert bin oder nicht, geht dich einen Sheißdreck an.”[1]

The blond looked at him with some alarm. “Did you just put a curse on me?”

Hermione broke out into a laugh, covering her mouth with her napkin as if it could possibly hide her amusement. “It’s German, Natalie. I thought he had a little bit of an accent when he introduced himself.”

“Oh, wow! A German wizard! How on earth did you get here?” asked Clyde.

“How can he be German with a name like Harry Potter? It’s obviously an English name,” griped Natalie.

“I’m an English citizen, but I was raised in Germany until I was eight,” Harry said finally, realizing things could get out of hand if he didn’t offer some answers. “I was only picked up by WYRA about a month ago.”

“You’re kidding? Your that green and they still had you sent to Hogwarts? How did you pull that off?”

Harry shrugged and tried to focus on his sandwich.

“Aw come on, fess up Potter. Inquiring minds want to know!”

“Will you all just leave him alone?” snapped Hermione. “Isn’t it obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it?” Reluctantly, the rest of class backed off and went to talking other things, all though they glanced at him often. Harry gave her a thankful smile.

“You know, I think sitting next to you was a stroke of good luck on my part?” he said. The smile Hermione gave him was bright and beautiful, and so much different from the cool curve of lips she had been wearing before. It was gone a moment later, replaced by a neutral expression and she nodded to him in acknowledgment and returned to her own meal.

Harry finished before the others and left the tent to get some fresh air, taking his new school books with him. He found a quiet spot beside the lake, only a short ways from the classroom. He spent the lunch hour skimming his books for answers to his thousand and one questions. Though the new books were much more detailed and informative than his first one, Harry still felt like he was missing a large piece of common knowledge that prevented him from truly understanding what the wizarding world was like. Frustrated, Harry returned to the class without any definitive answers.

The tables had all been moved back into place and people were already starting to form into clusters for their group assignment. Harry automatically went to stand by Hermione who once again had her nose buried in her book. Natalie, who had been at the far end of the class to begin with, moved all the way to the front to join them. The same sly smile was still on her face, and Harry couldn’t help but suspect she was up to no good.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked. Hermione stiffened beside him, but did not look up from her book. Harry, having no real reason to object, merely shrugged.

“Get into six groups of four and two groups of three!” Professor Timbal ordered. It took less than a minute as most groups were already formed, and Harry, Hermione, and Natalie remained where they were. “Most of you come from families with members in the Wizengamot. I want you all to look up one person of your family in the Wizengamot, find their term of office, any laws or bills they proposed, and cite the source of your information. If you or one of your group members doesn’t have an associated family member in the Wizengamot, you will look up a law that was passed by the Wizengamot but overturned by You-Know-Who. You have an hour and a half. Begin.”

“I’ll get the books,” Hermione said, jumping to her feet and heading for the book case.

“I’ll help.” Harry got up to follow, but was stopped when Natalie took his elbow.

“Why don’t you let her be? Let her be alone with her books. That’s all she cares about anyway.”

Harry removed her hand from his arm and frowned at her. “Don’t be spiteful.”

Natalie’s eyes grew wide, and Harry stalked away from her to help Hermione who already struggling with two large tomes. He took the books from her so she could continue her search.

“I’m surprised you didn’t stay to talk with Natalie,” Hermione remarked. “She’s the prettiest girl in class, you know.” Harry shrugged.

“Her personality is kind of ugly though,” he said, recalling her callous disregard for other’s feelings, his and Hermione’s both. Hermione smiled a bit at him.

“And I’m so much better?”

“You’re nice enough, I think. It’s not like you’re ugly either. I mean, not that I would care if you were! But you’re not, so you shouldn’t think that way about yourself! Not that you were, but you know- Er…Nevermind!”

She smiled and rolled her eyes at him. Harry shifted from foot to foot, growing tired for holding the heavy books.

“So who was he talking about when he said ‘You-Know-Who’? Because, frankly, I don’t know who.”

“Oh! Him. I don’t suppose they would have mentioned him at WYRA, would they? Well, he’s…” Hermione took a look around the class and once determining no one was standing too close to them, she leaned over to talk softly in his ear. “He’s the dictator of Wizarding Britain. His name is Voldemort, but everyone calls him ‘You-Know-Who’.”

“If everyone calls him ‘You-Know-Who’, then how does anyone know his name?”

“When ever he passes a new law or a issues a personal statements, he always signs with his name and the government documents all use his name. My foster father works in the Court directly under him, so I’ve seen him a couple times. Everyone calls him Lord Voldemort when they address him personally.”

“Wow, so your family knows the ruler of the wizarding world? What’s he like?”

Hermione paused in her collection of books, her expression thoughtful.

“He’s… amazing, really. Scary, terrifying… but fascinating. You know he’s almost sixty and doesn’t look a day over twenty-five? Handsome enough, medium height, black hair. His eyes are red, brightred and I’ve heard they glow when he’s angry. I’ve also heard you can see fangs when he smiles, but I’m not sure I believe it. And he’s a parselmouth, so he always seems to be in the company of snakes. His familiar is a giant cobra named Nagini.”

Harry shivered at the description she gave, barley able to believe that such a person could possibly exist. He sounded more like the devil in human form than any of the wizards he had seen before.

“What’s a parselmouth?” he asked, despite himself.

“It means he can talk to snakes and understand them. It’s a really rare talent and only people said to be descended from Salazar Slytherin, the first parselmouth, are said to be able to do it. He’s the only person who is capable of it in the world at the moment.”

They made their way back to their table, where Natalie was lounging and looking rather peeved. “Did you two have fun? You looked like you were getting awfully cozy with each other.”

“We were having a blast. You really should have joined us,” Hermione quipped, handing her particularly heavy book. Grimacing under the weight of the book, Natalie, nevertheless opened it and began searching for her family name. Harry accepted a much newer book on wizarding law and began picking through it. For almost an hour they worked together, exchanging books occasionally and pointing out pieces of information relevant to the others. By the time Professor Timbal started collect their papers, Natalie had found a great uncle Thadeus Phelps, who had proposed legalizing blood prostitution for vampires. Hermione had found six Malfoys, all with particularly radical legislative ideas regarding muggles and muggleborns.

Harry had found out that wizards hadmingled with muggles before Voldemort’s regime, but that had been one of the first things the wizard had outlawed when he came to power a mere ten years ago. It was a piece of information he felt was the key to everything he had seen and experienced up until that moment. It explained why he had been kidnaped, why muggleborns weren’t allowed to stay were their families, and why Snape had warned him about the wizarding world being a dangerous place.

Hermione finished her part of the essay within only a few minutes, but kept herself busy by leafing through her book.

“Potter.”

Harry turned to Hermione, who had whispered very softly and was pretending she hadn’t. She pulled the tome she had been looking through discretely in her lap, glanced at Natalie to make sure she hadn’t noticed, and pointed to a section of her book. Scanning the small writing, something about acknowledging the territorial rights of centaurs, he couldn’t figure out what she was expecting him to see when his own name appeared suddenly before him. He glanced around, making sure no one else was watching them, and pulled the book into his lap to get a better look.

After the death of his father-in-law, Andreas Maximilian Hartwell, Harold Jeremy Potter, inherited the additional votes necessary to overturn the new clause to the Sentient Magical Creature’s Rights and Responsibilities doctrine. He went on to oppose three other similar amendments, maintaining the rights of woodland elves, centaurs, and other sentient creatures to refuse leasing or selling their land to wizarding folk or from paying property taxes to wizarding government. His family carried on his legacy three more generations until the rise of Grindlewald made it necessary for the Ministry of Magic to find additional sources of taxes to pay for increased national defense. Whether the action of the former Ministry of Magic was entirely legal is still debated, but has yet to be overturned…

Harry blinked. He reread the paragraph. He read before the paragraph. He read after it. The name didn’t appear a second time, but it didn’t disappear either.

There was a Potter on the Wizengamot, or at least had been. A Potter with the same first name as his. Could it possibly be coincidence?

He turned to Hermione, hoping for some sort of explanation, hoping she wouldn’t think him crazy for thinking what he was. She leapt far ahead of him from crazy into sheer genius.

“You know, Harry. A lot of wizarding families fled to Europe during the war.”

1. You know, you are a snob? My adoption or lack of adoption is none of your damn business.↩

Lords, Ladies, and Lessons

Harry’s first summer as a wizard was an introduction in how magic could make even the mundane exciting. Living with the Sleuw’s was nothing like living with the Dursley’s. For one, they were actually pretty nice. For another, they were odd. Mr. Sleuw, who had not formed a single word in the entire time Harry was in his company, turned out to be something of a gentle, albeit dim, giant. He took all his instructions from Mrs. Sleuw, who while bubbly and energetic, wasn’t that bright either. She was always forgetting what they needed to do that day, or where she left their wands, or if it was the right time of year to start planting a particular plant. Yet somehow they filled their days with endless toil, and dragged Harry into it whenever they could.

He didn’t mind so much. The work was hard and often dirty, but unlike with the Dursley’s, he always had proper tools, food, rest, and instruction to get the task done. And, like McGonagall had said, when he worked hard enough he spared up enough of their time that they would take him down to the lake or into Hogsmeade. He could not say whether or not they felt any fondness for him, but they certainly gave him a level of respect and consideration, which he was grateful for.

Professor Timbal, while a very strict man, was also very knowledgeable and never begrudged a question as long as you waited to be called on. Woe to those who spoke out of term, however. Detentions were spent clapping chalk dust out of erasers for an entire hour

Classes were not as bad as he thought they would be either. There was certainly a lot of material covered and there always seemed to be more they didn’t have time to get into, but with Hermione there to patiently fill in the details to matters that confused him, he felt on par with most of the class and scored fairly well on all his quizzes. He paired with Hermione on most days, and while the vast sum of her knowledge and long convoluted lectures were a bit irritating occasionally, she was a good study partner and generally patient with him. Natalie, who tended to group with them once or twice a week was a bit less reliable. Some days she was perfectly sweet tempered and helpful, and other days she was a spoiled brat. On all days she seemed intent on distracting Harry from working with Hermione. Dean Thomas, who grouped with them when a subject particularly baffled him (and thus required Hermione’s expertise), would tease Harry for being a ‘player’. Harry was more convinced that Hermione simply liked having someone actually listen to her lectures and Natalie just wanted to use him to annoy Hermione.

That they both happened to be the prettiest girls in the class was entirely beside the point.

Perhaps the hardest lesson Harry had to learn was one Hermione could not help him with. Apparently, it was still standard practice to use a quill and ink rather then a pen or pencil. Harry struggled time and again to keep from dripping ink all over the place and smudging his fingers. He wasn’t the only one either. Everyone except for Hermione usually had charmed quills that didn’t drip and to suddenly be without said charms was proving a bit of a frustration. Gradually, Harry got better at it, but was dismayed how much his handwriting suffered.

As the class became more comfortable together, lunch time grew shorter and play time grew longer. Harry and the other boys enjoyed short games of Ground Quidditch, which was similar to regular Quidditch except there were no brooms, the balls always traveled four feet above the ground, and the bludgers were a lot softer. Harry had a nac for the Seeker position and was often the first picked for a team. When it rained they would break out checkerboards and card sets, some of them already magicked to perform little tricks. Hermione would just roll her eyes at their antics and return to her book, while the other girls stood off to the side cheering them on or gossiping with each other.

By far the best part of his lessons were the field trips on Saturdays. They seemed to go everywhere, from court houses and museums, to workshops and sporting events, and even to a wildlife reserve for endangered magical creatures. Many of these places the others had already been too, but to Harry it was all a wonderfully new and peculiar. It earned him a fair bit of teasing, but he didn’t care.

Aside from that first day, there were no further discoveries regarding any wizards or witches named Potter, but Hermione pointed out that there really weren’t that many books in their psuedo-library and once term started they could make more definitive search. Harry was torn between longing and dread at the thought that he had wizards in his family. What if is father had been a squib and he’d been cast out of the family? If there were still a wizarding family of Potters would they one day learn of him and try and claim him as their own? What they be like? Like his father? Brave, playful, a bit immature at times? Would they be like the Dursleys? Arrogant, selfish, and prejudice? Had they aligned with Voldemort or killed during the war?

Sometimes he would stay up at night thinking about, a network of different pasts leading down paths to different futures, too many to calculate. And sometimes it all seemed so trivial. Harry Potter was Harry Potter, and he was a wizard. The past couldn’t change it, and the present didn’t want to..

He was enjoying himself so much that when August 1st arrived, he had completely overlooked the fact that he was now eleven. Hermione, however, proved once again she had a mind like a steel trap and presented him a small, neatly wrapped package during lunch.

“Happy Birthday, Harry,” she said, placing her gift beside his sandwich.

Harry blinked at her owlishly. “I completely forgot. How could I have forgotten that? Wait, how on earth did you know today was my birthday?”

“You told me the first day we met, remember? When I asked if you had your wand yet you said you didn’t because you wouldn’t be eleven until the first of August.”

“Yikes…no, I don’t remember it all. I think the discussion about Voldemort kinda shoved the rest of it aside.”

There was a loud clanking of dropped silverware and several students turned dark glares at him. “Potter! Don’t say his name so nonchalantly!” snapped one of Thomas’ friends.

Harry just shrugged and muttered a sorry, then turned back to Hermione.

“You didn’t have to get me anything, Hermione. I mean, we haven’t known each other that long and all.”

“If I had known you thirty years I would not have had to get you anything either. Just open it.”

Timidly, he followed her instruction. It turned out to be a gold plated pocket watch with the Hogwarts emblem on the exterior. He opened it, and inside was engraved ‘To Harry, Hope this keeps you on time and on track. Hermione.’

“Hermione, this is much too nice for me to accept!”

She merely waved off his concerns. “Don’t concern yourself with that. It’s just a transfigured stopwatch. My adoptive mother, Narcissa, helped me make it. It’s charmed to grow warm if you start running late for something.”

He smiled at her shyly, still rather awed by the gift. He hadn’t been expecting anything, and despite her dismissive attitude it was a beautiful gift. As he stared at it a sudden memory came to him. Years ago when he was only five or six, he had been sitting in the living room as his parents got ready to go out for the evening. He remembered his father standing in the hall, dressed in a tux and holding a gold pocket watch as he told his mother to hurry up. She had come rushing down the stairs in her high heels and red dress, her hair up in cascading red curls. His father had smiled at her wryly, showing her the time, and she had grabbed his arm and rushed him towards the door, kissing Harry goodbye as she went.

Feeling his eyes suddenly damp, he quickly got up and left the table, heading for the privacy outside. He was three steps out the door before Hermione caught up with.

“Harry, what is it? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No! No, of course not.” Harry turned away from her a moment to dry his eyes and try to calm himself. He felt a fool for getting all weepy over something that wasn’t even sad. Not really.

“Harry, please talk to me. I promise I won’t tell anyone else, but please tell me what’s upset you?” she pleaded.

“It’s not you. Really, it’s silly. It’s just… while I was looking at the watch, I suddenly remembered my father had a watch like this. I mean, not like this watch, but you know, a gold pocket watch,” he began, and inexplicable his gaze found its way to bearer of his memories, the gold Hogwarts seal gleaming in the sunlight. “I remembered how he used to carry it around, and my mom never wore a watch so she was always asking him for the time or pulling it out of his pocket herself. It’s merely old memories. They just caught me off guard is all.”

When he looked up, Hermione was looking at him with such a sad look.

“I must be nice,” she said, “… to remember something like that about your parents.”

“Don’t you remember your parents?” As soon as he asked it, he regretted it. He knew the answer already. He knew she could not possible remember them the way he remembered his. No child of WYRA could possibly have left with the memory of their muggle life intact.

“I remember one or two things. I remember they were both dentists. I remember that my room was blue and there were white lace curtains on my window. But I can’t remember what my life was like back then anymore. I don’t know if I have my mother’s or my father’s eyes, or how they sounded when they laughed, or if I had any siblings or not. I don’t remember much of anything. I was five when they took me away, but you’d think I would remember something more than curtains.”

They stood there silently, sharing something unspoken, an understanding Harry was afraid no one would ever share with him again. She was like him. She might not have remembered her parents or her life from before, but she felt the loss. WYRA and memory spells and time hadn’t stolen that primeval instinct that desired the connection of kin. They may have both hid their grief from the world, but it was clear as day to each other in this moment.

It was a startling realization, that she was now his very best friend.

She was his only real friend.

And he had to give her gift as well, even if it hurt her to accept it.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, “WYRA…they put spells on our beds to make us forget. They took our lives from us, Hermione. In more ways than one.”

Her eyes widen, suddenly shiney and wet.

“How do you know-”

“Snape. He mentioned it the day before I was brought here, but I suspected it before then. There was a little boy who came in about a week after I arrived. He kicked up such a fuss all day, but when he woke up the next morning he was…different. Like he had never lived another life or had family before. I never slept in my bed after that. I’ve probably lost some memories because of the week I did, but I like to think they’re ones that involved the Dursley’s.”

“The Dursley’s?”

“My relatives. They looked after me…er, let me live with them… after my parents died.”

Hermione let out a little gasp.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t know. That’s why you came back from Germany, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugged it off. Hermione paced back and forth, a habit she often adopted when puzzling through unexpected information.

“I wondered sometimes,” she said, “If something hadn’t been done to me… but then I just dismissed it as me making excuses for myself. I can’t believe it. That they would… It’s awful. It’s immoral.”

“It’s the world Voldemort made for us,” Harry said bitterly.

“Harry! Be careful what you say!”

“I’m tired of being careful of what I bloody say!”

“For both our sakes, be careful what you say!”

That shut him up fast, and he gave her a pained, apologetic look. Harry looked off towards the lake and wondered where his treasonous thought had come from. Certainly, he couldn’t remember entertaining it before, at least not with any feeling behind it. Yet now that he said it, it rang with a certain truth. How badly had Voldemort damaged wizarding society? How many families had it destroyed and lives it ended? Finally, Hermione, who had been pacing again turned back to him.

“We should go back. Natalie has probably started all sorts of gossip already.”

Harry nodded and quietly followed her back. There was some initial teasing when they entered the tent, but it quickly died off under their somber demeanor. The rest of the day was spent in quiet retrospect. Hermione lost in thoughts of the parents she couldn’t remember, and Harry pondering how it could possibly be made right again.

Hermione returned home an hour earlier than usual. Normally, she would stay at the school until four, studying or talking with Harry or both. Today, however, neither had felt like company or studying the trade ban with Europe and the U.S. So now she found herself portkeyed to the back of the Malfoy estate just in time to see her adoptive brother Draco fall off his broom.

“Bloody sonofa-”

“Language, brother-dear,” she chided from across the lawn. Draco looked up, clearly surprised to see her there, and then grinned. He brushed himself off and made his way over to her.

“Well isn’t this a surprise,” he said, hugging her by way of greeting. She returned the affection, a bit longer and harder than usual. He pulled back and studied her more closely. “Are you alright? Did that boyfriend of yours do something mean to you? If he did, I swear I’ll curse him til Christmas when I see him next.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes over his protectiveness.

“Draco, you know as well as I do, that Harry Potter is not my boyfriend and I am not interested in making him my boyfriend. And no, he didn’t do anything mean.”

“Then what’s the matter? He didn’t like your gift?”

“No, he loved the gift,” she assured him, then let out a sigh. “It just brought up some unexpected issues.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow at her. “You’re eleven, Hermione. How many issues could you have?”

“Apparently, one pretty big one.”

“Hey,” he said, drawing her out of her depressing cycle of thoughts. “Whose your brother?”

She smiled a bit. “Draco Narcissus Malfoy.”

“And whose the most clever, most wicked, and most influential family in all of Britain?”

“The Malfoy family,” she said, dutifully.

“So who could possibly hurt the favorite little sister of the heir of the Malfoy family?”

“Absolutely no one,” they said together in unison.

“See now,” Draco said, “Don’t you feel better?”

Despite the fact that his little proclamation resolved absolutely nothing, she did feel better. Her parents and any siblings she may have had in her muggle life were lost to her, and she to them. But she had Draco. Her arrogant, devious, charming, over-protective brother. He had never made her feel like anything less than a magical princess.

“Yes, I do feel better,” she said, “In fact, I feel so much better I want to go swimming.”

“Now you’re talking.” Draco grinned at her victoriously, reaffirmed in his own perceived perfection as an older (by two months) brother. He took her hand, as he always had since she had first arrived on the Malfoy estates and been too timid to go anywhere outside of her room alone, and led her home.

The First Quest

“I think I did alright, but there was that one question about the Founders. Perhaps I should have written a little more on Slytherin, rather than Gryffindor. I mean there wasn’t a lot of space left, but I could have fit in a sentence or two about his-”

“Hermione, give it a rest!” lamented Clyde. “You did fine. I’d bet my wand you did the best in the class. So just stop!”

Harry nodded in agreement. While he had been stressing the last two weeks as much as she had been, once it was all over he was feeling much more confident. The questions had been fairly basic, considering all the research and reading they had done, and he wasn’t absolutely dreading his future.

“Sorry,” she said, “It’s just-”

“Important that we get into Hogwarts-” Clyde continued.

“So that we can prove we are real wizards-” Natalie muttered.

“Despite our muggle heritage,” finished Harry. “We know Hermione.”

“Sorry.”

They were spared further worrying by Professor Timbal stalking into the classroom, tossing down envelopes with their names on them.

“These are your test scores. You will open them at home. For those of you who may have failed, I don’t want to witness the utter defeat of your self-worth. It’s usually a big, loud mess and the rest of us still have more important things to do,” he stated coldly. Reluctantly, they all set their letters aside, although they drew many longing and dreading stares.

It was Friday and normally they would have a test, but since they had already taken the most important test of the summer and the start of term was next week, their lesson plan took another route. Instead, Mr. Timbal went ahead and outlined the final field trip on Saturday.

“You will arrive here at the usual time, with your permissions slips in hand as usual. You should have on you at least forty galleons to purchase your wand and other school supplies, but I recommend ten or twenty more just in case.”

The class broke out into excited murmurings, but their professors dark look quickly silenced them all.

“You will be divided into five groups, and escorted by a Hogwarts professor via floo to each shop. I recommend being on your best behavior, as this will give your future teachers their first impression of you. And no wandering off! These are Hogwarts professors, so they can and will assign you real detentions even before term starts if you make yourself a nuisance. Afterwards, you will all return here. You may do what ever you want after that. Any questions?’

Harry reluctantly raised his hand, but didn’t need to speak a word before Professor Timbal pre-empted him.

“You are a ward of the school, Mr. Potter. Unless the headmistress, and later your head of house, forbids it, you automatically have permission to attend school related programs. You are also given a generous line of credit through the school to pay for your supplies and personal affects, but you will be expected to pay it off within ten years after you graduate. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Any other questions? Then we are done here.”

With that, Professor Timbal disappeared through the door. All of the students turned to one another, rather perplexed. No one got a chance to speak the questions they were all thinking when all of sudden their classroom disappeared. Everyone was suddenly on the dusty ground, staring up at the clear summer sky. Groaning, they all climbed to their feet.

“Rude, much?” griped Natalie, brushing herself off.

Everyone grumbled their agreement, even Hermione who was notorious for being over generous with teachers. Of course, her inkwell had landed all over her. As everyone began to recollect themselves, many of them started to take notice of their letters, scattered about. Several of them started opening their letters right away, Harry included.

“You know you’re not suppose to open that yet, don’t you Harry?” Hermion said.

“No, he said we weren’t to open them until we got home. Technically, the school is my home so…” Grinning he opened his envelope and pulled three pieces of paper out. The first piece was his E.L.F. score. “Huh, I got an excellent. Oh wait, there’s a note at the bottom.”

Harry read it to himself and let out a rueful laugh, handing it off to Hermione who read it and gave him an equally rueful expression. “‘You would have gotten an ’Outstanding’ if your handwriting wasn’t so atrocious. Keep practicing’? Harry.”

“It’s not my fault I don’t have enough practice with a quill,” Harry pointed out. “Open yours. I want to see if they gave you a little note.”

Despite her earlier protests, Hermione opened hers eagerly. She scanned it smiling at first, then frowning as she reached the bottom of the page. Harry leaned over to read the note at the bottom of hers.

“‘You are a wealth of information, and I am certain you will do well at Hogwarts. However, please learn to write more concisely.’ Yeah, that sounds about right.”

She smacked him on the shoulder. “I was just being thorough!”

“Hermione, given unlimited paper space and time, you would turn a test question into a textbook,” Natalie said, coming up to stand beside them.

“How did you do?” Harry asked. She smiled slyly at them.

“Outstanding, of course.”

“Any comments?”

“‘It’s Salazar Slytherin, not Salazar Slyverian and Rowena Ravenclaw, not Rowanda Ravenclaw. Please learn to spell people’s names properly.’ Oops!” Harry laughed at that, and Hermione scowled, probably on the sheer principle of the thing. “What about you, Clyde? Destined for candle wax and broom straw?”

“I passed!” Clyde said, grinning broadly, showing off his ‘Average’. “Barely, but I passed.”

“Clyde!” All three said in unison.

The other boy just grinned more broadly. “I’ll see you all tomorrow! I’m going to go celebrate!”

Gradually, they all departed, Harry making plans with the two girls to have a butterbeer at Hogsmeade after their shopping trip the next day.

Saturday morning arrived gloomy and overcast, but it did little to thwart Harry or his friend’s good moods. Everyone arrived early to their usual meeting place, now completely devoid of their classroom tent. They didn’t wear their students robes either. In fact, many of them were dressed particularly nice that day.

Natalie was looking a bit like a French princess in her white velvet dress and hair tied up in blue ribbons. Hermione, while more practically dressed in a lavender cotton sun dress, was looking equally elegant with her hair tied up in elaborate braids and held in place by an ornate silver and opal hair pin and matching bracelet. Harry and Clyde (both similarly dressed in nice slacks, button-up shirts, and vests) could only stand there and gape at how pretty all their female classmates had made themselves for some simple shopping.

“Egad, I forgot they were girls,” Clyde said, watching a girl dressed in a pink silk blouse black skirt pass by him with a wink and a smile.

“The robes kinda do that,” Harry said.

“Boys!” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. Natalie merely smirked and threw them both a kiss.

“Hey! The teachers are coming!”

They all turned towards the castle to see a group of five wizards and witches making their way towards them. Harry scowled as he recognized the distinct profile of Professor Snape, who lead the procession along with Professor McGonagal. The other professors he didn’t recognize, and he was certain he would have remembered them if he had. One of them was a middle-aged gentleman in a pointed cap, who had so much trouble keeping his eyes open that Harry wasn’t certain how he hadn’t fallen on his face. Another was a very short elderly man with pointed ears, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t a dwarf. The third was a woman so dark, she had an almost purplish hue, and walked with the grace of a stalking panther with the golden eyes to match. When the teachers had reached the cluster of students, McGonagal stepped forward to address them.

“I am Professor McGonagal, this is Professor Snape, Professor Flitwick, Professor Quirrel, and Professor Toure,” she said, pointing to each professor as she introduced them. “We will be escorting you all on this venture. We expect you all to behave yourselves like mature ladies and gentlemen, and any behavior that reflects badly on the school will be disciplined most harshly.”

There was a great deal of discomfort at her stern warning. She did not look like a woman to be crossed, nor did Snape or Toure. Harry crossed his fingers and hoped he got placed with either Quirrel or Flitwick, or at the very least not Snape.

“There are some simple rules we expect you to adhere to. First and foremost, do not wander out of sight of your escort. If you wish to go to a particular store or a back room, you must first ask their permission. There will be absolutely no fighting, stealing, or mischief. You will be held responsible for your own money, so be sure to keep it in a safe place on your person at all times and make sure you buy all your supplies before you spend it all on non-essential items. Additionally, you are not permitted to purchase any pets. While Hogwarts does permit owls, rats, toads, non-venomous snakes, and cats, your parents will be the ultimate authority on whether or not you may have one. Now, as each professor calls your name, please gather into a line in front of them and then we can be on our way.”

With that, she pulled out a list from her pocket and began to read off names. Hermione went to stand with her, along with Clyde. Each teacher began calling on their intended wards, and as each teacher finished, Harry was filled with increasing dread as he stood, the last of four other students before the only teacher who hadn’t bothered calling anyone. Snape sneered down at them, sparing the largest portion of his vitriol for Harry.

“If you know what’s good for you, you will not make a sound through the entirety of this excursion. Is that clear?”

The other four nodded quickly, and Harry just glowered at him. Snape seemed to consider him a moment, debating if he should cause trouble for Harry’s lack of response or not. He apparently decided against it, and turning about he stalked after the other departing professors towards Hogsmeade. From Hogsmead they took the floo (the very least favorite form of travel Harry had encountered by far) in the fire place of The Three Broomsticks, and exited in a bustling floo station. Without a word, Snape exited the station, and he and his group scrambled after him to keep up.

They first stopped at a potions supply store called Potions and Powders, where they were given ten minutes to gather their cauldrons, scales, dragon-hide gloves, crystal vials, and some basic potions ingredients. Harry just barely managed to collect his intended items. He was perpetually distracted by the many strange objects. Jars of preserved animal specimens, vials of strangely colored sands or dirt, a particularly vicious set of instruments.

They were then hurried to Banikey’s Books. Again they were given a mere ten minutes to gather their supplies. Luckily, Harry ran into Hermione there, who merely handed him all of her supplies.

“At this rate, we’ll be done in less than an hour,” Harry said. “I was looking forward to looking around.”

“Yes, he is being a bit inconsiderate,” Hermione agreed. “He’s usually not this bad, but he never did like large crowds.”

“What?”

Hermione gave him a smirk. “Didn’t I tell you Professor Snape is my brother’s and my Godfather?”

“What?!”

“Potter! You have two minutes to purchase your supplies or your walking back to Hogwarts!”

Harry turned a disbelieving look towards the older man and then an even more disbelieving look towards Hermione. His thoughts whirling with the potential implications and sheer ludicrousness of the situation, he was barely aware when Hermione dragged him over to the register to purchase his items, and only came back to himself when Snape grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out the door.

“Get your hands off me!” Harry snarled, jerking out of the man’s hold, barely keeping his balance or hold on his supplies.

“Watch your tone, Potter,” Snape snarled right back. “I’ll tolerate none of your juvenile sass, is that understood?”

“Perfectly, Professor.” Although his tone was far from commiserating, the man let it go once again in favor of stalking off. With the man’s back turned, Harry rolled his eyes and jogged after him with the rest of his troupe. They passed several shops along the way, and Harry caste longing glances at the strange items proudly displayed through the storefront windows. But Snape did not stop or slow his pace, and soon they were standing before a rather shabby and narrow little shop. The sign read ‘Ollivander’s: Maker of Fine Wands since 382 B.C’.

Harry felt a sudden, giddy rush. This was it. This was where he would obtain the defining tool of all wizards and the means to find that innate power buried somewhere inside himself.

Snape, amazingly, seemed to share his opinion of the importance of the event and regarded the little shop with a certain degree of reverence. He turned to his wards, glaring at them darkly.

“Pay attention,” he commanded, “This will be one of the most significant moments of your lives. A moment when you pass from being latent magical entities into actively magical ones. Your wand will become an extension of yourself, of your magic, and no other wand will work as well your first. With that thought in mind, Mr. Ollivander, the man who makes all this possible, will be given the utmost respect. Any delinquent or rude behavior and you will be sent home without a wand, and explain to your parents why that is so.”

Snape looked directly towards Harry. “And don’t think that gives you free reign to behave however you like, Mr. Potter. As a ward of the school you will answer directly to me.”

Harry clenched his fists, but said nothing, meeting that oppressive stare straight on.

“You will enter the shop one at a time, in order to prevent any accidents. Once you have obtained your wand, there will be absolutely NO careless wand waving. Your wand will come with a case, and you will not remove it until September first. Am I absolutely clear?”

“Yes, professor,” Harry sighed, and the rest quickly followed.

“Ms. Westfield, you’re first!”

With that Snape and the tow-headed girl disappeared into the shop. Harry and the others fidgeted for a while, before forming into a little cluster to talk amongst themselves. Harry pulled out his pocket watch frequently. Every time he did, he would be suddenly reminded that Snape was Hermione’s godfather. Ugh.

About fifteen minutes after Westfield nervously entered the shop, she came out practically glowing. She gripped her wand case tightly to her chest and was grinning like a lunatic.

“10 inches white oak, and griffin feather,” she said proudly. “It’s your turn Jacob.”

And so it went, and much to Harry’s frustration and very little to his surprise, he was the last to be called on. It was nerve racking. Although they would only be gone for ten to fifteen minutes each, he felt like he was on some invisible timer. As if Snape would leave after exactly one hour, regardless of whether Harry had his wand or not.

He tried to occupy himself by looking through his textbooks, looking for spells he wanted to learn, but it only reminded him that he needed his wand to cast any of them. He finally settled on his potions book, which very rarely required a wand. He read the first chapter on the first fundamental principles of potion making for the next hour, still checking his watch often, when the last of the other students exited the shop.

“Your turn,” they said, going over to gossip with the others. Eagerly, Harry left his supplies with the others and entered the shop. It was gloomy inside as it was out, with an air of antiquity that rivaled all else he had seen before. The walls were lined with open cubby holes, each containing long narrow boxes. There was a single wing-backed chair, inhabited by Snape who regarded him cooly, and beside him stood the most unnerving individuals Harry had ever seen. He was elderly, sort of frail looking, but his eyes were ice blue and sharp as knives. The air around him seemed thicker, wavering yet not. Harry felt the air reach out and touch him, and shivered.

“You are Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, Mr. Ollivander,” he said, thoroughly unnerved. The man’s gaze lingered for a long moment before he turned away and headed for the shelves.

“Stand on the stool there,” he said. No sooner had Harry done as he was told, than a miniature tape measure came zipping up to him. On its own it began to take measurement, none of which the wand-maker seemed to be paying any attention to. It measure his height, the width of his shoulders, the size of his feet, the circumference of his head, and strangely the distance between his nostrils. “Which is your wand hand?”

“Er… I’m right handed.” The measuring tape then went to work measuring the length of his fingers, distance from wrist to elbow, armpit to floor, and so many other random distances Ollivander continued to ignore.

“Right then, that’s enough,” the tape measure crumpled lifeless to floor. “Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstrings. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Harry accepted the wand, and feeling extremely foolish under Snape’s ominous regard, and waved it around a bit. Immediately the wand was snatch out of his hand.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try-”

Harry tried, but that too was snatched from him even faster than the first. And that was how it went. He tried all sorts of wands. Unicorn hair, phoenix feather, dragon heartstrings. Hard woods, soft woods, and woods from distant lands. He tried short, long, flexible, and rigid. Yet no matter what he tried, nothing was quite right. As they started approaching half an hour, a sort of despair settled around Harry. For every wand that rejected him began to feel like a personal failure. His only consolation was that Ollivander only seemed to become more enthused with the hunt, and not the least bit discouraged.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere- I wonder, now. Why not try this one? Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Here-”

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. His arm lifted, almost of its own accord, and came down in a powerful swish. Gold and red sparks flew out of the end like fireworks, sending the whole store dancing with light and shadows. In his chair, Snape’s grip on the armrests tightened. Mr. Ollivander smiled in pure bliss and cried, “Bravo! Yes, indeed, very good. I’ve waited a long time to find the owner of that wand! I made this wand almost seventy-five years ago. The phoenix that donated the feather only gave two. I knew then those wands would be something special. And I was right. Within twenty years, its brother had risen in infamy along with its master. That fifty years should pass before its equal could be found. How remarkable!”

“Ollivander, you overstep your bounds,” Snape suddenly hissed, jumping to his feet. “To even suggest this…boy might somehow be His equal.”

Harry, his insides feeling as light as air, and his fingers tingling felt suddenly invincible and turned to both men. “And who’s the owner of the other wand?”

Snape did not reply, and amazingly he even looked away from Harry. Ollivander, on the other hand, grinned and fixed him with a pale stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. Your wand’s brother- Yew, phoenix feather, thirteen-and-a-half inches- just so happens to belong to the most powerful wizard in Britain. Curious, indeed, how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, you know… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter… After all, You-Know-Who did great things- terrible, but great.”

Harry sat in the Three Broomsticks at Hogsmeade, looking into his butterbeer and wishing there was actual alcohol in it. His wand was tucked into its thin leather case under his shirt. There was a strange feeling emanating from it, luring Harry to take it into his bare hands again. It was a feeling that promised magic. He could do anything once that bit of wood and feather was in his hand… just like Voldemort had.

“Jeez, Harry, you’re not still sulking are you?” Natalie mocked, interrupting his dark thoughts. “I know Snape was an utter prat, but you’ll have other opportunities to go shopping in Daigon Alley. I didn’t think boys even liked shopping.”

Hermione, of course, was quick to come to his defense… or argue with Natalie. One of the two.

“Don’t be sexist, Natalie. Besides, Harry’s never been to Daigon Alley, remember?”

Natalie waved off the logic with her usual feminine grace.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said, smiling weakly. “There’s always next year.”

“Hey,” Clyde said, wiping away his foamy mustache, “We won’t need our teachers as escort next year. We should all go out together and show Harry around. It’ll be a riot.”

Natalie grinned and lifted her mug. “I’ll drink to that. What do you say, Harry? Hermione? Shall we all go together next time?”

This time his smile was a bit more real, and he lifted his mug. Hermione and Clyde lifted theirs, and they clinked them together and took a drink… and kept drinking. Whether they’d planned it that way or not, once they’d started Natalie and Hermione had somehow turned it into a contest, one which Clyde seemed more than willing to compete in and Harry wasn’t going to be left out of. There was few seconds of silence and they gulped down the sticky liquid, and then…

“Ha!” Clyde cried, slapping his mug down, “I wi- BLEEEELCH.”

Hermione choked on her glass. The boy winced, patting his chest. “Crikey, that actually hurt/”

The rest of them burst out laughing, causing Natalie to let a considerably smaller belch of her own, sending them all into even harder laughter. As Harry sat there in the little pub, sitting between his friends and trying not to shoot butterbeer through his nose, he felt the uncertainty of the day fade away. Harry Potter, he knew, was no Voldemort. Voldemort more than likely had never sat amongst muggleborns and halfbloods in a pub, belching and laughing like a loon. Surely, the Dark Lord had never felt this feeling Harry felt now. The feeling that he was in one of those perfect moments of time, ones he hoped he would always remember, because everything was so vivid and warm and beautiful.

Which was why he could never tell them. Not about his wand or what Ollivander had said about it. If there was ever to be perfect moments like this again, then he could never reveal to them that some part of him echoed of the British wizarding dictator. Natalie probably wouldn’t have cared, may have even found it cool, but Hermione would pry and poke and worry and doubt. He didn’t know what Clyde would do, but their friendship was still tentative and their bond easily broken even without this bit of knowledge.

It would just be a secret between him and Snape, who didn’t look like he wanted to admit it to himself let alone anyone else, and Ollivander, who didn’t seem the type to gossip. No one else would ever have to know.

Ever.

This was the sort of thing that may potentially get a man killed or have no consequence whatsoever.

That was what Snape thought as he made his way to the dungeons to begin his report on that day’s visit to Ollivander. The visit had gone as smoothly as it always did, each of his young charges to petrified of him to cause trouble, as they procured all they would need for the coming school year. He would never admit it to anyone, but he did take some enjoyment from his yearly appointments with Ollivander. There was something strangely exhilarating about seeing a child obtaining their first wand, the first conscious flush of power streaming through their small bodies, that look of epiphany on their innocent faces. Yes, child, that is magic. And you thought you knew, didn’t you?

And of course, Potter just had to go and ruin it.

Well, perhaps not ruined it. His reaction had been just as exhilarating as everyone else’s, perhaps more so when the sparks illuminated those brilliant green eyes and memories of another overlaid the reality of the moment. Lily’s joy of her magic had never faded in all the time he had known her, and he briefly wondered if Harry would be like her or if that joy wouldn’t fade into the arrogance of his father?

So, Ollivander had to go and ruin it.

Telling an eleven year old boy and him, one of Voldemort’s own henchmen, that he may be the magical counterpart in the Dark Lord. Of all the stupid…

Now Snape had to deal with it, and it all broke down into two choices. One, he kept it a secret. There were two eventual outcomes of this decision, the most optimistic being that no one found out and nothing happened, and the other (and more likely outcome) was some one finding out and his possibly being accused of treason and dying horribly. Two, he could tell the Dark Lord. Option two had two outcomes as well. Optimistically, the Dark Lord wouldn’t care and at most have the child observed for undue ambition. Realistically, he would care and have the child either killed as a potential competitor or brought into the fold of his dark court to be used as the wizard saw fit.

Snape wasn’t sure what was worse. Lily’s child being killed, Lily’s child working beside him as Voldemort’s pawn, or himself being dead.

Decisions, decisions.

Unless…

Snape smiled wickedly. Perhaps, he was looking at this the wrong way. After all, it’s only a secret if he doesn’t tell anyone, and it’s only dangerous if Voldemort is the one to learn about it. All he had to do was tell the right person and Lord Voldemort might never find out.

He it just so happened he knew the perfect person.

Yes, I know that according to the seventh book Harry only connected to his wand because he was Voldemort’s horcux, but I’m a fanfic writer and thus a character thief, and have very few scruples.

The Pilgrimage

Harry stood on platform 9 3/4 and wondered why. He had flooed from Hogsmeade to King’s Cross, to wait for a train that would take him right back to Hogsmeade. Mrs. Sleuw, while she had been fluttering about the kitchen making him a particularly large breakfast, had said it was a tradition. He personally thought it was a tradition he could do without.

The train station was thick with families and cats. A meaningless roar of voices punctuated by shouting and baby cries and owl shrieks and mewing. While Harry did have the benefit of leaving his luggage at Hogwarts, he had to remain constantly alert unless he was knocked by someone else’s. He had intended to stay outside the train until he could meet up with Hermione, but the ruckus was getting bad enough that he started to worrying about injury. He squeezed passed a cluster of redheads and managed to board the train with only a bruised knee and a banged elbow.

Inside was chaotic, but not nearly as much as outside. The hallway was jammed with students dragging their trunks, broomsticks, and animal carriers as they searched for empty compartments or friends. Harry ducked into the first empty compartment he could find and kept the door open incase some of his friends should pass by. He made himself comfortable and stared out the windows at the menagerie of people talking, crying, hugging, and kissing. For a while Harry could imagine his mother and father out there, waving at him in the window.

“Harry!”

He turned to the door to see Hermione smiling at him. Behind her stood a boy with the palest blond hair he had ever seen. He recognized him immediately as Hermione’s foster brother, Draco.

“Hermione, I was wondering when you would show up. I would have thought you would be the very first person to arrive.”

“And I likely would have, but Draco kept dragging his feet this morning,” she said, glaring half heartedly at her non-repentant sibling.

“You woke me up at 5 o’clock in the morning. Five,” was all he said to that. He turned his cool, grey eyes towards Harry, taking in his modest clothes and wild hair. Harry could just barely detect the hint of a sneer he had no doubt learned from his godfather. After a moment, he held out his hand. “Draco Malfoy of the Malfoy family.”

“Harry Potter.” They shook, both perhaps a little tighter than was polite.

“Hermione!” someone called, distracting the girl. As she turned away, Draco stepped into the compartment and up close to Harry so he could speak softly into his ear.

“I don’t know what impression my sister gave you over the summer, but don’t think for a moment you have a chance with her. She’s a Malfoy, and I won’t have her name dragged through the mud by hanging out with muggleborn riff-raff. So you either turn out very impressive or don’t turn up at all. Do we understand each other?”

Before he could respond, Draco moved away and took Hermione by the arm. “Come on, sister-dear. You can catch up with Harry later. You have other friends you haven’t seen all summer on board.”

Hermione threw him an apologetic look, but dutifully followed her brother down the hall. Harry just watched them disappear, blinking stupidly. Had he just been threatened by Hermione’s ‘sweet and charming’ older brother? She had mentioned that he was a little over protective, but egad! He felt inexplicable torn from wanting to throttle the other boy to admiring him. Certainly, Harry didn’t think he had enough confidence to go around threatening people for the sake of Hermione’s honor.

Had he learned that from Snape too? Bloody hell, what had Hermione learned from the overgrown bat?

“Harry!” Clyde stood in the doorway grinning at him. He was flanked by twin red heads, who were looking more than a little mischievous. “Mind if we sit with you? The rest of the compartments are getting full.”

“Sure, I could use the company.”

“Oh, now, this-” started one of the twins, sliding inside.

“Must be, the illustrious-” continued the other.

“The infamous-”

“The indomitable-”

“Harry Potter,” they finished in unison. Harry smiled.

“What have you been telling them about me, Clyde?”

The twins grinned at each other, and Clyde turned pink around the ears.

“Oh, we’ve heard quite a bit. Heard you were a real ladies’ man.”

“The two prettiest girls in the class are after you.”

“And one a Malfoy, no less!”

“You player!” they said again in unison. At this Harry turned pink and turned a glare at Clyde, who was looking a bit sheepish.

“Ignore them!” he said, “They just like to tease everyone!”

It wasn’t long before the train whistle blew and the train began to move, pulling away from the station and the horde of people waving goodbye. The twins and Clyde both waved to some people in the crowd.

“And if you don’t mind me asking,” Harry said, as they all settled in. “Who are you two?”

Both twins shared a sad sigh, as they gave mock disappointed looks at Clyde.

“You mean Clydiekins hasn’t mentioned us?”

“I was trying to forget about your entire existence.”

“I am Fred-”

“And I am George-”

“Don’t believe them! It’s probably the other way around!”

“Weasley of the Houghton family. We’re Clydiekin’s uncles.”

“Uncles?” Frankly, Harry wasn’t sure how that was possible. The twins only look a year or two older than Clyde.

“Yes, his uncles. It’s a rather interesting story,” said the boy who introduced himself as Fred (and probably lied).

“You see, our sweet nephew here has a muggle mummy-”

“And a wizard daddy, who alas-”

“Didn’t make it through the war. So his mummy hid him away-”

“Until he was six-”

“And did a bit of accidental magic. Then in swoops WYRA. But it’s learned that our dear sweet nephew, has living wizarding grandparents-”

“Who quickly take custody of their grandson, but not before adopting George and I-”

“I thought you said you were George,” Harry pointed out.

“Semantics. Hush! Anyway, since we’re the Houghton’s adopted kids, and Clyde is their grandson…”

“You’re his uncles. I get it,” Harry said and sighed. “Jeesh. And I thought I had family drama issues.”

“There you two are!” Another redhead entered the compartment. While Harry could easily see the family resemblances, the boy’s demeanor couldn’t have been more different from the others. He looked rather prim and proper, without a hint of humor.

“Percival! You old dog. What have you been up to?” asked Fred- or George- as they both rose to wrap him in their arms. ‘Percival’ tensed up and, as soon as they released him, checked his persons for any tricks they may have played. He was rather quick to find the sign on his back and the exploding ink cap in his pocket.

“Yes, yes. Nice to see you too,” he muttered, then looked back, “I found them, Ronald.”

Yet another redhead appeared in the doorway, the same age as Harry, and looking a bit timid. This was not helped by the fact that his much taller brothers, immediately began cooing over him like he was an adorable infant.

“Oh, I remember when you were just this tall! You used to take off your clothes and run around the house naked! Mum and dad would run after you, picking up your nappies as they went!”

“I was three!”

“Oh, but look at how tall you’ve grown! The photographs just don’t do you justice! Did you see mum when you came on?”

Here the other boy smiled a bit.

“Yeah. Ginny too.”

“Little nymph, isn’t she? We’ll be beating the boys off her next year!”

It suddenly occurred to Harry that not only were there a lot of Weasley’s, but none of them apparently lived together. Harry, who had never had siblings, had a hard time imagining that many children in a single home (WYRA didn’t count. They cheated with spells) and yet even more problems imagining so many related children in different homes.

“Oh now, Ronniekins, this is your nephew Clydiekins and his friend Harry Potter. They took those wretched wizarding culture classes this summer. If you have any questions, you can ask them!”

“Yeah, if you want to know about the outsideof the castle,” Clyde groused. “The entire school is closed off during the summer. Something to do with re-warding the castle.”

“You’re muggleborns?” Ron asked, looking suddenly hesitant.

“Technically, I’m half and half,” Clyde said. “Harry on the other hand, is a muggleborn, I think. German raised too. Go ahead, spout something off in German!”

“Das ist kein Taschenspielertrick, du Idiot!”[1] he said, rolling his eyes.

“Ooooohhhh…” the twins said in unison. “Brilliant!”

Ron, however, didn’t look like he agreed. His expression darkened, his jaw set. Harry, who was becoming well versed in spontaneous animosity being directed at him, didn’t even bother wondering why. He met the other boy’s gaze openly, daring him to spit out exactly what he was thinking. When the boy said nothing, Harry stood. Ron moved back abruptly, posturing as if he was expecting a fight.

“There’s not a lot of room in here,” Harry said. “You guys are family, and should sit together. I’ll go find another compartment.”

“Ah! Don’t let Ron’s attitude scare you off! He’s just got family issues of a different kind!” George said.

“Yeah! You can sit in my lap!” offered Fred, patting his leg in invitation.

“Was that suppose to encourage him so stay?” Clyde asked.

Shaking his head, he shuffled passed Ron, who made it a point to avoid touching him and glared as he walked away. Once he was outside, the door was slammed behind him and Harry flashed the door a rather uncouth gesture. He wandered up and down the hall, but it seemed all the compartments were either filled with strangers or older students. He was almost ready to give up and return to the Weasley’s compartment, when one opened and he was pulled inside.

“Natalie! I didn’t even see you get on,” Harry said, smiling at her. She gave him her patented wry smile. The compartment was even more full than the Weasley’s, this time with people he recognized from summer school. Someone had left a trunk on the floor for extra seating and he perched himself there..

“I’m surprised you’re even on board. Isn’t it kind of silly making you take the train?”

Harry just shrugged.

“And why isn’t Hermione with you? You’re normally inseparable,” the blonde girl said, not without a little bitterness.

“She’s sitting with her brother and their friends. Clyde’s sitting with the Weasley brothers. Did you know there were so many?”

“Ha! They’ve got two more brothers out of school and a little sister who starts next year. They’re a family of bloody rabbits.”

Everyone laughed at that, and Harry smiled weakly.

“What is the deal with that anyway? I got the impression that they don’t live together, but I know they’re not muggleborns or halfblood or Ron would have been in summer lessons, right?”

“Oh, now that’s a bit of a scandal,” said Westfield, grinning. Natalie nodded in agreement.

“I used to go to primary school with Ron. He was ok when I first met him,” began Natalie. “But then there was this big scandal with his father. Something about muggle contraband. You know, nothing that would be that big of a deal except it was like his fiftieth violation or something. Apparently, he’d pissed off some of the Wizengamot, and they complained to You-Know-Who, who had him thrown in Azkaban.”

Harry shivered at the thought. They had learned about Azkaban in summer school. A miserably stormy isle, designated a maximum security prison, with soul-sucking wraiths known as Dementors set as guards. That anyone, for any reason, should be sent there had struck him as beyond cruel.

“After that, Ron turned into an utter bigot. Their mother, poor thing, was a house wife- what else could she be with that many children needing her?- and couldn’t find work with enough pay to support them all and still take care of the baby girl’s needs. WYRA ended up stepping in and taking all her kids except the daughter, and had them divided up and sent to other homes. I guess I can understand him being bitter, but he’s turned into such a rotter. One day he’s going to start a fight with the wrong muggleborn, and I can’t wait to see it happen.”

Now Harry could see the twisted logic in hating muggleborns. After all, since they were all completely isolated from muggles, muggleborns were the next best thing. However, he couldn’t condone it and wouldn’t tolerate it. His father used to say the men who bow to injustice and cruelty only welcome more of it onto themselves. His mother used to say no one had the right to make anyone feel like they were born inferior. If Ron came after him or Hermione or any of his friends, then he was determined Natalie would see that prophesied fight.

They went on to talk about the coming school year, about the past summer, of birthdays, and holidays, Quidditch and fashion, traveling and weather. They played exploding snaps, poker, and wizarding chess. The ate too much junk food, and they all started Harry his first collection of chocolate frog cards. He got Helga Hufflepuff, Bellatrix Lestrange, Bartolome Suigi, Horace Slugworth, and Hedwig Vance.

By the time their arrival at Hogsmeade was announced, Harry was glad he had taken the train after all.

1. ‘It’s not a parlor trick, you idiot!’ Actually, ‘Taschenspielertrick’ means prestidigitation, an uncommon word in America (can’t speak for other English-speaking countries) but according to Ashere a fairly common word in German.↩

The King and the Serpent

Harry sat in a boat, staring up at the castle set aglow in the storm. His eyes were as wide and enchanted as everyone else’s. As if it were his first time seeing Hogwarts. As if he hadn’t lived in its shadow for the better part of the summer. Staring out his window at night, it always seemed more like the dark silhouette of a hulking mountain than an enchanted castle. But now that dark silhouette was alight with a hundred thousand torches, glowing like a torch itself in the gloomy rain. His insides twisted with a hopeful longing as they drew across the inky lake, holding the castle’s wavering reflection, everything enveloped in a sacred silence.

At last they passed under a low tunnel, curtained with ivy, and entered into an underground harbor dimly lit with torches. They scrambled out of the boats and onto the stone steps, aided and directed by the Sleuw’s. Professor McGonagall was at the top of the steps waiting for them, and quickly ushered them into the school itself. The corridors were huge and echoed with their muffled footsteps. The first years were huddled closer together than usual, all feeling a bit overwhelmed as they passed endless rows of moving portraits, armors, and display cases. They followed the witch up a large staircase to the upper floors, and suddenly the distant sound of many voices could be heard.

Yet there was one voice much closer that drew Harry’s attention.

“Run, run, run, little mousey. Nagini knows every tunnel. Nagini knows every hole. Run, run, run, because you can not hide…”

Harry looked around, seeing if anyone else was wondering about it. By all accounts it did not appear as if anyone had heard. Which seemed impossible since they were silent enough that Harry could hear the faint ticking of his pocket watch.

And hadn’t he heard the name Nagini somewhere before?

“Crunch, crunch, crunch, grinding bones on which to munch. Come, come, come, little mousey,” it continued to sing in a syllabant hiss.

He fell back from the others, taking a moment to peek down a hallway the voice seemed to be coming from. At first he saw nothing. Then he spotted a little brown rat turning a corner and scampering towards him. It was followed soon after by the largest snake he had ever seen. It was at least nine feet long and almost as thick around as he was. The rat was obviously running from it, but when it finally took notice of Harry, it stood up on its hind legs and froze.

“Look out!” Harry cried as the snake came up on the little creature.

The rat jumped out of the way, barely missing the snakes enormous fangs. It hopped about in a blind panic for a moment, unsure of which way to flee, before heading back towards Harry. He stood frozen, watching transfixed as both creatures made their way towards him. The rat reached him first, and amazingly dived beneath his robes, where he felt it climb up his leg and into his pocket.

This must be someone’s pet rat, Harry concluded. He didn’t get past that thought before he found himself staring face to face with the snake, who reared up to stand taller than Harry. They stared at one another, wide emerald eyes to glowing slitted yellow.

“Give it here, boy,” the snake commanded. “Give it to Nagini.”

Oh. So that’s where the voice was coming from. A talking snake. Sure. Why not? Was it any stranger than the bathroom mirror that told him his hair looked silly in the Sleuw’s house?

“Er… what?”

The snake looked startled- how he could tell, Harry wasn’t sure- then, angry again.

“The mousey. Give Nagini her little mousey. It is Nagini’s to play with. Master gave it to Nagini. It is Master’s present! Give it her or Nagini will play with you instead!”

Harry didn’t even consider giving the rat over. Not that he thought the rat’s life was worth more than his own (he’d killed several over the summer to feed to the school’s owls), he just couldn’t stand in its presence a moment longer. He leapt out of Nagini’s strike range, then bolted down the corridor. He heard her indignant cry, but she couldn’t follow nearly as quickly.

Only now, Harry had lost sight of the other first years. Cursing himself for his own stupidity, he started his search. But the castle was a maze, and every corridor led to dozens of others. He tried to call for help, but no one came and he didn’t dare stay anywhere too long lest Nagini find him.

Finally he started to hear voices. He followed the sound until he came to a narrow hallway, that led to a small antechamber. There was a small wooden door, and he pressed his ear to it to see if he could hear anything. The general roar was quiet now, but he could hear some one making a speech. He pressed harder to the wood, hoping to make out the words.

The door fell open. Caught off balance, Harry stumbled forward, through a curtain and onto a platform, tripped on a rug, and pitched passed a man standing at the podium and off the edge. He fell feet over head, and landed awkwardly on his side. Dazed he sat up, and through his spinning vision he could make out many people in black robes staring at him. His sight somehow ended upwards, and the people disappeared to reveal a starry night sky. He rubbed his eyes, not believing what he was seeing, and when he opened them again he found himself staring at a man. He was a young, pale man and his eyes were a the most vivid…crimson?

“Er…”

The hall suddenly burst out into raucous laughter. Harry’s face burned. Looking over at the platform, he could see two tables on either side of the small platform with several familiar faces. Professors Toure, Flitwick, Quirell, and of course, Snape. They, however, were not laughing. His embarrassment was replaced with something else, and his burning embarassment gave way to a cold fear.

“Silence!” Voldemort commanded.

Instantly, the laughing horde fell into a tense quiet. The Dark Lord turned his cold crimson gaze to the boy still sprawled on the floor beneath him, letting his expression clearly show his irritation. Strangely, Harry couldn’t turn away. His eyes were wide and frightened, but he couldn’t look away. It was like being caught in Nagini’s eyes, only…

“And you are?” the man said. His voice sounded vaguely serpentine. Harry made a conscious effort to climb to his feet, although they felt as if they would collapse at any moment.

“I-I’m Harry Potter.”

“Oh. You.”

He flinched, but didn’t turn away.

“Crucio!”

A sudden, excruciating pain flared through his entire body. It was like nothing he had ever felt. Not the localized pain of a broken bone nor the weak pain of a sunburn. This was something else. It was like every fiber of body, from skin to the internal muscles was being stabbed with wicked needles. There was screaming, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was him or not. As suddenly as it was inflicted, the curse was removed. He found himself on all fours, trembling uncontrollably.

“In the future, Mr. Potter, it would be wise to remember I do not like to be interrupted while speaking. Especially by fools. McGonagall, you are responsible for escorting first years to the Great Hall. We will discuss your failure later.”

Someone grabbed his arm, and he flinched from the contact expecting it to hurt, but the pain was an empty echo. He was dragged to his feet by McGonagall, looking very pale and tightlipped, and led to the line of other first years. Hermione and Clyde were immediately by his side, supporting him. Yet he couldn’t help but notice that in addition to looking worried, they both looked very angry with him as well.

It’s not my fault! he wanted to scream at them. But all he could do was try to regain his strength and stand on his own, hiding his embarrassment and shame. Voldemort continued his speech, and at some point Harry thought he saw an ugly hat singing a rather ridiculous song about houses.

It took him a minute to realize it was singing about Houses. They learned about them in summer school, of course, and Hermione even had a book called Hogwarts: A History that she was constantly referencing. When names started to be called, Harry made an extra effort to pay attention.

“Abbott, Hannah!” A rather plump girl with blond pigtails climbed onto the provided stool and McGonagall placed the singing hat on her head. It was barely there for two seconds before it shouted out “Hufflepuff!”

The girl quickly skipped off to join a table of cheering students. It followed that routine for all the gathered students. Some went to Hufflepuff, others Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, or Slytherin. Usually it only took a second or two for the hat to decide, other times it took almost a minute. Clyde was called and by then Harry was able to stand on his own, and watched as his friend was sorted into Gryffindor under the thunderous applause of the Weasley twins. Natalie was sorted into Slytherin, and looked perfectly pleased with the result. Hermione, amazingly was not sorted into either Slytherian or Ravenclaw, but Gryffindor.

Harry didn’t really see it. She had always been more smarts than anything, and the timid way she looked away from her brother’s shocked face wasn’t exactly the bravest front she could have given. Draco went to Slytherin like all the Malfoy’s before him, of course. And then it was his turn.

The hall got dead quiet, and Harry felt vaguely nauseous. But he remembered his father and his mother, thought of how proud they would be that he had gotten here at all, and held his head high as he marched towards the stool. McGonagall looked decidedly worried as she placed the hat on his head. The hat fell over his eyes and in the darkness he could hear the whispers of the other students.

“Hhhmmm…” said the hat. “What have we here. Oh this is going to be a difficult choice. You’ve go a decent mind… loyal… hard working… there’s definitely a lot of…unique talent in here. The most obvious choice would of course be Slytherin, but…”

“Please, not there,”Harry whispered. “I don’t want anything else in common with…”

He shut his mouth tight after that. He hadn’t told anyone about his wand being the brother’s of Voldemort. Not Hermione, not the Sleuw’s, and certainly not to a gossipy hat. Even if it read his mind and already knew.

“Oh, not Slytherin then? Well, then we might as well keep things interesting. I think I’ll put you in GRIFFINDOR!”

Most of the Gryffindors didn’t clap when Harry made his way over to his new house. Most of them didn’t. Percy clapped politely along with a few others. Clyde and Hermione both clapped more honestly. The Weasley twins made enough of a racket to embarrass him all over again. He took his seat between Clyde and Hermione, and struggled to sit up tall under the disgruntled looks his own house was giving him.

The sorting continued and Ron Weasley, the youngest son of a long line of brothers surprised everyone, including himself when the sorting hat sent him off to Slytherin. Although he felt sorry for Ron’s flabbergasted brothers, Harry wasn’t sorry he wouldn’t be sharing his House with the other boy. The redhead sat himself next to Draco, who didn’t look as though he was sure he wanted the other boy there.

Finally, the sorting concluded with Blaise Zabini being sorted into Slytherin. Voldemort gave another brief speech about pride and honor, fealty, and discipline. It would have been extremely boring if the threat of excruciating pain and death hadn’t lingered between each sentence should the man’s wisdom be ignored.

Then an enormous feast suddenly appeared before them all. It was more food than Harry had ever seen, and very impressively displayed. But watching all the other students suddenly scarfing it all down, made him feel even more nauseous and he pushed most of it away.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” asked Clyde, looking worried.

“He probably doesn’t feel very well after the Cruciatus curse. Do you, Harry?”

“No, I don’t” he agreed. “The Cruciatus curse, huh?”

“Yes. It’s also known as the pain curse, and I’m sure you can appreciate why. It’s a very dark curse. Only those with particularly high magical ability can perform it effectively.”

“Well, at least I know people won’t be throwing it around in the halls then,” he said.

“No worries there mate,” said one of the twins, coming up to stand behind. “You’ll only have to worry about tickle curses-”

“Jelly-legs-” suggested the other twin.

“The pinching curse-”

“Boils and blisters curse-”

“Lycanthropy during the full moon-”

“Vampire bites if you walk around after curfew-”

“Yes, yes, yes! We get it! Can’t you go embarrass someone else? You have an entire House to annoy!” Clyde said.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Harry’s too easy a target right now.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Come on, George-”

“I’m Fred, George,”

“Semantics, brother.”

The two wandered off to make mayhem for a cluster of Gryffindor girls gossiping at the end of the table. No sooner had the boys gotten them to start screaming at the sight of their wart infested hands, then real screams started over at the Hufflepuff table. The Hufflepuffs students all clambered from their seats and a way from their table. This was followed by the Ravenclawns shouting in surprise and scrambling from theirs.

Through the din of panicked voices, Harry could hear another softer voice.

“Where is my little mousey? Bring it to me, now, now, now!”

“Oh, bloody hell, not her again,” he moaned.

“Harry, what’s going on?” Hermione asked. But there was no time for explanations. The crowds had parted to reveal Nagini, who had spotted him in an instant.

“You!”

“Geh.”

The serpent rushed for him, and Harry made a split second decision. Leaping from his chair he sprinted towards Nagini as well. She reared up, expected an attack and prepared to face it with one of her own, but Harry turned sharply and just barely avoided her fangs. He ran for a side door, keeping Nagini as far from the other students as he could manage. She followed, slipping under tables and benches, brushing ankles as she slithered towards her intended prey.

He led her into a corridor. He could see students flooding out of the Great Hall further down and turned in the opposite direction. He jogged along, keeping Nagini in sight and just out of range. Once the other students were out of sight, he tried to lose her, but soon found himself out done.

Stairs and doors did nothing to keep her at bay. She followed him at a steady pace singing along the way ’Run, run, run, little man-child. Nagini knows every tunnel. Nagini knows every hole. Run, run, run, little man-child, because you can not hide’.

It didn’t take long for Harry to become utterly lost. He had gotten stuck at the dead end of a corridor, and somehow managed to find a secret passageway. It had wound up and down narrow staircases, lefts, rights, forks and crossroads. When he had finally stumbled out of the dusty space he found himself in an empty classroom and no idea where he was. At least it appeared he had lost Nagini.

“Hello?!” he called, as he entered the hallway. “I’m really, really lost and could use some help”

It was dark here, with no torches lit. Harry wished he hadn’t left his wand in his trunk. He didn’t know if he could perform any spells, but a few sparks might have gone a long way helping him find his way back to the Great Hall.

He kept calling for help, staying close to the wall so he didn’t get disoriented. He wasn’t certain how long he groped blindly in the darkness, but he was starting to lose hope in a rescue. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be rescued. He was already in enough trouble as it was. Just as he had resolved to spend a long, uncomfortable night curled on the floor, he saw a pale white glow.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” he called, a bit nervously.

“Hello?” came a reply. “What have we here? Oh, my, you’re that Potter boy. Everyone is looking for you. What are you doing all the way over here?”

Harry couldn’t reply. As the white glow got closer, he could see that what he thought was a wand light was a man… or had been a man. Wearing a collar and tights, and literally transparent, he suddenly realized he was meeting his first ghost.

“You alright there, lad? Nagini didn’t get a bite out of you, did she? While we ghosts wouldn’t mind some new blood, it would put a bit of a damper on the festivities for the rest of the students.”

“I-I’m sorry, yes, I’m fine. But…um… who are you?”

“How terribly rude of me! I am Sir Nicholas de Mimsy, at your service! Just follow me! I’ll get you back to civilization!” he chuckled.

Relieved, Harry did follow Sir Nicholas. But they did not return to the Great Hall. Instead, he was led up several sets of staircases and through many corridors, until at last they stopped at a statue of a gargoyle.

“Er… where am I now, Sir Nicholas?”

“The headmistress’s office, of course. Have to sort all of this nonsense out, don’t we? Oh, don’t look so green. You’ll survive! Now up you go! Cecrops!”

A winding staircase appeared behind the gargoyle. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his head, and made his way up. He stepped off the stairs and found himself in a rather crowded circular office. All the Heads of House were present, McGonagal, Snape (Hermione later told him her godfather taught potions and was head of Slytherin), Flitwick, a dumpy looking woman he didn’t know, one he recognized from a chocolate frog card as Headmistress Bellatrix Lestrange, and of course to make his day complete- Lord Voldemort with Nagini curled quite happily around his armchair. The giant serpent looked at him, and Harry got the impression she was smirking.

The headmistress, staring over her locked fingers at him, was not looking pleased.

“I should expel you, Mr. Potter,” was the first thing out of her lips.

Harry felt his heart drop into is stomach.

“Couldn’t you just expel Nagini?” he said, and then slapped his hand over his mouth.

“Mr. Potter! This is not a joke! This is the first time in centuries the Welcoming Feast has been disturbed. Perhaps the very first time that it has been disturbed twice by the very same person!”

“Hey, I had nothing to do with the second one! They weren’t running and screaming from me!”

“Just keep talking, silly man-child. It will only make your punishment that much more amusing to watch,” hissed Nagini.

“Go choke on your rat!” he snarled back at her.

Suddenly, everyone was looking at him with even more interest. Even Voldemort, who had been ignoring him in favor of stroking the portion of Nagini’s tail resting in his lap, looked straight at him.

“What did you say?”

Harry froze. Oh, Bloody hell, he was such an idiot! As if he wasn’t in enough trouble with the most dangerous man in the entirety of Wizarding Britain, he had to go off an insult his familiar too!

“Er…”

“What you said, Mr. Potter, was most definitely not ‘er’.”

“Um…”

“Mr. Potter!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

A dead silence followed. And Harry who had been cringing, expecting to be cursed at any moment, opened his eyes to peek at what had stopped the man. The most dangerous man in all of Britain was regarding him with a clearly perplexed and -dare he even think it?- awed expression. He glanced around at the other Hogwart’s staff. They too looked completely stunned.

“Um… what did I say?”

Snape let out an amused huff of air, and muttered ‘idiot boy’. This seemed to snap everyone else out of their surprise as well.

“Mr. Potter… Harry, are you telling me it has never come to your attention that you are a Parselmouth?” Voldemort asked.

Harry just blinked at him and then frowned. “That’s impossible. Only a descendant of Slytherin can speak Parseltongue. You’re the only one in known existence right now.”

“It would seem I am the second one in existence now. You silly child. Don’t tell me you didn’t think it odd when my familiar began talking to you?”

Harry shrugged. “Until this spring a talking bathroom mirror was oddFrankly, I just thought she was a talking snake, which was odd, and why I got distracted and separated from the other first years.”

“Hn.”

They held each other’s gaze, and Harry felt the other man searching him for the truth of the matter. It was an almost physical sensation and he abruptly turned away from the man on sheer instinct.

“Perhaps he should be sent to Slytherin, after all,” the headmistress suggested. “He must, as he pointed out, have descended from Salazar Slytherin.”

“And he just as likely has ancestry rooted with Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff. No, we will hold to tradition, and allow the sorting hat to determine the House he belongs to. If we do not uphold tradition, who will?”

“Of course, you’re right,” the headmistress conceded, and Harry realized despite her title it was Lord Voldemort who ran the school.

“Speaking of Houses, perhaps it is time for Harry to return to his? It has been a very trying evening, and classes start tomorrow,” said McGonagall.

“Yes, I suppose we can forego any further punishment, given the circumstances. Harry, one last word of advice?”

“Yes, sir-er, I mean, My Lord?”

“Break this bad habit of misplacing yourself?”

“Er… yes, My Lord.”

“Oh, yes. And leave the rat.”

Harry hesitated, but then reluctantly opened his robe and pulled his partner in crime for the evening out of his pocket. Impossibly, the little creature was curled up and was fast asleep. He shook his head and dutifully-gratefully- followed his Head of House out of the office and towards his new home.

Once Harry and most of the staff had left, Voldemort, Snape, Lestrange, and Nagini turned their attention to the perceived culprit of that evening’s events. The headmistress poked the furry lump with the end of her wand. It merely curled up tighter. Irritated, she emptied her cup of hot tea on it. It let out a pained squeak.

“Pettigrew, you idiot,” she hissed.

A moment later, where there was only a rat, now sat a very frighted and very damp man.

“Ouch! W-what was th-that f-for?” he sniveled, finding himself suddenly surrounded by three of the most frightening people he knew.

“You were suppose to keep Nagini entertained away from the feast, not in the middle of it!” Voldemort hissed. “There are half a dozen students sleeping in the infirmary because of your stupidity, you brainless twit!”

“I-I’m s-s-sorry, Master, but I-I-I w-was getting t-tired a-and she-she is so en-energetic! I’m n-not as-as y-young as I use-used t-to b-be.”

“And I suppose hiding in the pocket of the James Potter-look-alike was an attempt to bring back your more youthful days?” Snape said.

At that Pettigrew’s rat-like face became haunted as well as fearful. Oh, what would his old friend say now? Seeing him so reduced? And yet there he had been, appearing there to rescue him… eleven years too late.

“I should crucio you until your mind breaks and then hand you over to Knott for experimentation,” Voldemort said. Pettigrew knew he would too, but he didn’t think he could get anymore afraid without dropping over dead. “But since your bungling has brought forth some valuable information, I am feeling generous tonight. Check on McGonagall’s office to make sure she’s behaving herself, then return to your post in Gryffindor tower.”

“Y-yes, M-master!” He bowed, unable to believe his good fortune.

“Nagini will accompany you along the way to make sure you don’t find your way into anyone else’s pocket tonight.”

Pettigrew let out a little squeak as the serpent turned her shining yellow eyes towards him. He was a rat a second later, and flying down the staircase as fast as his little legs could carry him. Nagini slithered out of her master’s lap and pursued at a leisurely pace, singing her silly hunting song as she went.

With the three Slytherins alone in the office, the atmosphere became a bit more relaxed. Lestrange refilled her empty tea cup with sherry and offered the other two brandy. Snape declined, as was his custom during the school year. Voldemort accepted a glass and further relaxed into his chair. A slight smile found its way onto his face as he considered the events of that evening.

“This is… magnificently ironic,” Voldemort said. “To have a child of two of my more persistent enemies, and a Gryffindor on top of that, become my counterpart in magic.”

“Counterpart, my lord? I think you give him too much credit,” Snape said. “He may simply be an example of how your policies have allowed for a greater level of magical ability within the nation. I wouldn’t be surprised if other Parselmouths started showing up in the next fifty years.”

“I would have to agree with Severus on this one, my Lord. He’s a Gryffindor. His temperament and morality,” she said the second word as if it were a curse, “prevent him from being on par with you. He’s merely a curiosity.”

“Convenient logic,” he chided them both, smiling to let them know he wasn’t angered with them, “I don’t know if Severus told you, Bella, that in addition to speaking Parseltongue, young Harry also possesses the brother wand to my own? That is not the byproduct of increased magical ability.”

Bellatrix looked stunned all over again. Snape also looked surprised, and then quickly disguised it as outrage, turning to glare at the headmistress.

“You didn’t know? I put that information in my report for you to give to our lord.”

She turned an equally venomous glare back at him.

“That’s was Sunday. I was busy finalizing castle security. I haven’t gotten to them yet!”

“I have, though,” Voldemort admitted, surprising them both. Suddenly, Snape thought his plan to slip the information right under Bellatrix’s nose didn’t seem so clever. She was horribly neglectful of her paperwork, and she rarely checked his reports unless prompted. It would have been easy. He had done similar things several times before. Should anyone have learned of the truth, Snape would have had…did have his proof of loyalty and competency.

He hadn’t taken into account that his Master ran the school like it were his own household. The man held little love for reports and paperwork, and delegated such tasks to trusty servants like himself and Lestrange. But Voldemort apparently hadn’t trusted Lestrange to do her work, and Snape hadn’t seen that coming. He was torn between feeling dread over his blunder and exhilaration over the waning faith he held in his nemesis.

Neither thought would have met with Voldemort’s approval, so he merely continued to direct his accusing eyes on Bellatrix, hoping the other wizard didn’t suspect anything.

Meanwhile, Voldemort was making a mental note to remind his faithful servant to stop being so obvious in her ignorance. It was an unSlytherin trait, and lately she hadn’t been at the top of her game. All the teachers had made a very clear and professional report on all the muggleborn’s excursion to Daigon Alley, and though Snape was perhaps a bit dismissive of Potter’s wand as a product of chance (fifty years! Some one had to pick that wand eventually), it was curious enough that she should have been made aware of it. This sort of thing was why the muggleborns were all sent with their teachers after all.

“Regardless,” Voldemort continued, “We share a gift, an ancestry. I feel it makes him partially my responsibility. I am certain I can make this turn of events work in my favor.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting adopting the boy?” Bellatrix exclaimed. Severus barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. Voldemort fixed her with an irritated look, and she shrank back in her chair like a scolded first year.

“No. Not yet anyway. I will have to see if he shows any true potential first. But I was just thinking… the Wizarding World has its king… perhaps its time it had its prince, as well?”

So what did you all think? Please leave a review or comment or opinion! I do so enjoy them.

I know some of you had your hearts set on Harry ending up in Slytherin, but to be honest I could never really picture Harry as one. So for kicks (not really, it’s all part of constantly plotting mind) I threw the even less likely character, Ron, in there instead. Bwa ha ha.

The Most Noble of Houses

McGonagall escorted Harry to Gryffindor Tower in utter silence. He got the distinct impression she was angry with him. But, he figured, everyone was angry at him, except probably the Weasley twins. They were probably laughing their asses off at him. They stopped before a portrait of a very fat woman sleeping in her chair.

“Wake up,” his Head of House commanded, and the fat woman stirred. She rubbed her eyes sleepily and watched them blearily.

“Bit late, isn’t it Professor?”

“I am aware of that,” McGonagall said primly, she turned back to Harry for the first time since leaving the headmistress’ office. “The password is Devil’s Snare.”

The portrait swung open to reveal a circular portal.

“I leave you here, Mr. Potter. The boy’s dorm is on the right, your room is in the highest part of the tower.” She turned to leave, but Harry called out to her.

“Professor!”

She paused, not looking back at him.

“I am really, really sorry that I got you in trouble,” he said, trying to convey how badly he felt about it. She stiffened, and he thought for a moment she would ignore him and walk away. She surprised him by turning around, her expression softened.

“I am sorry too. Lord Voldemort was right. You were my responsibility. I should have known immediately that you had fallen behind when everyone was lined up for the sorting, before that even… A great deal of trouble, and pain, might have been spared otherwise. We will both have to tread more carefully from now on. Well, it’s late Mr. Potter. I bid you goodnight.”

“Wait! One more thing!”

Now McGonagall looked curious. “Yes?”

“Um… could you… could you not mention my being a parselmouth to anyone?”

“I suppose. Why? Most would be rather proud to have such a gift.”

“Well… I’d rather not have people making comparisons between me and… Him. Especially since I’m Gryffindor. They’re mad enough with me as it is.”

She gave him a wry smile. “Himand me, Harry. And I see where that might make some uncomfortable. On the bright side, you caused just enough chaos that no one remembered to dock Gryffindor points. That will go a long way in earning your House’s forgiveness. I dare say by Christmas they’ll be recalling it as something of an adventure.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“You are welcome. Now off to bed with you.”

She strode away, a little more spring to her step, and Harry climbed in through the portal. He was greeted by four verycurious Gryffindors.

McGonagall went immediately to her rooms and prepared for bed, completely exhausted. What an evening it had been! She couldn’t remember a Welcoming Feast this chaotic since James Potter and Sirius Black put blast-ended skrewts in the Slytherin’s breadbaskets. She could just imagine James laughing hysterically when his son enticed a very large and venomous Nagini into the Great Hall and then left said Great Hall to lead the entirety of the teaching staff on a mad search through the castle.

She entertained the possibility of writing to Sirius and Remus about the night’s events. She imagined they would be ecstatic to know James’ legacy was turning out to be just as much of a troublemaker as the original. She dismissed the idea quickly. Who knew what those two would do if they learned their godson was in Britain? The one thing Harry James Potter did not need was his godparents violating probation to visit him right under Voldemort’s nose.

Voldemort.

She shuddered. She didn’t think she would ever forget the sight of him casting that awful curse on Lily’s child. There had been instances before, much less often nowadays, where she had been called into his or the headmistress’ office to collect a similarly punished child, but that was always after the fact. For a moment, she thought her heart had stopped when the boy had screamed.

To make matters worse Harry turned out to be a Parselmouth. A rare and coveted talent… for Slytherins. Not so much in Gryffindor. She thought it very prudent of him to want to keep it a secret, and she would help him keep it as best she could. However, this was Hogwarts. Secrets, especially the magical kind, rarely remained secrets for long. Most of the teaching staff knew already, and all it would take was a bit of overheard gossip for everyone of the student body to know as well.

Worst of all, Voldemort knew. And now the man had reason to take interest in the boy. No doubt he would find someway to take advantage of Harry’s talent if given the chance. The only thing McGonagall could do was keep her young charge as sheltered from his attentions as possible. Given recent events, she wondered if she was up for the job.

Severus returned to his quarters just after midnight. He left Bellatrix slightly tipsy and alone with their Lord. He had no doubt by the time the dictator left, he would be questioning his previous judgement in allowing the woman to become headmistress. Perhaps the dark wizard was already doing so.

He grinned wickedly at the thought of the arrogant woman being brought to heel. She might have been a fine general during the war, but it took more than clever sadism and blind loyalty to run a school. What children lacked in ambition and viciousness, they more than made up for in free time and creativity.

The Weasley twins were a perfect example. Leave them along in a room for an hour with only their wands, and the resulting mayhem would likely be recorded in legend. Hell, leave them alone in a room with only a pack of gum and the result would be the same.

Add to that the strange political nature of the separate Houses, bloodlines, the point system, and Quidditch matches and you have a recipe for adolescent intrigue. The castle’s many secrets and curiosities only magnified the possibilities and dangers. It took constant vigilance, a keen intelligence, and a firm hand to maintain order at Hogwarts. Lestrange might have been suited to take on the position as she grew older, after several years of teaching and learning what to expect from students. However, she had taken the position and the lofty title immediately after the war as a reward, not as a job. She didn’t seem to understand that running Hogwarts required a great deal of work on her part.

McGonagall would have been much better suited. He’d never say it to anyone, especially not the woman herself, but she was really the only logical choice. She had the dignity, discipline, and experience. Most of all she loved the school. She had loved it so much that even when her adored mentor and former headmaster Albus Dumbledore had fled, she remained behind.

And miraculously, she had been spared and her loyalty to the school, if not Voldemort himself, was rewarded with her continued position as Head of Gryffindor.

But she would never be headmistress. He doubted that any Gryffindor would as long as Voldemort ruled. Which left himself as the next best candidate. And he didn’t think he would do that bad of a job either. He might not have Minerva’s experience, but he shared her love for the school. To a certain extent, that extended to the students as well. Empty-headed imbeciles though they were.

Potter might just present the opportunities he needed to topple Bellatrix from her pedestal and place himself in the forefront of Voldemort’s positive regard. He already had a leg up on her with their Master’s newest orders to gather information on Potter. No one knew more about Harry Potter in the wizarding world than himself. He was there when the boy was taken from his relatives’ home, he had all his muggle records, he has his magical aptitude results, and was there when he received his wand. Add to that his goddaughter was apparently his best friend, and there was no way Bellatrix could gather more intel than him.

On the off chance that Potter should gather Voldemort’s favor ( a very slim possibility, but his Master was often as unpredictable as the Hogwart’s staircases), then a bit of placating on his part would put him in Potter’s. After all, the only real point of contention between them was that silly sketchbook.

Returning it should settle things between them rather nicely.

Severus smirked, pulling said sketchbook from the bookshelf as he made his way to his private laboratory. He opened it at random and found himself looking at James leaning over a potter’s wheel. Potter the potter. How deliciously absurd. He flipped it to another page, this time featuring an infant Harry sleeping in his mother’s arms as she dozed in her rocking chair.

It was filled with drawings, mostly incomplete sketches, but they outlined his life as easily a diary would have. Harry loved his parents. Harry liked football (not American football, but football), animals, and art. There weren’t many pictures of other people, and no one aside from the Potters ever appeared more than once, suggesting he didn’t have friends. Either the boy was very shy or his parents were over protective… which means he might be shy as a result. A weakness he could so easily exploit to gain his confidence or tear him down.

There were a lot of possibilities here. He was likely getting ahead of himself. He needed some trusted advice on how to proceed. Summoning a quill and parchment, he sat down at his work station and started to compose a letter.

“You appear to have all your parts,” said Clyde, surveying Harry critically. “But I don’t think I would be able to tell if you were missing your spleen.”

“What?”

“Oh, Harry, are you alright?” Hermione asked.

“He looks pretty good to me,” said Fred. “In fact, he looks bloody brilliant.”

“We do have to applaud you, old chap. Fred and I haven’t had this much fun since a Hufflepuff exploded the potion’s classroom.”

“For goodness’ sake, you both are incorrigible!” she sniffed.

Harry stared at the four other Gryffindors, and smiled tiredly.

“I’m fine. I kept well out of Nagini’s reach. What happened after I left? Was anyone hurt?”

They all settled into some comfortable armchairs in front of the fireplace and explained all that had happened. There had been some accidents, nothing more serious than a bump on the head, when everyone panicked and tried to leave the hall at once. After Harry led the snake away though, Voldemort and the teachers were quick to take the situation in hand. Injured students were escorted to the hospital wing for the night, and prefects escorted their own houses to their common rooms. Most of the House had waited up for a while to see if Harry turned up, but eventually went to bed.

Harry told them all about his first encounter with Nagini, about the second chase through the halls and into the secret corridors, his run in with Sir Nicholas, and visit to the headmistress’ office. He didn’t tell them about being a parselmouth or about Voldemort’s pardon, but said after he explained things he had been let off with a scolding. Gryffindor, amazingly, hadn’t lost a single point through the entire fiasco.

Everyone was quite entertained, except for Hermione who kept exclaiming ‘you could have been killed!’. They all suffered a very long lecture on ‘foolish risk-taking’ until even she was yawning. Finally, they all made their way to their dormitories for sleep.

It was dark as Clyde and Harry entered their bedroom, and all the other boys were fast asleep. Clyde collapsed in the nearest empty bed, and Harry did likewise in the single one remaining.

What a way to start an education, he thought to himself. Despite all that had happened that night, he couldn’t help but smile a bit. Aside from the embarrassing himself in the Great Hall and the consequent cursing immediately after, it had been rather magnificent day. His best friend and he turned out to be in the same house, made friends with the Weasley twins, met his first ghost, discovered a secret passageway (if he could only find it again!), outsmarted a giant cobra, and turned out to be a parselmouth!

Although whether being a parselmouth was a good thing or not was still up for debate. One day he might tell Hermione, and he was sure she could ramble off a list of good and bad things associated with that gift.

In the meantime, he just wanted to sleep.

Harry woke up late the next morning to a burning sensation on his hip. He bolted out of bed and pulled out his charmed pocket watch. He was already late for breakfast. All the other beds were empty, including Clyde’s and he wondered why no one had bothered to wake him. Tiredly, he set about changing out of his sleep rumpled clothes, cleaned himself up, gathered his supplies for the day, and marched down to the Great Hall.

He yawned the entire way, feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all the night before. His dreams had been restless, filled with secret corridors and snakes.

The Great Hall was full as he entered, but there was a distinct lessening of chatter as he walked through the door and a great deal of staring. He hesitated for a moment, then strode purposefully towards his table, forcing himself to keep his head high. But even his house’s table wasn’t very welcoming. Although already crowded, the few spaces left miraculously found themselves taken up when ever he drew near. Frustrated and a little hurt, he searched for some possible opening.

“Wot’cher there, Harry!” someone said. Harry turned to see the Weasley twins on either side of him. They quickly grabbed him by the arms and led him a section of the table particularly crowded with first years. Completely disregarding everyone else sitting, they made a bit of mayhem shoving everyone aside to make space for all three of them. Not a few students fell clean off their benches. Harry would have felt bad for them if they hadn’t been able to so easily find new seats where he himself hadn’t.

Harry found himself sitting across from Hermione and Clyde. Hermione had her nose buried in a book and hadn’t noticed a thing (which Harry was glad for, as he didn’t want her pity or for the twins to be lectured). Clyde was just about to fall asleep in his eggs.

“It’s about time you got up,” Hermione said, barely glancing up.

“Well, if someone had bothered to wake me…” he muttered, then gave Hermione a smile. “The watch works by the way. Although you might have gone a bit overboard on the heating charm.”

“It’s suppose to give you an incentive not to be late.”

She didn’t look up when she said it, but her wicked smile was a little hard to miss. Clyde’s head finally slipped off his hand and landed in his eggs. They all had a good laugh at him, and Hermione gave him a strong cup of tea. Then she got out their schedules (all schedules were the same for first years in the same house), and gave them an outline of what their week would be like.

The twins quickly got involved, and started telling them about the teachers and each of their little quirks and who assigned the most homework and who was the most generous with points and whose detentions were the worst. How much of their information was reliable, Harry didn’t know. While he could easily see McGonagall handing out the most homework, he couldn’t see Snape handing out the most points (especially when the twins gave each other a rather curious look when they said it).

Hermione eventually dragged them off to History of Magic, Clyde’s face flecked with eggs. Professor Toure was their teacher, and Harry got the impression she was a bit of a fanatic. She had a strange philosophy regarding the necessity of dark wizards and war and violence for the progress of wizarding culture. Anyone caught criticizing Grindlewald or Morgana got a week sitting in the corner. Anyone caught criticizing Voldemort got the corner, a week’s worth of detention, and had to write a letter to the man apologizing for whatever they said (this was probably the most effective deterrent). She seemed to pay extra close attention to Harry, who made it a point to say nothing through her entire class lest he let something slip.

“I sort of wish they had kept the previous professor. Professor Toure is competent and all, but I think it would have been interesting to have been taught by a ghost!” Hermione said on the way to Charms.

Professor Flitwick taught Charms and had the greatest sense of humor of all their professors. He regaled the first years by levitating all sorts of things across the room, sometimes bouncing off people’s heads as they went. This was the first class where wand-work was required, and the first time Harry had the opportunity to touch his wand since he bought it. Removing it from its case, he felt an instant surge of power. Clyde, who had been dozing next to him, started and turned to him as if he’d been poked.

They were asked to levitate a feather as an exercise. Hermione and a Hufflepuff boy were the only ones to really succeed. Dean Thomas, another Gryffindor, set his on fire. Clyde split his feather in two (not even Professor Flitwick could figure out how). Harry came close, causing his feather to skim the top of his desk but never take flight.

Next was Dark Arts and Defense, taught by Professor Quirrel. Everyone who had been looking forward to it, Harry in particular, was soon disappointed. While Quirrel seemed to know his material, the man was prone to stopping in the middle of what he was saying to sigh in the most depressing way. Clyde was caught sleeping in the middle of an explanation of the difference between hereditary curses and bloodline curses, and the only thing the other man did was look at him longingly, sigh, and continue with his lecture.

By the time lunch rolled around, Clyde finally woke up enough to ask what he had missed. Hermione proceeded to lecture him on the missed material, adding a great deal more information than was actually talked about, and scaring the poor boy rigid. She was just getting past the class material and getting into lecture mode over his irresponsibility when she spotted Draco waiting for her at the entryway to the Great Hall.

“Oh, I better got talk to him now,” she said. “I don’t want to have this conversation right in the middle of potion’s class.”

“Good luck,” said Harry. “Don’t let him make you feel bad about ending up in Gryffindor, either.”

She smiled weakly and left.

“Think he’ll eat her?” asked Clyde.

Harry shrugged and went to find a seat. This time no one attempted to crowd him out, although no one spoke to him either. The Weasley twins hadn’t arrived yet, and they both took the moment of peace to eat without fear of poisoning.

“Well, Potter, I’m surprised to see you here. I thought You-Know-Who would cursed you brain dead. Of course, no one would be able to tell the difference really.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder at Ron Weasley, sneering at him. He took a long measuring look, found the spiteful boy to not be worth risking house points over, and turned back to his soup.

“What’s the matter, Potter? No witty come back? I guess your brain really did turn to mush.”

Clyde was reaching for his wand, but Harry looked at him and shook his head.

“Don’t bother,” Harry said. “It’s not like his opinion matters.”

“What did you say, idiot?” snarled the boy.

“Harry, he’s drawn his wand.”

He didn’t even bother turning to the redhead. He didn’t even stop eating. Clyde was looking increasingly frantic. He kept reaching for his wand, but hesitated when he saw his friend’s complete nonchalance. By now, much of Gryffindor table were turning to watch. Harry took a sip of his pumpkin juice.

“Put your wand away!” came a new voice, hissing angrily. “Do you want to lose Slytherin points on your very first day?”

“But he-”

“Is obviously above your juvenile behavior,” Hermione said imperiously. Harry looked over his shoulder this time to see Draco holding Ron’s wand hand down and Hermione hovering just behind them, looking furious.

“Who asked you, you filthy- ow!”

“For your sake, you better not finish that sentence,” Draco snarled, his hand now crushing the redhead’s wrist. “Now come on. I think you and I should have a discussion about the difference between Slytherin and Gryffindor conduct. Because right now, Potter is being more Slytherin than you.”

At this the youngest Weasley brother turned pink around his freckles. Reluctantly, he put his wand away and settled for shooting Harry (who had already turned away) a venomous look.

“We’ll settle this later,” he said, and stormed off towards his own house’ table. Harry waved goodbye without looking. He could just imagine the redhead turning purple like his uncle used to. Draco let out an exasperated sigh.

“Are you going to join us?”

“No,” said Hermione. “I prefer more civilized company. Thank you.”

“Suite yourself. After classes?”

“You’re welcome to join me in the library.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Good luck, Draco.”

A moment later Hermione settled in beside Harry.

“You handled that really well,” she complimented. “I don’t think I could have ignored someone pointing a wand at my back.”

“What was he going to do? I doubt he knows many, if any more curses than I do. And definitely not something that would hurt me. A Finite Incantatem later and I would be fine, he’d have detention at the least and have lost his house points.”

“Bloody hell, Malfoy was right, you are more Slytherin than Ron.”

Harry frowned darkly at Clyde, but inside he was more than a little uncomfortable with the comparison. He was Gryffindor. The hat had put him in Gryffindor. So what if it had suggested Voldemort’s house first?

Transfiguration turned out to be as difficult as Harry thought it would be. While the transfiguration of a desk into a pig was pretty funny, it was followed by copious amounts of note taking, and then a practice exercise. They were trying to turn matches into needles. Several matches simply caught fire. Harry’s sprouted a silver leaf. Hermione came closest by making it silvery and pointy at the end.

Lunch and then Potions with Slytherins immediately afterwards. It was… interesting. Apparently, the Weasley twins hadn’t lied. Snape really did hand out the most points… to his own house. He kept giving simple questions to his house and then impossible questions to Gryffindor (although Hermione managed to get hers right) and then railed at their stupidity. Harry wasn’t sure if he was angry with the bias or amused by the ridiculously immature behavior. At least the man ignored him- much to Ron’s disappointment. It wasn’t until class was dismissed for the day that the man finally graced him with his unpleasant attention.

“Potter, stay behind.”

Clyde gave him a sorrowful wave goodbye and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“He’s talking to the teacher, not the grim reaper! We’ll be in the library, Harry! Come join us when your done.”

He said nothing, his attention on Snape. He hoped the man would reveal some sort of clue as to why he had been held, but his expression was completely passive as he looked over his lesson plans. Soon, they were alone, but neither said anything. When Snape looked him straight at him, Harry avoided his eyes. Snape smirked.

“I see you’re not hopeless, Potter. You’re obviously capable of learning from past experiences. Did my goddaughter inform you I was a legilimens?”

“No. But she said Voldemort was. He did it to me last night, and it felt sort of like what you did at the Dursley’s.”

Snape smirked. “Your memory is really rather remarkable. I bet you can still remember their first names as well. What they looked like, the sound of their voices, their habits, their many and varied abuses. Most children who spend longer than a week at WYRA can’t recall anything more than a few vague impressions.”

“Er…well… I don’t either, it’s just… you left something of an impression.”

“You flatter me… or you lie horribly. Can you guess which one I’m leaning more towards?”

“…”

“Now, Potter, I have the authority to send you back to WYRA until your past is appropriately meaningless. However, since I do not wish to erase the knowledge you have gained from your summer lessons or upset my goddaughter I am willing to overlook this little anomaly in exchange for your cooperation… and honesty.”

Emerald eyes flashed, coming dangerously direct with ebony.

“What do you want?”

The Gathering of Serpents

“Let’s move somewhere a little more private, shall we?”

Snape rose from his chair and made his way to a door that none of the other students were allowed to enter. Hermione had told him that it was her godfather’s private laboratory, and filled with all his experiments.

“Are you coming, Potter?”

“… No way. You could be a child molester.”

The look on the man’s face was decidedly unamused. In fact, he looked downright livid at the suggestion.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for insulting a professor. Potter, I would thank you not to have such torrid thoughts about my character.”

“That’s not fair! How could I possible trust you? Your blackmailing me! And so what if you’re not going to molest me? You could do anything else you wanted, like cut me open and drain my blood for your potion experiments.”

“You have a rather sick imagination, you know that?”

“This is kind of a sick world.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Harry said nothing, shuffling his feet and looking off at nothing. Snape made an irritated sound.

“You realize that teachers take an Unbreakable Vow not to intentionally harm their students upon accepting a Hogwart’s position?”

It was the first Harry had heard of it, but it did sound like the sort of thing the school would require. He merely shook his head.

“Well, they do. Now will you come or do you wish to further insult me and risk twenty more house points?”

“Why do we need to do this privately anyway,” Harry muttered, reluctantly following the man into his personal domain. The lab was even larger than the classroom, and several intricate pieces of equipment were set here and there. There were rows of locked cabinets. No doubt they stored the man’s many rare and expensive potions ingredients. It all made Harry feel very out of place. The doors slammed shut, making him jump.

“Because this is in regards to the events of last night. I believe since my goddaughter isn’t shooting a hundred questions at you a minute regarding your recently discovered talent and Draco isn’t pursuing your friendship like the politician he is, you have kept it to yourself? Look me in the eye when you answer.”

Moving to the other side of a work table, Harry finally looked straight at him. In the dark gloom of the laboratory, his black eyes looked unnatural and eerie.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“Why have you not told them? It is a rare and precious gift. Anyone would be honored to have it.”

Harry snorted. “Anyone who doesn’t mind being compared with Voldemort, you mean.”

“That’s Lord Voldemort, and I suggest you not forget it. Are you suggesting being compared with the most powerful wizard in Britain is somehow a bad thing? Please help me here, Gryffindor logic escapes me.”

“Exactly. You’re a Slytherin. Voldemort’s a Slytherin. I’m a Gryffindor. I don’t want to spend my life with everyone saying I should have been put in Slytherin. I’m not in Slytherin. I’m never going to be in Slytherin. I don’t want to be in Slytherin. I am where I’m suppose to be, and no one has the right to suggest otherwise. Would you want people saying you should have been in Ravenclaw because you’re smart with potions?”

Snape seemed to consider that. While it irked him that the boy should be so completely ungrateful for his gift, he couldn’t argue that the resulting attention might not be all positive. But that was not all Potter was thinking when he decided to keep his talent to himself. No, there was a definite sense of insecurity and self-loathing at the thought of being compared to Voldemort, if not Slytherins in general.

So the boy didn’t like Voldemort. He certainly wouldn’t be the first, but if his Master wished to use the boy in the future that information could prove invaluable. If Potter ever learned exactly what his parent’s role in the war was before they fled Britain, that might further complicate matters.

“You do have a point, but you can not hope to keep this secret long. You seemed to have no control over when you speak parselmouth, and I dare say the school is riddled with snakes. Magical statues, care of magical creature’s class, personal pets, and a very wild forest not a stones throw from the castle… it will only take one encounter. One slip of the tongue…”

“But until then…” Harry said, shrugging.

“Yes, until then you get to play the good little Gryffindor. You may go.”

Harry quickly made his way to the door.

“But be prepared for additional questions later,” Snape said, smirking. “My Master and I will likely have more.”

A shiver ran up his spine as he walked away, his thoughts now clutching at dreadful images of Snape and Voldemort snickering over their afternoon tea while they discussed his downfall. His stomach lurched, and he rushed into the nearest bathroom. It was, unfortunately, the girl’s lavatory. He didn’t mind so much with his head half way in the toilet, but once his stomach was empty he was glad it appeared to be empty.

“I’m starting to hate my life,” he mumbled to himself.

“Welcome to the club.”

He let out a startled cry and stumbled out of the stall until he smack into one of the sinks. Floating above the stalls was a ghost of a rather geeky looking girl, her arms crossed as she looked imperiously down at him.

“You know this is the girl’s bathroom.”

“Er… yes, well… It was kind of an emergency.”

“Of courseit was. No one ever comes in to my bathroom unless they absolutely have to. No one wants to be bothered by plain, moping, Moaning Myrtle.”

Seeing the ghost looked as if she were about to cry, he rushed to come up with words to placate her.

“Well-well, I don’t usually make it a habit to visit girls’ bathrooms, b-but I’m glad I did this time. I haven’t met very many interesting ghosts, you know.”

Immediately, her watery eyes seemed to dry and she threw him a rather odd looking smile. Much to Harry’s horror, he realized she was trying to be coy.

“You think I’m interesting?”

“Er… oh, yeah, definitely. I mean, the only ghost I’ve met is Sir Nicholas. I’ve seen a few other ghosts from afar, but they’re all… you know… old.”

She let out a mousey little giggle.

“It’s true… I’m the youngest, newest ghost in Hogwarts. Myrtle Tetherwood. Eleven years old, died 1948 in this very bathroom. And you are?”

“Harry Potter, at your service.”

“Hee hee, nice to meet you. What brings you to my little purgatory? I hope you aren’t seriously sick, but if something should happen you are welcome to share my toilet.”

“Er… that’s very…um, generous of you, but I’m not that sick. I just had a little chat with Snape is all.”

“Oh him. Well, I guess that explains it. Every so often I get girls coming in here crying about ‘that greasy, wretched man’. As if they know the meaning of wretched. If they had to put up with half of what I had to with Emily Hornby, then they wouldn’t be such babies! I mean she the reason I died after all. But I got her back! I made sure her Hogwart years were the most miserable seven years of her life. Hee hee hee…”

“Er… that’s…um… Good for you. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you die? Did Emily Hornby kill you?”

“Oh, no. I could beat her down in a real fight,” she said. Harry frankly didn’t think she looked like she could fight off a determined toddler. “No, I ran to the bathroom after she made fun of my glasses. When I finally stepped out I ran into a set of big yellow eyes, and then… I died.”

He couldn’t help but gape. There were things in the school that could kill you like that? Actually, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t that odd. Voldemort was said to have office in one of the towers after all.

“Oh, that’s awful.”

“Isn’t it? Hee hee. You better clean yourself up and go. Snape patrols the corridors for stray students after he finishes grading papers. He likes to give Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs detentions for lolly-gagging.”

Taking her advice, he went to the set of sinks to wash out his mouth and cleanse his hands. He was curious to note that one of the sinks had a faucet designed to look like a snake. Remembering what Snape had said about magic statues, Harry whispered a little hello to it while Myrtle was busy rambling on about how awfulit was being dead. To his amusement, the faucet hissed back:

“Could you please shut her up? Hee hee?”

Saturday afternoon found Professor Snape climbing the stairs to the far Eastern tower. The first week of term, always one of the most stressful, had long worn away at his nerves. There would be so many detentions this week the Sleuw’s wouldn’t have to lifted a finger until the Monday after next.

He paused at one of the tower windows, looking out across the grounds to see a few of those students who had escaped punishment. Draco and Hermione were headed towards the lake, hand in hand. Following a ways behind was Potter. He was carrying a large basket with the help of one his new Slytherin girls, Natalie Cypher. Bringing up the rear was Clyde Houghton, sandwiched uncomfortable between Crabbe and Goyle, and Ron Weasley with a blanket under his arm trailing behind.

Gryffindors and Slytherins out having a picnic together. If violence didn’t break out, then Hogwarts would have one more miracle added to a long list of them. Shaking his head, Snape climbed the rest of the way up the tower until he came to a blank wall.

“Verdania,” he said, tapping on of the stones. Nothing seemed to happen, but he moved forward anyway, passing through the wall with all the ease of a ghost.

“Cutting it close, aren’t you, Professor?” Bellatrix chided, lounging comfortably on a chaise. Pettigew had pinioned himself almost out of view between a set of bookcases and tried to pretend he was invisible.

Their master sat behind a magnificent mahogany desk, scanning files while a quill hovered off to the side, making notes on the man’s unspoken thoughts. He looked very much at ease in the school tower, and Snape couldn’t help but think for the thousandth time that perhaps Voldemort had chosen Lestrange as headmistress because he knew he’d end up running the school anyway.

“The dungeons are a bit further away than your office, Headmistress,” he said dismissively, taking a seat in one of the reading chairs. “Besides, I saw something interesting on the way here that I thought relevant to our meeting.”

Voldemort looked up from his papers, to show the man he had his attention.

“Potter is out on by the lake having a picnic…”

Bellatrix lest out a rude snort.

“…with some Slytherins.”

Now the woman looked stunned. She stood from her seat and stalked over to a telescope by the open window. She looked through it silently for a long time.

“Is that Draco?” she asked finally.

“Yes, and your niece Hermione Granger. She is Potter’s best friend since they met in summer lessons. They’re quite close I hear, and since Hermione is inseparable from Draco…”

“Interesting,” said Voldemort, and the quill beside him was suddenly writing very quickly. “So he has not been taken in by Gryffindor’s anti-Syltherin sentiment?”

“I don’t think Potter realizes he’s suppose to dislike Slytherins,” Pettigrew spoke, able to control his stutter with Nagini gone and Voldemort currently in a pleasant mood. “No one dares say anything bad about Slytherins in front of Granger, and even fewer talk to Potter… if he knows, he doesn’t care.”

“He’s more interested with keeping peace with my goddaughter than proving he’s another Gryffindor neophyte,” Snape concluded.

“Draco encourages this?” Bellatrix asked, sounding disappointed.

“Draco is like Potter, he’s only interested in keeping Hermione happy. He’s already a Slytherin prince, he doesn’t feel the need to prove it to anyone. He keeps the other first years in line and off both Gryffindor’s backs. Whether they will become friends or not is anyone’s guess. Again it probably depends on Hermione.”

“When did that little mudblood become such a player?” she grumbled, stalking back to her spot on the chaise. Snape turned an icy glare at her.

“Your niece is not a player. Potter and her have a genuine friendship, and Draco and her have always been close. You, ’Cissa, and Lucius were the same way.”

Bellatrix sneered at him, but said nothing more. Voldemort looked amused with them both.

“I want you to talk with Draco, Severus,” he said, “Encourage him to get along with Potter. Keeping an eye on him will be easier if he has friends in Slytherin.”

“I will, my Lord.”

“Now, all of you, tell me what you have gathered on the boy.”

Pettigrew went first, as he had the least to say. He confirmed mostly what they already knew. Potter’s best friend was Granger. His second closest friend was Clyde Houghton. He was on the outs with most of his house because of the negative attention he’d brought to Gryffindor during the welcoming feast, but that was starting to die down. There were a few tidbits about his habits- the boy was almost miserly with his school supplies (although he spared up enough scrap paper to doodle rather unflattering pictures of Snape and Ronald Weasley), was usually quiet and reserved, and was the object of some affection for the Weasley twins (he suspected Fred had a thing for the younger boy). Nothing fantastical had happened in the first week, and any anti-Voldemort sentiments never went beyond vague grumblings. Once Pettigrew was done, he was allowed to leave, but with a newly assigned task and small bundle under his arm.

Bellatrix went next. Her information was limited to official documents, most of it involving Potter’s life before he moved to England. He attended a German muggle primary school in Cologne, and received fair marks. He was not part of any teams, but there were several awards for art, including first place for a city wide competition. The Potters had settled as artists in a small studio apartment, and did fairly well for themselves. James Potter dealt mostly with clay sculpture and dabbled in glass and metalwork. Lily Potter was interested mostly in watercolors. There was no evidence of magic being used or even talked about in their house, although without access to German Wizarding records there was no way to be certain. There was nothing to suggest that Harry knew his parents were anything other than eccentric muggles. They were shot to death in their studio by a robber, who overdosed on heroine before he was ever caught. Their work had been auctioned off, and placed in their son’s trust fund. It was all muggle money, but it put Harry in fairly good standing.

Or would have if the relatives he was living with hadn’t been bleeding it out as fast as they could. Potter’s relatives were as muggle as they came. His aunt was a housewife, his uncle sold drills, and his cousin was likely the biggest, stupidest boy in the county. There was no sign of a British education, although WYRA reports said he was fluent in English and competent in math and science.

“He was either home schooled, self-taught, or years ahead before he came to England. Despite his parents withholding his wizarding heritage, he did well in Timbal’s summer lessons. He’ll be no more handicapped than the other muggleborns, perhaps less with my niece lecturing in his ear twenty-four-seven.”

“And how does Mr. Potter feel regarding his parent’s death?Is he angry? Depressed? Does he still grieve?” Voldemort asked, schemes and manipulations flying across the parchment beside him.

“I don’t know. There’s no psychological records. He never went to a councilor, WYRA never reported any behavioral abnormalities, and he seems well adjusted.”

“But one can’t forget coming home to find their parents with their brains splattered across the living room,” Snape said, his finger following the lip of his tea cup.

“What? Where did you find that information. It’s not in the reports.”

“I don’t put much faith in second hand information,” he said, looking up her with a rather wicked expression. “Neither should you. Your records are woefully incomplete and misleading.”

“Really, Severus?” asked the Dark Lord, looking intrigued and amused at once. “Why don’t you fill us in?”

Snape’s report was definitely more interesting. He had samples of Harry’s art work from WYRA, no masterpieces by any stretch of the imagination, but the talent was clearly there. He had his own first hand accounts of the boy’s relatives, his living conditions, the extent of his first outburst of accidental magic, his magical aptitude test, the presentation of his wand, glimpses and impressions from their brief connection through occlumency, and a myriad of other pieces of information with the promise of more to come.

“He may not be anti-Slytherin, but he holds no love for you, my Lord. He still retains his memories of his parents and his former life, and though he doesn’t object to being removed from the Dursely’s, he does seem to resent your policy of removing muggleborns from their families. He has a rather naive belief that muggles should be given a chance to care for their wizarding children.”

“Do you think removing these memories would help endear him to me?”

Snape thought for a moment, and was surprised at how quickly the answer came to him.

“No. He’s a Gryffindor. If he believes you or anyone has acted against him in such a manner, he’ll mark you as an enemy for the rest of his life. It’s better to work around his stigma, unsettle the foundations of his grudge. Show him a kindness and he will loath himself for having thought you incapable of it.”

“More flies with honey, is it? And how precisely would I show this… kindness?”

“As an opportunity presents itself. Doing it now would only make him wary.”

“So sit and wait. You know I am not a patient man, Severus.”

“He is not going anywhere, my Lord.”

Voldemort chuckled darkly. His grin was definitely predatory when he looked back at his servants. Lestrange had come up short. No surprise really. Her position allowed her access to many records, but limited her exposure to the students themselves. Severus, on the other hand, had exceeded his expectations. His duties as both a Hogwarts teacher and a WYRA official had placed him in a very convenient position to gather intelligence on his target. That the man was on good terms with some of Potter’s closest associates was just icing on the cake.

Plans were starting to take shape in his mind, possibilities unraveling. The quill beside him went about like maddened humming bird, flicking spots of green ink as it went. He could imagine his enemies rolling in their graves as Harry fell into his grasp, molded into something dark and beautiful and owned.

“You have done well, both of you,” he said, mostly to ease the headmistress’ obvious resentment at having been so clearly outdone. “But as Severus is in the best position to watch Potter, I will charge him with keeping me informed of his activities. I’ll expect a report at least once every two weeks. You may both go.”

Severus hesitated a moment, and Voldemort gestured for him to speak his mind.

“Potter doesn’t know about his parents yet, but it’s only a matter of time before someone lets the truth slip despite the Taboo on their names. How do you wish to handle the matter when it arises?”

Voldemort thought for a moment.

“I will trust your judgement and cunning in this matter, Severus. Handle it in a matter that curve in rebellious actions on his part,” he said, then paused as another thought came to him. “Restrict access to his family vault. The financial hold Hogwarts has over him may prove useful in the future. You have my permission to use whatever means you deem necessary.”

Severus bowed in acknowledgment. The two servants exited the room together..

On the stairs, Bellatrix whirled around to snarl at the other man.

“Who do you think you are, showing me up like that? Know your place.”

Severus merely smirked.

“My place, dear Bella, has always been by our master’s side, serving him in every capacity I can… Even those that you can not.”

She hissed at him like a savage cat, whirling around to stalk down the stairs. He watched her go, pondering his own foolishness for provoking her. She was still the headmistress after all and in a position to make his life… difficult. He gave a mental shrug. Oh well. Even potion masters needed to find a little fun where they could.

Sorry, not a lot happened in this chapter. More happens next chapter and I hoped to have it posted earlier next week.

The Prince’s Choice of Steed

The week past as a flurry of exciting new experiences and unrealized fears.

His first experiences with spell casting had been discouraging, but he soon got over it when it became apparent that he was still doing better than a lot of his classmates, even the Pure Blooded ones. Professor Flitwick had even commented that he seemed to have a rather high magic level (this after he tried to charm a tea cup to keep tea warm and melted the cup).

Homework was an unpleasant necessity, but it usually went quickly with Hermione’s guidance. They spent their afternoons just after class in the library with Draco and his three little goons (who remained blessedly quiet- even if Ron gave everyone dirty looks), Natalie, and Clyde. If they got done early enough they’d find an empty classroom and work in secret on spell casting- mostly charms and transfigurations. There the boys let their competitive sides come out, and levitation practice quickly turned into a game of keep away of Crabbe’s quill.

Harry wasn’t sure still if he liked Hermione’s brother. He always seemed to be testing Harry to see if he was good enough to hang out with. Draco’s friends, with the exception of Natalie, were a bit dim in his opinion as well. The blond only seemed to tolerate them for his own benefit. But occasionally, Draco would do or say something clever or playful or daring, and he could see what Hermione admired in him.

It wasn’t as if he had a lot of alternatives in friends either. While Gryffindor’s hostility had definitely mellowed through the week, his association with Slytherin seemed to ruffle a few feathers. Hermione had an excuse, since Draco was her brother, but Clyde and he were seen as conspiring with the enemy it seemed. No one was blatantly rude about it (yet) but no one seemed inclined to invite either boys in some house activities. That some of these people were friends with Clyde during summer lessons, seemed to really hurt the boy but he said nothing about it.

Fred and George Weasley had tried and failed to get Harry to accompany them on some pranking excursions. They seemed to think he’d derive some satisfaction from turning people’s hair green for their less than fair treatment of him. Harry didn’t give a damn. As far as he was concerned he had at least two good friends who stood by him and enough to do to occupy his time.

Although, the offer to help hex Snape was tempting.

Aside from the absurd deduction of points from Snape (he had to do two extra credit assignments and stay after in Charms to help clean up the piles of charmed feathers floating about to earn back said points), Snape had returned to ignoring him in class and had asked no more questions. But every so often he’d get this strange feeling the man was watching him.

Things had started to settle into a routine, until the following Thursday when Clyde woke him up ridiculously early by stampeding around the room.

“Clyde, what are you doing?” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Oh, sorry, Harry,” the other boy said, but continued to run around in circles. “I’ve lost my other sock.”

“Then wear a different pair,” he suggested, and tried to lay back down for another hour’s worth of sleep.

“No, I’ve lost my lucky pair of socks. I’m going to need then today.”

“Hm? Why?” he asked, without opening his eyes.

“Harry, don’t you remember? It’s Thursday. Flying lessons!”

Now that woke him up. How could he have forgotten? It had been the only thing the first years had been able to talk about since they were announced on Monday.

Not that he wasn’t excited either, of course.

The only one who didn’t seem to be looking forward to it all was Hermione. From the manner Draco smirked and Hermione blushed when the topic was brought up, he rather thought Hermione must have finally found a subject she couldn’t learn from a book.

Reluctantly, Harry got out of bed and prepared for the day. He found Clyde’s sock under his bed, where Bilgerat (as he was dubbed by Clyde) had dragged it to insulate his rat nest. The rodent had popped up shortly after the first day of classes, and seemed quite intent one keeping close to his rescuer. Harry wasn’t certain if he was flattered or irritated.

“Hey, what’s that?”

Harry turned to see what had Clyde’s attention. Sitting on Harry’s trunk was a small leather bound book. He couldn’t recall ever seeing it before, and it certainly hadn’t been there the night before.

“I don’t know. Someone must have forgotten it or put it there thinking it was mine.”

Vaguely curious, he picked up the book. There was no title on the cover, and when he opened it to the cover page, it read “Diary of-”. Where a name should have been was a water damaged smear of red ink. He could just make out an ‘o’ and an ‘R’, but the rest was illegible.

“Ooohhh! Let’s take a peek,” Clyde said, reaching for the book. Harry immediately moved it out of his friend’s reach.

“No. It’s someone’s private thoughts. If it were me, I would kill anyone who made fun at them.”

“If it such a big deal, then he shouldn’t have left it out where anyone could find it.”

“No.”

Clyde pouted and glared and whined, and Harry thoroughly ignored him. As the other boys rose misty eyed from their beds, he asked if any of them owned a journal. No one fessed up to it, and seemed rather irritated with him for thinking they’d have something so ‘girly’. Mystified and now suspecting someone was playing a prank on him, Harry resolved to give the journal to McGonagall. There was probably some sort of spell she knew that would reveal the owner and if anyone had tried to prank him then they would soon regret it.

He stuck the book in his pocket and headed down with Clyde to breakfast. Hermione was also up early, her nose buried in ‘Quidditch Through the Ages’, trying to find any tips she could. Just watching her stress gave Harry a headache. The constant, nervous babble about brooms and Quidditch and magical travel she poured out didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, his headache only grew worse as classes began, and he began to wonder if he hadn’t caught a cold. When it was finally time for flying lessons, Harry emptied his pockets and set them on his bag so they wouldn’t be damaged in case he fell off a broom and then went to line up with the rest of the first year Gryffindors and Slytherins. With fresh air in his lungs and sun warm on his skin, Harry felt his headache recede a bit, but he still wanted to go and take a nap somewhere.

Professor Gimms regarded them all with piercing blue eyes, looking with a practiced gaze for the troublemakers and the slackers. In addition to being their flying couch and official referee for Hogwarts Quidditch matches, Gimms coordinated several clubs including a Riding Club (which usually involved a lot more than just horses) and Fencing club, and assisted Quirrell in some of his more ‘physical’ lessons. There were rumors running around the school that he had once been an Auror, and others that he had been a Death Eater. Harry thought about asking Hermione about him, but settling his curiosity wasn’t worth the rambling monologue she’d end up spewing at him.

“Now,” Professor Gimms began, “before we get started, let me set down some ground rules. Firstly, I don’t care how good of a flyer you think you are. You will not ride your broom any higher or faster than I allow, and you will certainly never ride your broom when I am not present. If you’re stupid enough to disobey me, then you will suffer the greatest degree of punishment I am able to legally inflict upon you… if you don’t break your stupid neck first.”

Harry wondered why all the teachers here were so grouchy. Only Flitwick seemed to have any sense of humor. They lived in an enchanted castle for goodness sake, not an orc fortress. While he was busy thinking these morose thoughts and ignoring his throbbing head, Gimms was rearranging the students. He suddenly found himself surrounded by Draco’s goons, the surliest of them being Ron who was directly to his right. The redhead gave him a mutinous look.

“Careful,” Harry said, sounding bored, “Your face might stick like that.”

If anything the look grew even angrier.

“Now, hold out your wand hand towards your broom- like so, and command your broom firmly and confidently. Up!” Immediately, the professor’s broom leapt into his hand. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Harry watched as the other students commanded their brooms. He was vaguely amused to see Hermione’s merely rolled over and seemed to fall asleep. Draco’s broom found his hand immediately, but his was about the only one that did. The rest of the brooms hobbled or bounced a bit, but didn’t rise. Harry, after seeing there was no way he could actually embarrass himself, held out his hand.

“Up,” he said evenly. The broom sprung immediately into his grasp. A strange sensation ran through him, very similar to the one he felt the day he received his wand. It was a sense of rightness. A spontaneous understanding that no ill could ever find him when it was in his hands.

“Impossible,” Ron muttered, “You cheated somehow. No way a filthy mudblood-”

“Could ever succeed where a pureblood failed?”

“Why you son of a-”

“Malfoy, Potter, well done,” called Gimms, looking suddenly in a much better mood. “Five points to Slytherin and Gryffindor each. The rest of you, don’t get discouraged. Confidence is key. If you don’t believe the broom will come to you, then it won’t. Continue practicing, and then I’ll show you all how to mount your brooms.”

While Harry waited for the others to catch up, he repeated the same exercise until he was quickly bored. Soon he began testing to see if he could make the broom rise part of the way or make it hover. Meanwhile, Ron grew increasingly red as his broom simply flopped about, until with a particularly frustrated ‘UP!’ his broom leapt up- and missed his hand altogether to conk him in the nose.

Harry pretended he hadn’t noticed, but it was hard to keep a straight face with everyone else snickering. Ron didn’t remain the center of their amusement for long. Just as everyone was starting to get the hand of summoning their brooms, the class was interrupted by a sixth year Ravenclaw in Quidditch robes running up to Professor Gimms.

“Sir! Someone’s bewitched the quidditch equipment! The snitch is smashing into people like a bludger and the quaffles are flying all over the place,” the boy exclaimed, looking very unsettled. “It’s those Weasley twins, I know it! Who else would pull such a ridiculous prank? And on school property no less!”

Harry felt his lips twitch into a smile, but quickly hid it when he saw Professor Grimms good mood vanish as quickly as it had come.

“You all remain where you are! Under no circumstances are you to attempt to fly. I will be back momentarily.”

With that, Professor Gimms disappeared with the Ravenclaw boy to the other side of the castle. No sooner than the man was out of sight, did Draco mount his broom and hover comfortably just above the ground. Hermione told him to get down, but the more she complain the higher he seemed to go until she decided to completely ignore him.

“What about you, Potter? You seem to have some talent with a broom. Care to come up and enjoy the view?”

If his head wasn’t throbbing and he were in a better mood, Harry would have been very tempted. Instead he favored Draco a bored glance and merely shrugged.

“I’ll wait.”

Draco gave a mocking pout, but quickly returned to hovering in slow circles around the other students, preening under their fascinated stares. Hermione grew considerably more huffy, but said nothing. Gradually, even Draco seemed to grow bored (or perhaps he was beginning to worry about Gimms catching him) and began to descend when something behind Harry and Hermione caught his attention. Harry followed the other boy’s gaze and found Ron standing next to his book bag, holding the mysterious journal.

“Hey! What are you doing in my bag?”

When the redhead looked towards him, he felt his insides squirm as he was stared at with such a twisted look of glee.

“You know,” Ron said, “this isn’t the sort of thing you should just leave lying around. You’re just begging to have someone read it.”

Harry began stalking towards Ron.

“It’s not mine. I’m turning it in to McGonagall. Now hand it over.”

“Why? If it’s not yours, then I’m sure you won’t mind me borrowing it. I promise I’ll hand it over to a teacher later. You know…like Snape.”

“Ron,” snapped Natalie, “Don’t be such a dick. Just give it back to him.”

“You had no right snooping in Harry’s bag! If we told a teacher, you’d really get it! Even your Head of House wouldn’t approve of you stealing!”

“Who asked you, you mudblood harpies?!”

“That’s it!” Harry snarled, rushing at the redhead who panicked and started to run away. “Come back here, you little weasel.”

Ron spun around, wand in hand. His broom still clutched in his hand, Harry swung it and knocked the wand from his hand and into the lake. Ron stumbled back, nearly falling over, and snatched up a broom. Despite his miserable performance thus far, the redhead managed to mount his broom and lift himself shakily into the air. He wobbled a bit and looked extremely uncomfortable without his feet on the ground, but still managed to keep his hold on the diary and sneer down mockingly at Harry.

But only for a moment.

Harry was on his broom and hovering right beside him, staring him dead even in the eye. The broom rested calmly under his grip, neither wobbling nor wavering. Harry took it all for granted, trusting his broom and his body to know how to keep him levitating. His opponent looked barely able to hold onto his broom and remain aloft at the same time. Yet their brooms continue to hover, and as Ron instinctively moved away from Harry they were soon almost fifty feet up and over the lake.

“Give me the book and apologize to Hermione and Natalie,” he said, “Or I’ll knock you off your broom and you can swim back to Hogwarts.”

“Harry, get down from there! It’s dangerous and the professor will catch you any minute! Hurry up or you’re going to get expelled,” Hermione pleaded.

Draco, who had been silently watching the conflict unravel, also spoke up.

“You heard her, Weasley. Fight it out if you want, but do it on the ground.”

Ron looked decidedly unsure. Harry thought him even dimmer than before. It should have been obvious that he couldn’t win this fight… at least not in the air. Ron finally seemed to come to that conclusion as well. He glowered at Harry.

“We’ll continue this later,” he snarled.

In a final act of vindictiveness, he hurled the diary in his hand as hard as he could out onto the lake. Harry watched it arch through the air and time seemed to slow. In his hands, his broom suddenly felt alive, and he could feel its will and desire like a physical sensation. And he was suddenly streaking past a startled Ron.

The diary began to fall and Harry instinctively angled the broom towards the water. He could see his own dark shadow grow as he reached the water’s surface, halloed in the glittering reflection of the sun. Her drew closer and closer, until he could see beyond his shadow to the strange shapes of plant life and giant fish (mermaids?) and then leveled out. He clung tight to his broom, tucking in his arms and legs to increase his control. So close the water’s surface he was, that if he had unwrapped his leg from the wood it would surely have hit the water and sent him crashing. But his leg didn’t drop down. Instead his arm reached out, and with perfect ease he snatched the falling diary right out of the air.

His goal achieved, he felt himself slow and carefully rose a little higher and made a slow turn back towards the shore. The sight that met him nearly made him loose hold of his broom. Professor Gimms stood stony faced with Ron’s ear twisted in his grip, but he had eyes only for Harry. He hovered for a long moment, uncertainty and the first inklings of fear seeping into his psyche. Finally, knowing that prolonging the inevitable wouldn’t make it any better, he steadily flew to eventually stand beside the professor.

“The both of you will return to your dormitories immediately, while I finish the rest of the lesson. I will have a word with both of your Heads of House to work out a thorough and suitable punishment for your stupidity,” Professor Gimms said, scowling darkly at both of them.

Both boys stared guiltily at the ground and said nothing. He released Ron, who immediately went to collect his things and disappeared into the castle. Harry shuffled passed, but not before the man snatched up the diary and gave his hearty slap upside the head with it.

“Dunderhead!”

The wait for Professor Gimms punishment was perhaps the second most nerve-wracking wait of his young life. The first had been his trip to the Headmistress’ office, but the longer the time dragged on the more intense his nervousness became. His imagination provided all sorts of cruel acts and bizarre punishments that might be inflicted on him.

Perhaps they would forbid him from flying ever again. Or lock him in the dungeons for a month. With the Nagini incident not even two weeks old, they might decide he was too much of a troublemaker and expel him.

These were the tamer punishments.

The more severe ones involved Voldemort and the cruciatus curse. Professor Snape and a cane or whip or a potion so vile it couldn’t be taught in school. And worse of all was the thought that they might snap his wand. He didn’t know if he’d be able to survive that.

To make matters worse, it would all be for nothing.

His irritation so great for the blasted journal had motivated him to opening it and discerning its owner so he could wail at him or even her. It was empty. Aside from the ruined cover page there wasn’t even a smidgen of ink or pencil anywhere inside it. One of the other boys probably got it as gift from a relative and decided they didn’t want it, tossing it on his trunk and refusing to claim it. He was so tempted to throw it in the fireplace.

However, he decided to hold onto it when he finally made his case to McGonagall. He doubt he’d get out of punishment, but proof that he hadn’t actually started the trouble might go a long way. He could just imagine Ron attempting to explain himself to Snape, and result was rather amusing in his own head. Of course, Snape wouldn’t deduct points like McGonagall might. Everyone new the man would sooner assign a detention than deduct a single point from his own House.

“Hey, Harry,” came a voice behind him, followed by a another very similar.

“We heard that you-”

Fred and George were suddenly sitting on either side of him.

“Our bright and shining hero-”

“Had a delightful adventure-”

“With our prat of a younger brother-”

“And are now awaiting your execution.”

Harry ignored them, in no mood to be teased. Instead of being dissuaded, they crowded in closer until they were practically snuggling with him.

“We heard you performed brilliantly on your broom. Like a professional instead of a first timer,” said Fred, putting his arm around Harry’s shoulder.

“Any thought to joining the quidditch team? Our last real Seeker left last year, and this year we had to put Angelina in that position. She’s normally a Chaser, but no one else is small enough for the position,” said George, putting his arm around Harry’s other shoulder.

“She’s alright, mind you, but we need some real talent this year if we’re going to finally beat Slytherin in the championship.”

Despite himself, Harry felt his curiosity rise.

“Does Slytherin win often then?”

The twins shared a rare disgruntled look.

“Try every year. At least since Voldemort took the school. He comes to almost all of the games where Slytherin play,” said Fred. “I think his presence intimidates the rival players into losing. Especially the Seekers.”

“And I suppose you want me to be a Seeker?”

“Well, you are the right build,” said George.

“And have good speed, or so I’ve heard,” continued Fred.

“Plus you must have had good eye and hand coordination to catch that book while flying that close to the water.”

“And of course, Voldemort already hates you, so… Hey, no loss there.”

“Oh thanks! Why don’t you just stamp ‘Please Cruciatus Me’ on my forehead?”

“And mar that beautiful soft skin of yours?”

“Never!”

With that, the twins really did snuggle up to Harry, pressing their freckled cheeks to his. Harry let out a frustrate sound and shoved them both off and away from him, snagged a pillow and smacked them both upside the head with it. His mistake was soon apparent when both twins shared a grin and took up their own fluffy weapons. The pillow fight that resulted soon grew beyond just the three and quickly involved anyone unfortunate enough inside or passing through the commons room.

When Professor McGonagall and Professor Gimms finally arrived to discuss Harry’s punishment, they were immediately coated in a fine cloud of feathers and a suddenly tense silence. Harry quickly tossed his half ruined pillow behind the sofa and hoped neither had noticed. Judging by the slight twitch in the corner of their Head of House’s eye, it seemed a futile hope.

“Weasleys, I want this room cleaned up and the pillows repaired by the time I return or you’ll be cleaning more than just feathers out of the owlry this weekend. Potter, follow us.”

Sheepishly, but considerably calmer than he had been, Harry jogged after the retreating professors. They said nothing to him, and thinking they might need time to reign in their anger, he did not disturb them. Instead of going to either McGonagall’s office or the headmistress’s like he had thought they would, they made their way instead outside the castle and towards the quidditch pitch.

It was lunch time and the grounds and pitch were almost empty. None of the first years or the Ravenclaw quidditch team remained. The only person present was a sixth year boy he recognized as a Gryffindor with large chest set beside him. He regarded Harry intently and (was it his imagination?) hopefully.

“So this is him?” the older boy said.

“Yes, this is Harry Potter,” replied McGonagall, “Professor Gimms believes he is just what you need.”

“Huh?” Harry said stupidly, now thoroughly confused. Was this other boy going to be in charge of his punishment somehow?

“Mister Potter,” the stern witch said, finally turning to regard him fully, “this is Oliver Wood. He’s going to help us perform a few tests involving your maneuvering skills on a broom. How well you perform will determine the shape of your punishment. I recommend you do your very best.”

“Huh?”

Professor Gimms took his hand and shoved a broom into it. “Don’t think about it. Just get on your broom. We’re going to release the snitch. The faster you catch it the less trouble you’ll be in. Understand?”

“No!”

“Go!” shouted Wood. The wooden trunk was now open and something shiny and golden flew out. Harry leapt onto his broom and was immediately after it. Again the feeling of rightness returned as his feet left the ground. Fears and anxieties were blown away in the cool autumn wind. His usual tumult of feelings were simplified into a singular sensation of freedom and his only thought lay in catching the Snitch.

It was much harder than his first flight across the lake. The lake had been open and flat and relatively safe. The journal had flown in an easily calculated trajectory. The quidditch pitch was a myriad of obstacles: the stands, the stadium walls, the goal posts. And the Snitch flew like a living thing, weaving about these obstacles, diving up and down, pausing, turning right back around, spirals, and loopty-loops and always at the speed of a hummingbird.

Twice he had brushed ever so lightly against the stadium walls as he pursued, and once just a foot above the ground. He followed the snitch between and around the goal posts, quickly learned the futility of it and tried short cuts and prediction of the golden ball’s path but failed more often than not. A surprising series of twists, turns, and whirls and snitch disappeared.

Frantically, his searched the pitch, but it could have been anywhere. Above, below, behind him, behind the stands or hovering momentarily in the shadow of a goal post, anywhere. He forced himself to remain still, searching for even the slightest glimmer. The time stretched

to a minute, then two, then three, and Harry felt anxiety return to him.

It was taking too much time. He wasn’t doing well at all. He was going to be punished more severely for wasting everyone’s time now. Perhaps they’d expel-

THERE!

He dropped like a rock- no, even faster than gravity would allow on its own, speeding straight down. His arm shot out, wrapping around something hard and round. But he was going too fast to stop his descent and the ground was coming on fast. He kicked the back of the broom so it angled directly up and willed it to rise. It was futile to think he could stop himself completely with so little time, but he tightened his grip and the handle and braced himself.

As the ground became a scant four feet and him still falling, he released his legs from the broom and landed heavily on his feet. He stumbled, but held his balance. Only now with his feet on the ground did he realize what he had just done. His first day of flying and he’d been zooming about like a lunatic. He was sweaty and breathing quickly, both his broom and the Snitch felt as if they would fly out of his weakening grip at any moment.

“Yes, yes, YES!” he heard Wood cry. “He’s perfect! We have to have him now.”

Harry turned around. The other Gryffindor was jumping up and down with excitement, practically dancing around their Head of House. She looked positively stunned, and her glasses had slipped clean off her nose. Gimms remained calm and composed, but the thin line of his mouth curved up just a little. McGonagall suddenly came back to herself.

She strode over to Harry and held out her hand. Uncertainly, he handed her the Snitch. She look at it closely, a smile of satisfaction reaching her lips. The smile remained as she looked down at her pupil.

“Congratulations, Mr. Potter. You are now Gryffindor’s new Seeker.”

“Huh?”

Harry is in quidditch again, Ron’s in trouble, the Weasley twins may or may not be gay, and a mysterious diary appears… well, mysteriously. I rather enjoyed this chapter.

Crowning of the Prince

Harry couldn’t help but wonder if the Weasley twins hadn’t known he was going to be drafted as their new Seeker. He had returned to Gryffindor tower (feather free no less)and found the twins still there, looking rather smugly between themselves. Clyde and Hermione made a show of doing their homework- or at least Hermione did- but were by his side the moment he’d entered the door.

“You haven’t been suspended, have you?” she asked immediately.

He just barely managed a reassuring smile for her. He felt strangely disoriented and wondered if he’d actually taken a hit to the head during McGonagall’s ‘test’.

“I’m fine… I guess.”

“Was it really awful, Harry?” asked Clyde, who looked him over critically for signs of injury. “What did they do to you?”

“Do to me? They didn’t beat me with a cane if that’s what you’re wondering. I just… got scolded a bit. And detention… lots of detention. I’m basically the Quidditch team’s towel boy for the season. I’ve got to attend all their practices and clean up after them and assist Wood in drills.”

Now this statement was not entirely true and not entirely false. McGonagall had given him a choice. He could either spend Quidditch practice actually practicing with the team or he could spend it in real detention. The Weasley twin’s talk of possibly angering Voldemort by actually winning (and if he was going to play he would never intentionally lose), made the second option tempting. The fact that Wood, McGonagall, and Grimms said he would be their secret weapon in the upcoming match (Youngest Seeker in a century! Wood had said ecstatically) made him that much more nervous.

But he couldn’t backout. Not really.

McGonagall, in addition to threatening to put a dent in his free time for several months with detention, had also deducted fifty points from Gryffindor for his behavior. They both knew he’d feel obligated to earn them back, and the only way to do that was win at least one Quidditch match. He wondered if the sorting hat hadn’t suggested Slytherin to his Head of House when she first came to Hogwarts as well.

Until his first match, however, everyone except his teammates, Head of House, and Professor Gimms would believe he was being punished in the more traditional manner.

Hermione naturally cringed when he told her of the loss of points. Clyde wasn’t much better. He actually looked pale.

“Well, you’re going to be real popular now, Harry,” he snipped. Harry could only stare as the other boy stalked out of the common room.

“What’d I do?”

“That’s rhetorical, I hope,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I could make quite a list.”

“It’s not my fault Ron is a thieving prat!” he defended, then quickly turned to the Weasley twins. “Nothing personal.”

They both shrugged.

“But you certainly didn’t have to rise to the bait!”

“What was I suppose to do? He stole out of my bag, insulted me, insulted you and Natalie, and then tried to destroy my property-.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t your diary?”

“That makes it so much better! Was I suppose to let him get away with all of that?”

“You could have told a teacher! Now instead of just him being punished, you and the rest of us is going to have to pay for it as well.”

“I won’t be bullied by that stupid bigot,” Harry growled, stalking towards his dorm room.

“No matter who else has to pay the price for your pride?!” she snapped back, just as angrily.

“I will take responsibility for myself, pride and all. Don’t worry, I’ll earn back your precious points!”

She called after him as he rushed up the stairs, but he ignored her. He half expected her to run up after him and apologize, but she didn’t. Now he was stuck in his dorm when he should have been at dinner, too prideful to sulk down to the Great Hall and endure not only Gryffindor’s scorn but his supposed friends as well.

“You are going to be popular after all this, aren’t you,” said Fred, popping down beside him on his bed. George sat across from them on Clyde’s bed. “You being such a charmer and all.”

“Shut up,” Harry snapped, frustrated with the entire day and everyone it involved. Double Potions with Slytherin was tomorrow as well, making everything seem that much more wretched. “I’m not in the mood to amuse you.”

“Jeepers, he’s swell, don’t you think Fred?”

“So fun and cuddly. I wish we could keep him.”

Harry turned away from them, his ‘go away’ muffled by his pillow.

“If it’s any consolation, Ronnykins got off a lot worse than you did. He has to clean the dungeons every Friday and Saturday evening for a month. No magic. The mildew has been building up for years.”

He couldn’t help but smile at the mental image of Moaning Myrtle screeching at Ron Weasley while he scrubbed out toilets. With that thought, perhaps he had gotten off light. It wasn’t like he didn’t love flying, and Quidditch seemed like a lot of fun. If somehow he didmanage to win more than one game then he would more than make up for the points lost. Ron would be livid with jealousy. Draco wouldn’t be able to question his worthiness of Hermione’s friendship. His fellow Gryffindors might actually forget about his earlier mistakes. McGonagall would be proud to have him in her House.

Youngest Seeker in a century, echoed in his head, finally sinking in.

Yes, he could do it. He would do it. Sitting up, he looked to both the twins, his green eyes shining brilliantly with determination.

“Tell me about Quidditch.”

Predictably, the other Gryffindors were not happy about the loss of points. It was so early in the year they hadn’t had a lot to begin with, and Harry’s misadventure set them back to almost zero. Their irritation with the first year was made painfully clear everyday and with every opportunity.

Things that Harry left out unattended had a tendency to disappear. He had to constantly watch out for feet or objects suddenly appearing to trip him up. McGonagall had taken to informing Harry when the password to the common room changed since the prefects neglected to mention it to him. Unflattering nicknames like ‘the Black Cat of Gryffindor’ and ‘Little Miserable’ started finding their way into meal-time conversations and hallway gossip.

There were even rumors going around that his ‘Slytherin friends’ were somehow paying him to sabotage Gryffindor’s chances at the House Cup. Which was a bit conceited, Harry thought, since Gryffindor hadn’t won the House Cup in over a decade.

If it weren’t for the Weasley twins, who were both well liked and very feared (they were equal opportunity pranksters, but woe to those who earned their vexation), and their obvious fondness towards him, Harry suspected it would have been much worse. At least he received some reprieve with the other Gryffindor quidditch players who seemed to agree with Wood that he had the skills to win their next match and were willing to set aside their misgivings. At least on the field anyway.

Hermione was more stressed than ever about her academics, now frantic to return Gryffindor to the lead. She never directly blamed Harry for the loss of points again, but he couldn’t help but feel a flush of guilt any time he missed a single opportunity to regain house points while she worked herself to exhaustion. This was made especially difficult since now McGonagall was strangely frugal with points, Snape was forever a point miser to Gryffindor, Quirrel hadn’t bothered with points for over two weeks, and he wasn’t particularly strong in any of his other subjects.

Clyde hadn’t continued his snappish attitude either, but he was spending more time with his other friends now than with Hermione and him. Harry didn’t blame him. Who would give up all their Gryffindor friends- and Clyde had several now that he had apparently given up on ‘the Black Cat’- just for one particularly difficult one?

Harry dealt with it all as stoically as he could. He kept to himself during classes and meals, studied as much as he could tolerate in his free time with Hermione, and pretended Ronald Weasley didn’t exist even when they were sat next to each other in Potions.

Quidditch season couldn’t have come soon enough. The weather turned cool and frosty as autumn set in, and morning practice were done in robes charmed against the nipping cold. Harry took to coming to the field early, just so he could be alone, hovering high over the pitch and looking out over the fiery colored forest and golden fields of the Scottish countryside.

The first Saturday of November was just as chilly and beautiful, but Harry did not go out to admire the view. Today was the first match of the season. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. He was up just before dawn to grab some breakfast and then went straight to the Quidditch pitch. The rest of the team arrived soon after.

“Alright gentlemen-” Wood began, as they all gathered around him.

A polite cough.

“And ladies,” he correct himself, “This is it. First game of the season. I know we haven’t had much luck over the years-”

A not so polite snort.

“-but we’ve got the advantage now. The Slytherins are going to come in cocky and sure, ready to take on Angelina, whose abilities they’re already familiar with. They’re going to get the shock of their life when they spot Potter instead, and you can bet they’re going to under estimate him. Our best chance is to keep them distracted and disoriented until Harry catches the Snitch.”

Wood turned to Harry.

“You just concentrate on catching the Snitch, got it Potter? Your only concern is that.”

“And not getting knocked off your broom,” said one of the Chasers.

“Just the snitch.”

“Or smashed into a wall. Those Slytherins are a nasty lot,” Angelina pointed out.

“SNITCH ONLY!”

Harry swallowed thickly and nodded.

Harry and the other Gryffindors kept their hoods up as they entered the field. Wood was bound and determined to keep their surprise until the last possible moment. Judging by the confused whispering as they marched out, it certainly seemed to be working on the crowd. Everyone had assumed Angelina was going to be Seeker, but even with the hoods up it was apparent that the current Seeker was a little too short.

It wasn’t until they were lined up face to face with the Slytherin team that they all finally drew back their hoods. A stunned gasp and intense discussion swept through the crowd. The Slytherins up in the stands were hissing out ‘foul’ before the game even started. The Gryffindors didn’t look much happier, and most seemed convinced the game was already lost. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw looked more intrigued than anything and were eagerly calling for the match to start.

Looking directly at the Slytherin Seeker- a fifth year boy who looked better built to be a Beater than a Seeker- Harry couldn’t help but notice he didn’t look as surprised as Wood had suggested. In fact, the boy was looking down right smug.

It seemed a bad premonition for the match to come.

“Players!” called Professor Gimms, dressed in his referee robes. “Mount your brooms!”

The crowd hushed, understanding that the game was about to start and they could only sit back and watch it unfold. Harry had to consciously force himself not to shoot up the moment his feel began to hover above the ground. He rose slowly and gradually with the other players until they were even with the stands. From here he could look directly into the ‘Emperor’s box’, and see a gathering of some of his least favorite people. Voldemort sat in what could only described as a thrown, flanked on either side by teachers and his personal guest in less obsequious chairs. The Dark Lord looked curious, but not surprised, and perhaps a touched amused. To his right sat Headmistress Lestrange, looking extremely unhappy, and to his left was Professor Snape who looked as smug as his House’s Seeker. A bit behind them was McGonagall. She looked worried.

Harry did his damnedest to feel nothing but the unbridled thrill of flying. Somewhere in the crowd were his friends, but he had no time to look for them.

The Snitch had been released, and instead of immediately searching for it, Harry was forced shoot upwards to avoid the Slytherin Seeker as he made a rush for him. Once the boy had passed, he made for the direction he had seen the Snitch go, but again had to drop suddenly and then turn right sharply as two other Slytherin players came at him.

“Foul! Three fouls!” shouted Gimms, “Three penalty shots to Gryffindor!”

“Not half a minutes into the game and three fouls already!” came the voice of the student announcer. “That has to be a record! It looks like it’s going to be one intense match today! Captain Oliver Wood has unleashed a secret weapon, a new Seeker who looks to be holding his own. Will the ‘Black Cat of Gryffindor’ pull through or will bad luck follow him to his team’s defeat?”

Ferguson, the most experienced of Gryffindor’s Chasers, took all three penalty shots with ease but didn’t look at all pleased. It was apparent to him and everyone else on the team that their surprise was anything but, and Slytherin had just adopted the strategy they had hoped to use.

Harry didn’t linger on the unfairness of it, but took the time to assess everyone’s positions and locate the Snitch. The Slytherin team had him surrounded, but hadn’t taken into account above or below him which he thought careless of them. Additionally, their Seeker seemed more intent on watching Harry get pummeled by his teammates than actually looking for the Snitch. The Weasley twins seemed to have sorted out a strategy of their own and nodded to Harry when he briefly caught their eye.

The moment all three penalty shots were taken, Gimms blew the whistle to resume the match. The Slytherins descended on Harry like a pack of wolves. But Harry was no deer and he was no boar. His world did not exist on a single plain or on base thought. He dropped quickly, using his descent to quickly gain speed as he passed under a Beater. The opposing players made to chase him, but they were heavier and slower and the Seeker suddenly didn’t look so smug.

“And Potter’s avoided the Slytherin’s tackle- ouch! And Slytherin Chaser Morgenson takes a hit with a Bludger! Stay alert there boys! Potter seems to have spotted the Snitch! Slytherin Seeker Andrew Whitehall is too far behind to catch up! Is this match already coming to an end?!”

The Snitch shot down and for the stands, and Harry pursued heedless of the danger. The golden ball sudden leapt away from the wall, angling off and downwards. Coming in too fast to avoid collision with the wall, he turned his broom sharply and turned his body on his side so that he hit the wooden platform with his feet and kicked off back into the field. A Slytherin smashed into the arena wall where Harry had just been and fell off her broom. Stunned, Harry watched as the girl fell to the ground below her.

So that’s what those sand pits were for.

“And Casteel is down! But she’s climbing to her feet! What an athlete! And the new Gryffindor Seeker is proving to be harder to pin down than anyone had thought! What a match!”

Seeing she wasn’t hurt too grievously, he turned his attention back to finding the Snitch, but in his momentary distraction it had disappeared from his sight. But he was given no reprieve to look for it. He barely managed to avoid a Bludger an opposing Beater hit his way, and was side swiped a moment later by said Beater. The Weasley twins were rallying though and between the two of them, they managed to hit a Slytherin with both Bludgers at once.

“And Westbanks is hit with a double whammy! He’s managed to stay on his broom but you can tell the breath’s been knocked out of him!”

The Quidditch field was quickly descending into a battle field, and so many fouls and penalties were being called that the players were soon starting to ignore the referee altogether. Angelina was intentionally run into a goal post and had to be replaced by a very reluctant spare. One of the twins was bleeding from the head, but showed no signs of slowing, although he seemed a bit confused and hit a Quaffle at the Slytherin captain. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, gasping and cheering and booing in a cacophony of noise. Harry tried to keep out of the madness as much as possible and search for the Snitch, but the Slytherins were making it difficult. He was forced to keep moving, faster than the other players and in erratic patterns, and the few times he spotted the Snitch he had to look away to avoid an oncoming Bludger or Slytherin or goal post or wall.

Westbanks, the Slytherin Seeker, had given up on watching Harry and was actually trying to find the Snitch as well. Harry had managed to distract him twice by pretending to see the Snitch, but the boy had soon caught on.

The match quickly began to tire Harry, and his bruised arm was starting to ache terrible. If he didn’t find and catch the Snitch soon, then someone was probably going to get seriously hurt. That someone was most likely him.

He ducked under Wood while trying to throw off one of his pursuers and as he glanced up to make sure the two didn’t collide, he saw something shiny above the other players. Unwilling to lose sight of it yet again, he shot upwards, nearly knocking his captain off his broom. The Slytherin Seeker followed, but it was clearly too late for him.

His broom angled straight up, he reached out with his hand to wrap his hand around the tiny metal ball. It shone like a second sun, blinding in its brilliance, and everything slowed into a singularly perfect moment. He could see and feel it in his hands, felt a joyous triumph as the delicate wings stilled, and the golden ball rested serenely in his grasp.

And then the world shatter.

Something fast and hard smashed into his back, between his shoulder blades. Broom and rider were torn apart. For a moment, both seemed to hover as if suspended. And then Harry began to fall.

He was too stunned to panic, and that was ironically what saved him. His thoughts were simple, ordered, and to the point.

I’m falling, was his first thought. I’m fallingwithout my broom.I need my broom.

And very calmly, he called upon that instinct that had been present that fateful Thursday last September. It was the very same instinct that compelled his broom to leap into his hand with a simple ‘UP!’. He reached out his hand, the one not clutching to the Snitch, to his hovering broom and released a command.

“Come!”

And it obeyed. In a flash the broom flew the fifty feet that had separated them to smack painfully into his hand. He gripping it as tightly as he could and felt his descent begin to slow. Too weak to climb back onto his broom and still too stunned to consider relinquishing the snitch, Harry hung helplessly by one hand as he made his gradual descent.

The entire arena was deathly still. Harry continued to float down, past the other players who all stared stunned as he went passed. Still a bit dazed, he looked one Slytherin in the eye as he passed and said simply:

“Bludger.”

The boy blinked. “What?”

A malevolent black ball smashed into his side a moment later and unseated him. The broken tableau seemed to bring everyone back to their senses.

“Harry Potter’s caught the Snitch! Gryffindor WINS!”

A deafening cheer rose up all around. Harry’s feet had barely touched the ground, legs unable to support him, and Weasley’s arms were suddenly around him. They were soon followed by the rest of the Gryffindor team who surrounded and praised and shook and thumped his bruised back.

“You did it, Harry! You did it! You did it!”

And Harry nodded and grinned and ignored the painful throb of his body. Beyond the circle of Gryffindors, the Slytherins were only now descending. Though he was no stranger to hatred, he couldn’t help but be a bit shocked at the sheer malevolence they exuded in his direction. If he weren’t surrounded by his own teammates he had no doubt he would not have left the pitch on his feet.

Suddenly, his teammates fell silent and pulled away from him in order to watch the Dark Lord stride towards them. His expression was completely neutral, as was Snape’s, but Lestrange looked positively livid. Again, he felt as if his legs were going to give out underneath him.

It wasn’t until Voldemort stood directly in front of him that Harry realized the other players had all fallen behind him to form perfect triangle, and bowed down on one knee in reverence. Harry was about to follow their example, but an outraged cry made him hesitate.

“He cheated!”

Everyone turned their attention to Morgenson, who stood next to a very red faced Whitehall. Snape lifted a brow.

“Care to expand on that?”

“He obviously has extra spells on his broom!” the dark boy groused, “There’s no other way he could have summoned his broom like that without additional charms. He’s a cheater.”

With that, the boy pointed his broom at him like a giant accusing finger.

“It is rather suspicious,” the Headmistress said offhandedly.

Harry felt himself flush at the accusation, glaring at the other boy.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense, Mr. Potter?”Voldemort asked, his tone more curious than accusatory. His indifference eased much of Harry’s anxiety for what he was about to do.

“Yes. Up!”

Morgenson’s broom leapt clean out of his hands and right into Harry’s. The boy was jerked forward by the move, lost his balance, and fell flat on his face.

“MR. POTTER!” Lestrange snapped in outrage, snapping out her wand. Harry stepped back, but before she utter the curse on the tip of her tongue, Voldemort placed his hand on her wand and lowered it.

“I believe Mr. Potter has vindicated himself of wrong doing. I will not have him punished for an exceptional display of wandless magic or flying skill,” Voldemort said pleasantly, although his eyes glinted harshly as he spoke to her. They softened, or at least lost their crimson glow, when he turned back to Harry. “In fact, it is deserving of recognition. Kneel down, Mr. Potter.”

Cautiously, he did as he was told, bowing as the others did on one knee but never taking his eyes off the man. With twirl of his wand and a wordless incantation, a crown of golden laurels appeared in mid-air, and hovered there until Voldemort took it in both hands.

“To the victor,” Voldemort said, and his voice echoed through the entire arena, “Glory and Honor everlasting.”

And silence that enveloped the arena shattered into another riot of noise and jubilee. When the man spoke again, it was no longer amplified.

“You may rise.” And Harry did, looking at the man questioningly. Voldemort merely smiled, a strange secret smile and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “It suits you.”

And with that the Dark Lord strode away, leaving Harry terrible confused and blushing horribly. Bellatrix remained where her master had left her, her wand pointed towards the ground and looking as if she had somehow been betrayed. A twitch started under her eye, and she abruptly turned and stormed off the field, snapping something at the cluster of sulking Slytherins. Snape favored him an amused look.

“As interesting as today’s match was,” the dark man began, “Mr. Potter, I do hope you’ll be exercising a bit more caution in the following matches. I rather don’t fancy the other players attempting to mimic you. I’m in charge of stocking the infirmary after all.”

Harry for the life of him couldn’t tell if he was joking with him, complimenting him, insulting him, or just making a suggestion. So he just sniffed at him. Once the Slytherins had all left the field, he was embraced by his teammates once again who still couldn’t seem to believe that they had not only won, but survived to celebrate it.

“Oh wait until tonight, Harry!” one of the twins said.

“There’s going to be such a party!” said the other.

“AND YOU’RE THE GUEST OF HONOR!” they shouted together.

All Harry could do was grin and let them all carry him to the showers.

It wasn’t until much later that Harry actually got the opportunity to shower. No sooner than he reached the locker room, than it seemed that every Gryffindor in school, and not a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs as well, was dropping by to congratulate him. Classmates who had ignored or even down right antagonized him were suddenly shaking his hand and saying things like ‘I knew you were something special’ and ‘Can I have your autograph?’. It was all very baffling to him.

Even more baffling was that Hermione didn’t seem at all pleased.

“You could have died!” she shouted at him, shoving aside several of his admirers in order to speak to him.

“It’s only a game,” Harry shouted back in order to be heard. “I did it to regain those points I lost. It was McGonagall’s idea! Aren’t you happy? If I win the next match, Gryffindor will be in the lead!”

A triumphant cheer rose from the crowded locker room at the mention of a another victory to come. Hermione attempted to shout something in response but her voice was lost amongst everyone else’s. Eventually, she gave up and stocked off. He tried to follow after her, but was distracted when Clyde was suddenly in front of him.

“You did it mate! You actually did it. I can’t believe I ever doubted you!”

But you did. The bitter thought rose up, seemingly out of no where, and Harry forced it away. Clyde might have been upset lately, but he hadn’t stopped being his friend. If it just so happened that it was easier now to be more of friend, well then… he’d remember it in the future.

Finally, the rest of his team locked everyone out of the locker room so that they could all clean up and get ready. Still a bit shy about showers, he let the other boys go first as he checked and put away equipment. When everyone else had left, he took an extra long, hot shower. The hot water soothed his bruised and aching body, until he felt loose and relaxed. He switched into a clean, comfortable set of clothes and headed towards the castle to join in the revelry.

He never made it.

A bit of danger in the next chapter and a familiar face makes an appearance.

The Prince and the Grey Wolf

Harry knew he was being carried. He knew that whoever was carrying him was not being at all careful or gentle with the task. He knew it was starting to get dark.

Aside from that, he didn’t have much clue as to what was happening. Any attempt to follow a single line of thought was thwarted by the twenty other unrelated thoughts that popped up to lead him astray. The world titled and twirled, and he was powerless to right it, to even close his eyes to the madness of it.

And then suddenly, someone spoke and his mind cleared.

Ruthlessly, he was dropped to the ground and kicked in the side. He let out a cry and tried roll away, but someone else came from the other side smashed a boot between his shoulders. His two attackers continued kicking and stomping him mercilessly for a while longer, until Harry was certain they intended to kill him like that. But they stopped abruptly, and dragged him to his feet.

His body screamed in protest and he screamed along with it, but even that was too painful. He could barely breath, his lungs pressed against his injured ribs and collarbone, but he tried to beg them to stop. All he could manage was a gaspy sound, and his captors ignored him.

He was dragged to a tree and thrown against it. Here he must have blacked out for a moment, for when he opened his eyes again his hands were around the tree and he was facing two very angry looking Slytherins. Whitehall stood shoulder to shoulder with Morgenson, sneering down at him, their wands poised.

“I can’t believe this little shit beat us,” Whitehall sneered.

“Beat you, you mean,” Morgenson said, although he looked just as displeased. “We would have won if you’d been doing your job and actually looked for the stupid Snitch.”

The Slytherin Seeker shoved the other boy harshly.

“You were suppose to have taken care of him during the match. That was your job! Then you had to make everything worse and embarrass the team in front of the Dark Lord!”

Morgenson shoved the other boy back, knocking him to the ground and pointing his wand at him.

“At least I tried to defend our honor. You all just stood there like nitwits, while our Lord payed homage to that mudblooded GRYFFINDOR!”

The two boys were quickly trading blows, temporarily forgetting Harry for which he was grateful. Despite the lifting of the charm, a stunning hex he believed, he was still a bit unclear about what was happening. He had been kidnaped by these boys and taken to what appeared to be a clearing in a very large expanse of forest.

It wasn’t the Forbidden Forest, that much Harry knew. The trees were younger and darkness within them was more natural. However, the cold autumn night was fast approaching and the rising dark was quickly becoming ominous. As distracting as the pain and cold was, Harry could figure out that this strange place meant something bad was in store for him. Little boys found dead in the woods wasn’t such rare tale after all, and it seemed the humiliated Slytherins had been inspired.

As if to confirm his sense of dread, a long mournful howl fell over the woods. The Slytherin boys, who were both sporting bloody noses now, suddenly stopped their squabbling to listen. Forgetting their argument for the moment, Whitehall swallowed thickly and turned to his co-conspirator.

“We should go.”

Morgenson nodded in agreement. Together they turned and hurried further into the clearing. The Slytherin Beater suddenly stopped though and turned back to their victim. He stalked towards him, digging in his pockets until he found a pocket knife. Harry stiffened and tried to move away, but his bonds held tight.

“What are you doing?” asked Whitehall nervously as several howls joined the first.

Morgenson drew close, his dagger now drawn, his faces inches from his victim’s. Harry could neither move nor breath, and fear rose up and flowed out of his eyes in desperate tears. The older boy merely looked down at him, his expression superior and merciless.

“Just making sure they find him.”

Harry let out a soft, pained cry as the blade was dragged across his hand. He could feel the warm blood welling up to flow down his chilled fingers and soak into the ropes around his wrist. Morgenson smirked in satisfaction, then turned to rejoin Whitehall.

There was a loud pop and then Harry was alone.

He was alone and he knew he was going to die. Horribly.

Whether by wild animals, cold, his injuries, or a combination of these, it didn’t matter. He would never be found. Hermione would cry. Natalie would cry. Would the twins cry? They’d all cry their share of tears, wonder at what had happened to him, and then they would move on with their lives and he would be forgotten. His parents would be forgotten.

And all because Slytherins were sore losers.

The howls were getting louder and closer, as the night grew deeper. Through the break in the clearing he could see the moon rising up from the horizon, round and yellow. Well, bloody hell. Of course it was a full moon. Letting him be killed by any means other than magic or magical beast was obviously too muggle for the bloody pieces of dragon excrement.

Steadily the howling drew closer and closer, and he couldn’t help but think that the creatures coming his way already knew he was there. Surely they could smell it? Even in the cold air, Harry could smell the sickly-sweet scent of his own blood. His body trembled from cold and fear, and the pains in his body combined into one massive ache.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up into warm ball and just let it end. But he remained silent. Futilely he tugged and twisted his bonds, fighting off the numbness and increasing his own pain.

There was suddenly a shuffling sound behind him, a disturbance of dry leaves. Harry froze. A twig snapped. His chest began to heave quickly, disregarding the pain in his ribs.

He expected the werewolf to immediately lung out and bite him, but it didn’t. He could hear it sniffing about, making distinctive ‘wuffing’ noises, and pacing just behind the tree. It defied what Harry had heard of werewolves. Werewolves were not like real wolves. They feared nothing but silver, and would attack an entire band of armed wizards without a second thought or run head first into a speeding carriage.

Harry was under no illusions. This particular werewolf might be timid, but it was still going to kill him.

Finally, the beast moved from around the tree to investigate its meal-to-come. Or at least, that was what Harry thought it was doing. When the beast’s golden eyes met his, Harry had a sudden feeling that he was going to be alright. He had seen documentaries on werewolves in DA&D, and seen their eternal bloodlust, but the eyes that stared back at him were calm and curious and a bit confused.

“Help.”

He hadn’t even meant to speak, and he was almost as stunned as the werewolf by his plea. Nevertheless, it moved around the other end of the tree and after a few scratching sounds, the ropes gave and Harry collapsed forward. He hissed, grinding his teeth. It hurt.

A cold, wet nose prodded him, urging him to his feet. Out of fear of refusal and fear of being found, he obeyed and stumbled forward. The werewolf hovered close, pressing its massive, warm body gently against his, for support and guidance. The longer Harry spent with the creature the more comfortable and relieved he felt, and the more certain he became that it couldn’t really be a werewolf. A shapeshifter of some kind, a sentient magical creature that resembled a werewolf, or a frolicking animagus of sorts (Clyde said he was going to try to get a licence when he turned sixteen).

Quietly and as quickly as they could, they made their way deeper into the forest. They stopped frequently to listen to the approaching howls, trying to gage distance and time before they were found. His guide was soon quickening his pace. Harry struggled to keep up, but he was injured, cold, tired, and had only two feet compared to his companion’s four. The pseudo-werewolf whined, encouraging him, but he just couldn’t push himself any faster.

“I need somewhere to hide,” he explained. “In a tree or a hole.”

The other seemed to consider this, then lead him in another direction. Harry hobbled as quickly as he could beside him, although it was excruciating and made breathing almost impossible. He was lead into a bramble, and to a small dark hole. Harry didn’t think he could fit. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to risk the cramped space even if he could. The decision was taken from him, when a series of ear-splitting howls broke out mere fifty yards away. He scrambled into the hole, head first and started to crawl.

There was snarl and an angry growl, followed by several more. Panicking, Harry moved forward blindly, convinced at any moment he would become stuck or something would grab his foot and drag him out. For a few moments the earth seemed to tighten around him, making it impossible to breath, and pain became secondary to the need for air as he scrambled forward blindly. The tunnel suddenly widened into a tiny chamber. The ground was damp, covered with leaves, and smelled strongly of animals. If he kept his head down, he could sit up. He searched the darkness with his hands, but the only exit was the tunnel he’d come down.

The sound of fighting and howling echoed into his sanctuary, and he felt no inclination to leave. Instead, he laid himself down and curled up tightly. Finally able to rest, he kept himself alert by listening to the fighting outside. He wondered if his friend had gotten away safely, if the werewolves knew he was in the hole and would attempt to dig him out, and what Hermione was doing right at that moment.

How long the fight above him lasted, he didn’t know. He woke up, not realizing he had fallen asleep, and everything was quiet. The danger had passed and his burrow was now warm from his body heat and decaying leaves, and he fell asleep again.

When he awoke a second time, a faint glow of sunlight seeped into his sanctuary. He was still tired, but hunger and a full bladder were now a bigger concern than sleep. Stiffly, painfully, he crawled outside.

The day was still young and there was a thick frost on the ground. The flattened bramble and splatters of blood around the hole’s entrance told the tale of a violent battle during the night. Although Harry wasn’t particularly religious, he spared a quick, sincere ‘thank you’ to the Heavens that he had been safely out of the way of the carnage.

“Hello?” The call echoed through the forest, and the air rang with a resonance of isolation and emptiness. Where were the werewolves?Harry wondered. They should be human by now, and ready to yell at me for trespassing.

Harry was quite willing to be yelled at (even by werewolves) if it meant he would be returned to Wizarding World. Everyone would be worrying about him by now. If he wasn’t so relieved to have survived the night, he would probably still be worrying about himself too.

After a brief pit stop, he went out to explore the forest and hopefully find a way out of it. Defying his natural revulsion, he followed the trail of blood in hopes of finding the human form of a werewolf. He didn’t have to travel far.

“Bloody hell.”

Although he should have expected it, the sight of the very naked man was startling. More startling than the strips of torn flesh and glaze of blood- although not nearly as disturbing. The man lay face down in a patch of long, frosted grass. For a mind numbing moment, Harry thought he was dead.

Then a slight puff of fog escaped from his nose, followed after a moment by another. Panicked, Harry quickly tore off his outer robe, ignoring the pain it caused him and the nippy bite of the air.

“Sir, wake up,” he begged, draping his robe over him, and finding it much too small. “Please, wake up. You’ll die if you stay here like this.”

He touched his shoulder timidly, and snatched it back when the werewolf jerked and turned his head. His large brown eyes were frightened and dazed. As they settled and focus on Harry, however, he seemed to immediately relax.

“James?” he rasped. “Have I… have I finally died?”

Harry’s heart nearly stopped. James? Could he possibly be mistaken as his father or was this man delusional and speaking to a different, unrelated James? Either possibility seemed too much of a coincidence, but he pushed his confusion aside for later.

“No, Sir, but we have to get you some help or you might. Can you stand?”

The man didn’t reply, lost in thought, then shifted about experimentally. A muffled hiss and groan, and he resettled back down. “No. I am too weak from the change.”

“Are there others nearby? Perhaps your pack?”

“No, no…” the werewolf sighed, “They will have traveled back to the homestead twenty miles from here… and in little better shape… than I… right now.”

The man’s voice began to drift off and his eyes droop. Harry shook him, trying to avoid his injuries. He grimaced and opened his eyes again.

“Is there anyone out here who can help us? Any thing? A house or communication fire?”

“A cabin,” the man said, his eyes beginning to clear. “There is an outpost cabin about half a mile from here. There’s a stable attached, with a horse and a cart inside. Just go to the southern end of the clearing and you’ll find a path that takes you there. The password is ‘Aechyron’.”

“I will be back as quickly as I can!” he promised and sprang to his feet. As he dashed away, he thought he heard the man say ‘be careful James’, but it might have been his imagination.

The cabin was a cheery little place, surrounded by small trees and overrun with vines. The shutters and doors were cast iron, but an inlay of wolves and stags and wild beasts added charm to an otherwise ominously practical feature. Connected to the house was a tiny stable, more fortified than the house with only a few narrow slots for windows. There were dents and scratch marks where werewolves and possibly bears had attempted to get in, but the sturdy construction held them all at bay.

Harry went to the stable first. The stable doors were held closed by a strange locking mechanism, that looked like a silver bust of a wolf placed over the door. When he had first reached for it, the wolf head snarled and snapped at him, nearly taking a few fingers.

“Aechyron,” he yelped. The guardian bust immediately went still and lifeless, and he heard a faint click. Cautiously, he reached for the door again. The silver wolf didn’t move and the door opened to his touch.

Inside was a small cart and a large horse. The dappled grey mare shifted nervously, as Harry gathered up a harness and opened her stall. For nearly fifteen minutes, Harry struggled to suppress his own fears of the big animal and slip on a harness. It was hard. His collarbone felt screamed in protest every time he moved his arms, limiting how much he could move them. The mare danced around him as if afraid to be touched. Finally, he let out a growl of frustration.

“Do you want your master to die out there, you silly nag?”

The horse suddenly stopped shying away and held perfectly still. Harry felt just as surprised as she did. After a moment though, his sense of urgency returned and he moved cautiously forward. The horse didn’t move as the boy gently touched and patted her neck, nor when he slipped on his harness and lead her to stand in front of the little grey cart. She remained perfectly stoic as Harry fussed and fumbled his way through attaching the tackle and cart.

Finally, Harry lead the mare outside and secured her to the cabin. He slipped inside (it was amazingly unlocked and unsecured!) and gathered up anything he thought might be useful. He loaded his supplies on to the cart and lead the mare as quickly as he could back to the wounded man.

He was still conscious and now shivering. Harry laid a large bear skin rug beside the man.

“Can you roll over onto it, Sir?”

The man grunted and after a moment did manage to roll over. Harry flinched at the sight of the claw marks across his chest and neck, and quickly covered them with the many blankets and furs he’d gathered from the cabin. He tucked him in snugly and gave him some water from a canteen.

“Better, Sir?”

“Call me Remus. And yes, this is much better,” he said, and looked ready to fall right back to sleep. Before he did, however, he looked Harry directly in the eye.

“You’re James’ son, aren’t you? Harry? You look just like him. Except for the eyes of course-”

“I have Lily’s eyes. Everyone says that,” he said exasperated, and yet strangely thrilled. How many times had he heard that? Hold on. Remus. That name was familiar. “You’re not Uncle Mooney?”

But Remus had already drifted asleep. Reluctantly, Harry let him be. As he began unloading the cart and making a sort of camp, his thoughts became fixed on their mutual recognition. The name Moony was infamous in the Potter house hold as one of James friends during his adventurous school days, sneaking out late night to run wild on the grounds. Harry had always assumed it was at a prestigious boarding school of the… well, normal variety. Not a Wizarding school. And not with a werewolf. What were the chances that he’d run into his second godfather in the middle of the wilderness?

Well… considering his recent luck, rather high.

Remus woke early that evening, as the sun began to set. He was warm and comfy (vague stinging sensation in his chest aside) and lonely. Normally, during this time he would be at the homestead, enjoying a post transformation lethargy with the rest of his pack. His pack mates would all huddle close, patching each others wounds and talking of simple things. Their alpha, Fenrir, would stalk between them and over them and against them, counting and assessing each one. When he was finally satisfied, he flop down in the middle of them and soak up their affection for the rest of the night. For the next two or three days everything would be peaceful and everyone would be content.

Now, though, Remus was alone. His family and friends were far away and they could not reach each other for several days, if they even knew to search for him.

“Are you hungry, Sir?”

He opened his eyes and met brilliant green and a familiar face.

“James?”

“We’ve been over this before, sir,” came an amused reply.

“Harry.”

The boy smiled. “How do you feel? I tried to patch you up a little while you slept, but I don’t think I helped much.”

“I feel much better, don’t worry. The Wolfsbane should have been broken down by now, so my regenerative abilities should be kicking in. I’ll be healed, if a bit more scarred, by the end of the week.”

“Wolfsbane? That sounds familiar, but…?”

“It’s a potion that allows a werewolf to maintain its human mind after transformation. My pack always has at least one who takes it, just in case something like what happened last night occurs. What did happen by the way?”

“Oh! So that was you. Thank you. You saved my life… and got hurt because of it.”

“Nonsense. I am glad I was able to save a human life, particularly a son of James-”

“You are Uncle Mooney, aren’t you? You have to tell me. Were my parents Why wouldn’t they tell me? Why hasn’t anyone else told me?” Harry said excitedly. Then his expression turned funny. “What an awful nickname! Mom always did say Dad had no tact.”

Remus burst out laughing, winced, and then started laughing again. The boy had moved to sit beside him, and the light pressure against his side and the half familiar scent did much to relax the werewolf.

“What are you doing here, Harry? The last I had heard James and Lily had…they… in Germany somewhere almost four years ago. I thought for sure you’d be safe learning wizardy at Swarzekeinen by now. You’d be eleven now right? How on earth did you end up tied to a tree here?”

Harry gave Remus some canned stew he had heated in the fire to eat while he explained the last six months (had it only been that long? It felt like years) of his life; his abduction by WYRA and Snape, being a ward of Hogwarts, Hermione, Nagini (not about being a Parselmouth though), Voldemort, Ron, the broomstick incident, being the youngest Hogwarts Seeker in a century, his victory, Whitehall and Morgenson, and finally the attempt on his life. When he was done explaining, Remus could only blink at him.

“And I thought your father had a knack for trouble. Dear Lord…”

“Professor McGonagall and Hermione say the same thing. Come to think of it, I think Snape said something similar. Except of course he was utter git about it. My classmates call me the ‘Black Cat of Gryffindor’, you know.”

“And you thought my nickname was tacky? That’s awful. And to be murdered by fellow students? Over a Quidditch match? If only Dumbledore were still here… he never would have allowed such a thing to happen.”

“Remus, tell me why my parents left Britain. Why did ever tell me about magic? Why no one told me the truth about them.”

The werewolf seemed to consider his question a long time, then eventually sighed.

“I don’t know everything. I know that they were very frightened for you, especially when the war seemed to turn irrevocably in the Dark Lord’s favor. Your father was an Auror, and a damn good one. He brought down many of the Dark wizards, but when he needed protection the Ministry copped out, and he had to go into hiding instead with you and your mother. Dumbledore did his best to protect them.”

Harry remained silent. He had heard of Dumbledore, of course. Professor Toure had mentioned him. She had described him as a stubborn, psuedo-plebian politician and anarchist. A man who endeared the lower classes with temporary and cheap platitudes, while steadily degrading the foundation of their society and culture. Harry just thought she didn’t like him because he’d stood against Voldemort during the war.

Perhaps she didn’t like him because, apparently, he wasn’t a dark wizard either.

“He even set up a secret keeper so their house could never be found, but they must have panicked and run. I don’t blame them. If they hadn’t gotten out when they did, there would have been no escaping to the continent. The Dark Lord managed to seal off the country shortly after and then everything was lost. Even Dumbledore had to flee.”

“He was your headmaster when you and my dad went to school, right? What was it like?”

Finishing the last of his meal, Remus set it aside and thought carefully for a moment.

“It was, by far, the most wonderful place I have ever been. What made it even more so, was the fact that I shouldn’t have been allowed to attend. I had been bitten when I was still very young, and lycanthropy had been apart of my life for years. By all law I shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near other children. By law I shouldn’t have been allowed to exist,” he spat bitterly.

“…I don’t understand,” Harry said, “Why wouldn’t you be allowed to go to school? You’re only dangerous a couple hours out of the month… it’s not like it’s your fault.”

Remus smiled a bit at him, lifted his hand to rest it on Harry’s cheek.

“So like your father. So ambivalent towards danger, towards social expectation. You have no idea, do you? You are one of the very few wizards who would willingly sit next to a werewolf, regardless of form. You are of the even fewer who would do so, completely without fear.”

Despite his words, Harry did not feel the slightest bit afraid. Remus was a man, one his father had trusted as a friend for life. He had been a wolf the night before, and had still honored his father’s trust and protected his son. How could he possibly turn away from him?

“Did my father sit by you without fear?”

Remus chuckled a bit. “Yes. Yes, he was the first to figure it out in Hogwarts… and he never turned me away, he never ignored what I was either, or made me feel ashamed of it. He and Sirius were the best friends any man could hope for.”

“Sirius? You mean Uncle Padfoot?… Where do you come up with these names?”

“Simple, your first Godfather was an animagus… more specifically a dog animagus.”

“Oh!… Wait then, my dad’s old school name… Antlers or something…”

“Prongs. And yes, he was an animagus too. A stag.”

“… my dad sometimes called my mom ‘my little vixen’…”

Remus laughed loudly at that.

“So totally unrelated?”

“Your mother wasn’t an animagus, unfortunately. She and your father didn’t really get together until their last year at school together, and he never told her about me until shortly after graduation. Your father became an animagus in order to keep me company during the full moon, so she didn’t have a reason to learn. She had figured it out before, of course. She was even smarter than James, but she never mentioned it to anyone. I think she understood perhaps better than even your father or Sirius did. Women are more empathetic than men after all.”

He silent for a moment.

“I don’t know why they never told you the truth or decided to live as muggles. They might feared the Dark Lord would send assassins after them. Perhaps they had come to despise their world and magic in general, as so many of us have after witnessing how destructive it can be. I just don’t know. But I hope you they were happy. I hope you all were happy.”

They continued to talk long into the night, until the night grew too cold and Harry grew too sleepy. A bit timidly, the boy climbed under the furs to lay next Remus. The werewolf didn’t seem to think it odd at all, and continued telling him stories of his father and mother and Sirius and Snape (he was going to dump verisaterum in his tea at every opportunity for having kept his origins a secret for so long) until Harry drifted off. Remus remained awake for a long time afterwards, staring down at him and wondering what life would have been like if Lily and James hadn’t fled.

Would they have died by Voldemort’s hand? Would Harry? Or would Harry have been spared? Raised in England by a pureblood family? Perhaps they all would have been spared, taken in by Fenrir as he and Sirius had been. Harry would have grown up a werewolf pup, no doubt with several more siblings (no werewolf female seemed to be able to stop at one), hunting and playing in the forest with Sirius and him and the pack and Greyback.

A werewolf’s life was not a bad life. Sometimes it was actually quite wonderful. At least, nowadays.

Those futile, painfully beautiful dreams began to give way to dangerous, selfish thoughts. How easy it would be to make at least part of those dreams true. Harry had nearly been murdered, sacrificed for the hurt pride of wretched dark wizard spawn. How could he send his and Sirius’ godson back to that? Wouldn’t it be better to simply keep Harry here with him and Sirius, his rightful family? Harry, James’ cub, now his and Sirius’, to complete the family they never could on their own.

Mentally, Remus recoiled at his own thoughts. How utterly conceited and selfish they were, he realized. Harry was a wizard with his whole life ahead of him. His family may have been lost to him, but he had not let it hold him down or back. It would be unforgivable to take away those secret dreams that must have sustained the orphaned boy. For certainly, being a werewolf likely wasn’t one of them.

Remus was strong enough to climb into the cart the next morning, and out of it again when they reached the cabin. With a little bit of help from Harry, he managed to hobble to his bed and then collapse. He slept through most of the day, waking up occasionally when his godson brought him food, water, or checked his wounds. When he fully awoke that evening, Harry was napping beside him.

The boy had changed out of his ruined school robes and into a set of clothes he must have found in the werewolf’s trunk. Harry was practically swimming in his wool sweater, and a pair of suspenders were all that kept his pants up. He looked like James after a shrinking hex. He also looked extremely comfortable.

Reluctantly, he nudged Harry awake. The boy blinked owlishly at him and sat up.

“What is it?”

“I think I should take you back to Hogwarts tomorrow,” Remus said.

“Hm, what? Why? You’re still weak from your injuries, and I’m not much better.”

“If I don’t take you back tomorrow, you may never leave. My pack will come looking for me tomorrow, and it wouldn’t be a good thing if Greyback is with them.”

“Why not?”

“Because Greyback is territorial. You’re too young for him to consider a real threat, but old enough he’ll hold you accountable for your ‘folly’.”

“Folly? I was kidnaped and thrown in his territory!”

“He won’t care. The Wolf and Snake Treaty states very clearly that he’s within his rights to kill or turn any muggle or wizard, regardless of age, status, or circumstance found within his designated territories. You’re a healthy, adolescent male. He’d turn you for sure, just as he did me.”

Harry remind very silent for a moment.

“Will I… I wanted… Do you suppose… we’ll meet again? You and I… and maybe Uncle Padfoot too?”

Remus smiled at him wistfully.

“I don’t know. It seems unlikely, but then so is the chance that we would ever meet at all. Perhaps this is fate, and if that’s the case, then we’ll definitely meet again. Sirius too.”

Harry searched his face, searching for a lie, but found only a hopefulness that he couldn’t bring himself to question. Instead, he moved a bit closer to Remus and laid back down, his forehead pressed lightly against his guardian’s shoulder.

“Goodnight, Uncle Moony.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

So Harry finally learned the truth, or at least part of it. Sirius is a werewolf, but he won’t make an appearance for some time. Go ahead and ask me some questions. I’m sure this chapter has left you with a lot of them.

The King’s Justice

Remus woke Harry before dawn the next morning. Silently and a bit stiffly, they made a breakfast of porridge, tidied up the cottage, got dressed, and went to the stable. With some difficulty, they both managed to mount Helga and headed out at a leisurely pace.

“Normally, I would simply apparate us both to Hogsmeade,” the werewolf said. “But neither of us is in any condition to do that without getting splinced.”

The ride was a very quiet, tense affair. Harry was still sore from his injuries, and despite his companion’s regenerative abilities, he seemed just as fragile. Holding on to Remus’ waist as they rode, Harry could feel the tension through his entire body. As dawn finally came, Remus had broken out into a sweat.

“We should go back,” Harry said, “You’re not in any condition to travel, Moony.”

The werewolf gave his a pained, but genuine smile.

“No worries, lad. Just a hundred yards or so and we’ll be out of the Pack Lands. We can hail a bus from there.”

“A bus?”

“A sort of bus.”

“Way out here?”

“It’s only five miles from Norrington.”

“What? How do you keep the muggles away?”

“Disillusionment charms. Temporary ones anyway. There’s been discussion about putting up ward posts. Our alpha doesn’t like the idea of a magical boundary, but it’s really the most practical solution to all these trespassing issues. If anyone gets a little lax maintaining their section of the boundary, then muggles tend to wander in. Plus witches and wizards don’talways take their own laws seriously. They don’t seem to realize their lives are forfeit once they stepped into our realm.”

“Are many people killed?”

Remus remained silent for a bit. “They were in the beginning. Many werewolves too. Everyone was an enemy it seemed. Danger everywhere. Too many people running scared, wands always drawn and teeth always bared. Now… well, the danger is still there of course, but the boundaries have been set.”

“Do the werewolves and wizards never see each other anymore?”

“Oh, we do business and occasionally enjoy the company of wizarding kind… but we’re like two different countries with separate customs and philosophies. Some people accept it, some people are prejudice, and other completely over romanticize the other’s lifestyles. As it is, our alpha is pro-segregation, but when he’s finally overthrown? Who can say? Depending on the new alpha’s position, we may become more open to our wizarding heritage or we might completely cut ourselves off. Then of course, there’s Voldemort.”

“Because of the Snake and Wolf Treaty?”

“Partially, yes. This truce only works because Voldemort enforces his end of the treaty, and Greyback enforces his own. They’re powerful allies, with a wary respect for each other. If someone were to overthrow Greyback, Voldemort is in a position to rescind his end of the treaty. A civil war could break out.”

“He wouldn’t do that, would he? I mean, he’s trying to make Britain stronger, isn’t he?”

“Yes, and what better way to do that than to unite all of wizarding Britain in a common cause? Defending their children and loved ones from the evil lycanthropic threat?”

Harry had nothing to say to that. It seemed horrible to contemplate, and the twisted logic behind it made him feel physically ill. He hadn’t ever thought of himself as naive, but the ease with which Remus was able to lay down political intrigue, war, and hatred was startling. His guardian must of sensed his unease because his next words were comforting.

“Don’t worry so much, Harry. Voldemort gains more from peace at the moment than war. He has more than enough on his plate without adding werewolves as a side dish.”

Their conversation turned to lighter topics, about life as a werewolf and life as a Hogwarts student. Remus seemed to find his life even more peculiar than Harry found his, which was a bit ironic. Hermione, Draco, Professor Snape, and Headmaster Lestrange were all subjects of considerable interest to Remus, each for different reasons. Fenrir Greyback, Sirius Black, the pack commune, and the forest dwelling races sparked Harry’s imagination like a wildfire, and despite never having seen any of them, he longed to imprint their images to paper by whatever medium he could find.

They came to a simple barb wire fence and dismounted. Helga was unbridled and set loose, but she lingered at the fence for their company. Remus pulled a wand from his robes that Harry hadn’t seen before, and after a couple flicks he put it away.

“It may be a few minutes,” he said. “Knight buses are a bit hazy first thing in the morning.”

“Night buses?”

“You’ll see.”

And indeed, Harry did see. Not five minutes later a terrible smashing sound could be heard, and then suddenly there was a bus stopped not two feet from them. It was scratched and covered in leaves and twigs, but Harry still could not fathom how a bus had managed to get through all the trees. The two boarded the bus, and were greeted by a rather grouchy driver and a ticket master fast asleep. The driver nudged the ticket master roughly.

“Oi! Leave off, mum,” the pimply faced man groused. He stretched and let out an enormous yawn.

“Who you call’n, mum? I ain’t that ugly! Now sell them their bloody tickets, you boob!”

“It’s Bob! Not boob. And I’m getting to it. What can I do for you gents? I got tickets to St. Mungo’s for a good price this week. You both look like it might do you a spot of good.”

Remus graced him with a regretful smile.

“Hogsmeade, if you would. I fear my young friend here is a bit late for class.”

Oh, bullocks. Harry had completely forgotten about classes. He’d missed that quiz in potions, he was suppose to study for his Transfigurations practical this weekend, and he hadn’t finished either his Charms or Herbology homework!

“I ’m going to get so much detention,” he lamented once they were both seated on what appeared to be beds. Weird.

“It could be a lot worse, you realize?” Remus said, chuckling.

“That’s easy for you to say. My innards have only been saved so that Snape can use them for potions ingredients.”

The werewolf barked out a laugh.

They reached the castle just as third period was starting, and the halls were deserted. Now that he was standing safe and sound in Hogwarts, Harry felt at a distinct loss about what to do. Did he go to the headmistress’ office and report what had happened? Did he go to the infirmary (where ever that was) to get patched up and then go back to classes? What about Whitehall and Morgenson? What about the other Slytherins? He doubted Draco would have condoned their actions, but that didn’t mean others weren’t capable of similar acts, especially if it was to maintain their House’s honor.

“Let’s go to the infirmary,” Remus suggested. “Once you’re fixed up, the nurse can alert Minerva of your return. She’ll have a better idea of what to do than I would.”

It sounded like the perfect plan to Harry, and he followed Remus knew exactly were he was going. They were just climbing an unfamiliar staircase when they ran into their first castle occupant. Or rather, said castle occupant ran after them.

“You!” came the scandalized voice. “What are you doing here? You’re violating your probation!”

Remus looked down at the harried potions master, his expression completely benign and perhaps a bit condescending. Calmly, the werewolf descended a step and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. The young Seeker, who had never seen Snape so out of sorts, looked between them with obvious curiosity. Suddenly, Snape turned to Harry, and looked positively stunned. If he weren’t so confused, he would probably have enjoyed causing the dark man all this strife.

“Potter, where have you been? And what are you doing with this… this…”

“Why, Severus, I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words,” Remus said.

“Mangy vagabond!” Snape snarled.

The werewolf wasn’t the least bit phased, but Harry scowled at his insult.

“Why don’t you ask Morgenson and Whitehal? They knew exactly where I was and the company I was keeping.”

Snape stared at Harry intensely, raking his form for clues to his whereabouts. The boy was still dressed in his school robes, which were dirty and torn in places and he held his left arm close to his body. The presence of one of his old school nemeses sparked his memory of the current lunar cycles and the date of Harry’s disappearance. He looked rather troubled by his conclusion.

“Are you bitten?” the dark man asked softly.

“No,” Harry replied, and then crossed his arms. “But only thanks to Remus. He saved my life.”

“A werewolf saved you on a full moon, Potter? I find it unlikely.”

“What’s the matter, Severus? Have you no faith in your own potions? The Wolfsbane you provide my pack with every month has been of use to us for some time. A clear minded lycanthrope does wonders for diverting… accidents?… as it were.”

If Harry didn’t know any better he would have thought Remus was trying to goad the other man into an argument. He felt more than a bit of envy at the man’s audacity. But Snape was a man better versed in the game of wit and intrigue, and his expression quickly turned cool and reserved.

“I am… glad to know that my potions have been of some assistance to you Lupin. Now that I know whom is benefitting directly from them, I feel more inclined than ever to improve the formula.”

“My alpha will be glad to hear it. He doesn’t put much faith in potions, but even he is … impressed… with your work.”

Both men regarded each other darkly for several moments, until Harry got bored of watching them and started his way up the stairs again.

“Where are you going, Potter?” Snape snarled, drawn unwillingly away from his staring match his old rival.

“The infirmary, sir,” Harry replied, not bothering to stop his slow ascent. “I think, anyway. I’m not entirely sure where it is. Remus was escorting me.”

“And now I will,” Snape said cooly, stalking up the stairs, past Remus (never turning his back to him). “Since you’ve already pulled me from my class with your impromptu return, I may as well see it through.”

“How did you know we were here anyway?” Remus asked, fighting off a growl as the dark man stopped beside his godson. Snape graced him with a malevolent smirk, and placed a possessive hand on Harry’s shoulder. The boy flinched at the contact.

“You should know this already, old friend. Your present form may not have been enough to set off the castle’s defenses, but it was more than enough to set off the wards for an intruder.”

Moony looked stunned for a moment, then openly angry. Harry watched awed as the werewolf’s eyes turned amber and a hint of fangs peeked out over his grimacing lips.

“You’re a liar, Snape. Hogwarts never forgets its own. And even if I some how did manage to set off the wards, they’re tied to the headmaster or headmistress, not Slytherin’s head peon.”

“Very good… for a mongrel, but you forget. The wards will alert the deputy headmaster or headmistress in their superior’s absence. Headmistress Lestrange left… or rather, was sentto find the student she somehow managed to misplace.”

Snape’s wicked expression became even more sinister, as turned his gaze to the student in his grasp. “How unfortunate for her to have just missed you, Mr. Potter. Incompetence and bad luck are a dangerous combination when in the direct employ of the Dark Lord.”

Remus merely shrugged, his anger dissipating with the simple gesture. Sensing their time was now at its end, Harry carefully maneuvered himself out of Snape’s grasp to bid his guardian goodbye. Remus returned the hug, just as delicately as Harry gave it, and ruffled the boys messy hair affectionately.

“Try to stay out of trouble?”

“For all the good it does me? Be safe, Remus, and take it easy once you get back.”

“The sooner the better,” Snape sneered. They both ignored him.

“The same goes for you. Sirius would kill me if something happened to you, when I…” Remus trailed off, realizing he had almost let loose his secret heart’s desire.

“When you, what? Could have taken the opportunity to eat him? Must you Gryffindors turn everything into a melodrama? Just go, Lupin, before the castle vomits you out.”

Said Gryffindors spared him mutual glares of distaste, before turning back to each other.

“Tell Uncle Sirius hello for me?”

“I will. I’ll ask for permission to write, but it’s an unlikely we’ll be allowed. So just in case… Goodbye, Harry.”

Harry smiled, trying to keep it as real as he could even though he felt all wrong and it made his face ache. “I’ll see you later, Remus.”

Harry was escorted by Snape to the infirmary in complete silence. Snape asked no questions about where he had been or what he had done over the last three days. Snape also said nothing about what had happened in the time he had been gone. What did people think had happened to him? Were his friends worried? Why had the Headmistress been sent to look for him?

He was bursting with questions, but every time he looked to Snape to ask, he quickly changed his mind. The potion’s master expression was so openly hostile, Harry feared what he might say or do if he were to actually gain his attention. The only thing keeping the young Gryffindor from inexplicably disappearing was the oath Snape had told him about that prevented a teacher from harming a student.

As they entered the infirmary (Harry thought it a bit silly to put the hospital wing on the third floor), they were greeted by very plump, middle aged woman with a nurses habit. She took one look at Harry, look positively indignant about his physical state, and quickly rushed him behind a screen for examination.

“My word, are you Harry Potter?” she asked, as she helped remove his soiled clothes and clean him up a bit using her wand. “The whole school has been in an uproar since your disappearance, and I am quite glad to see the morbid speculations floating about turned out to be false. This is a nasty looking bruise, dear. Does it hurt to breath deeply?”

“A bit. It feels better than it did yesterday,” he replied. “So no one realizes that I was-”

“Lord Voldemort,” Snape hissed. The nurse actually flinched at the name. “Has asked that the events that led to your disappearance first be relayed through him, and him first. The one thing this school doesn’t need is another one of your overblown stories stirring up the students.”

Harry let out a huff, but didn’t ask anymore questions. So Snape wasn’t keeping silent of his own accord? Did this mean he was going to have to tell Voldemort his tale directly? Shouldn’t law enforcement handle this sort of thing? Did Voldemort intend to cover up the debacle to preserve his House’s honor? What would happen to him? Would they threaten him or use memory charms or magical confidentiality contracts on him? Would Whitehall and Morgenson remain at Hogwarts and go unpunished?

As he was cleaned up, patched up, and given a clean set of hospital pajamas, his thoughts began to turn increasingly distressing and it didn’t take long for the nurse (Madam Pomfrey she had said) to notice.

“Here you go, Mr. Potter,” she said, offering a vial of blue liquid. “Something to ease those frazzled nerves of yours.”

Harry excepted it reluctantly, distrustful of potions in general, and swallowed it down. It didn’t taste too bad, and within moments he was feeling rather relaxed. He was lead to a bed and curled up to take a nap without a second thought. Sleep was almost upon him when he overheard Pomfrey and Snape talking in quiet voices to each other.

“Any serious injuries or toxins?” came a silky voice.

“I am not sure I should be discussing this with you, Professor,” she said. “You are not his Head of House, and given You-Know-Who’s orders for secrecy… Well, lets just say his injuries are rather telling.”

“I will be informing Our Lord of Mr. Potter’s return. It would be best if I were able to give him a general description of his health. He will be eager to talk to him, after all.”

There was a tense silence for a moment.

“Let him have a bit of sleep first,” she said finally, “All he needs is that few hours rest to heal the worst of it… and then he should be up and ready to return to classes. Although I’d prefer he slept here tonight.”

There was an irritated snort. “You say that to everyone who walks through your door.”

An equally irritated ‘humph!’. “Not everyone. You are more than welcome to spend your night and day elsewhere!”

If Snape replied, Harry didn’t hear. Too quickly, his mind descended into a dark and dreamless sleep.

“Potter, wake up.”

Harry rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes to a very blurry black head. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and then patting the air around his bed in search of his glasses. Snape’s rough, callused fingers grabbed his chin, and a moment later he could see the dark man scowling down at him.

“Get dressed. Lord Voldemort has requested our presence in his study.”

A set of clothes was placed at the corner of his bed, and Snape shut the privacy screen now surrounding his bed. Through the white sheet, Harry could make out his distinctive profile. The potion’s master looked decidedly impatient.

Quickly dressing, he joined Snape and they made their way quickly from the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey, who was shooting the older man a disapproving glare, managed to spit out an order for Harry to return should start feeling tired or sore again. The young Gryffindor wasn’t planning on it. He was feeling refreshed and energized, with only the barest of aches where previously there had been stabbing pains. Briefly he examined his wrist and found them a bit red, but otherwise unmarked.

They entered a tower not unlike the Headmistress’s own, but when they entered the Dark Lord’s office Harry was rather amazed by the difference. Lestrange’s office was cluttered, ancient room with too many portraits of dead men and women, stacks of paperwork, and strange assortment of baubles. Voldemort’s office was the picture of elegant sophistication. The circular room was lined in bookshelves, laden with tomes and occasionally a well placed instrument. There were only an office desk, a few sitting chairs, a chaise, and a telescope by the window by way of furniture, and large painting of Salazar Slytherin with a feathered serpent of some kind draped around his shoulders.

Headmistress Lestrange occupied the chaise, and would have looked beautifully elegant herself if her body language weren’t so tense. She scowled darkly as they entered the room, and Harry hesitated.

“Have a seat, Mr. Potter.”

Voldemort’s smooth, confident voice moved him out of his surprise, and he quickly took the chair indicated. He looked directly at the Dark Lord, and was relieved to see the other looked genuinely pleased to see him. His red eyes weren’t exactly friendly, but they were bright with a sort of curiosity.

“Professor Snape was telling me that you showed up in the castle early this morning, escorted by a werewolf no less. Considering your abrupt disappearance after your Quidditch victory and the rising of the full moon that night, I think it would be safe to assume that you didn’t go gallivanting off into the forest on your own.”

Harry merely nodded, waiting for an actual question. He didn’t have to wait long. Lestrange was on her feet and stalking towards him suddenly. He nearly bolted from chair to keep his distance from her, but Snape (who had been leaning by the door) was suddenly between them, his wand in his right hand and Harry’s shoulder in his left. Lestrange spoke as if the man wasn’t even there, but she did stop her forward assault.

“And I suppose we’re to believe Slytherins were the ones to have taken you?” she hissed. “A convenient explanation. But it doesn’t explain how you came to be in the company of your godfather’s lover.”

Now that was news to him! Remus and Sirius were… what? A couple? Mates? His father hadn’t mentioned his best friends being gay (was his dad bi then?), and Remus sure as hell hadn’t said anything about it!

“Lestrange, control yourself,” Voldemort commanded, although he looked even more intrigued than before. “Let’s not jump to more than the truly obvious conclusions. Why don’t you give us a rendition of the events that have transpired, starting from the moment you left the Quidditch pitch.”

Harry wasn’t sure what information he should withhold, if any, and so told the events of the last several days as sparsely as he could without actually hiding anything. Even with all three person’s occasional questions (or accusation on Lestrange’s part) it took less than five minutes. When it was all done, Snape looked disturbed, the headmistress looked furious, and Voldemort just sat back in his chair and stared at him curiously.

“A rather amazing adventure, Mr. Potter,” the Dark Lord began, rising slowly from his chair. “Indeed, it is a miracle that you survived.”

Harry tensed as the man strode around his desk, took a sitting chair and placed it directly across from him. When Voldemort sat down, the boy involuntarily stopped breathing. Serpentine eyes regarded him calmly, in mock compassion.

“A miracle, but… I’m not a religious man.”

As quick as a snake, Voldemort moved forward, his hands gripping tightly on either side of Harry’s head as he forced the boy to look directly into his brilliant red eyes.

“Relax, Mr. Potter,” he hissed, parseltongue slipping out like a whisper, “It only hurts if you struggle.”

But Harry did struggle. He struggled with his swinging fists and kicking legs. He struggled with his mind, creeping away and lashing out blindly at the invading pressure inside his head.

His fight lasted only for the briefest of moments, before a searing pain lanced through brain. He froze, gave a single violent shake, then went limp in the man’s grasp. In his stunned state, his thoughts scattered and resistance crumbled until the world became insensible.

The only thing he was aware of was the shifting of his thoughts by an alien presence and Voldemort’s eyes staring directly into his.

Harry was brought back to his senses, and wished taste hadn’t been one of them. The salty, sour taste of a potion seemed to cling to crevasses of his lips and mouth, and not even the water Snape offered him immediately after seemed to help much.

As his thoughts cleared, he pulled away quickly from the man, clambering to his feet and stumbling away until he was at the far end of the room. Using the bookshelf to support his jelly legs, he turned a heated glare to the occupants of the room. Snape stood with his arms crossed beside the chaise, where Harry had apparently been laying, an empty vile in one hand and a shattered glass at his feet. Lestrange was sulking by the telescope, endeavoring to ignore everyone and failing miserably. Voldemort was once again behind his desk, scribbling away on some parchment.

“What did you do to me?” he asked shakily.

Lestrange and Snape offered only condescending sneers, and the Dark Lord’s reply was flippant.

“Legilimency.”

“Bullshit,” Harry spat out automatically. All three looked at him, startled. “I’ve been under legilimency before. That was infinitely worse.”

“Potter, watch yourself,” Snape hissed in warning.

“Are you implying that I am lying?”

Harry tensed, swallowed at the sudden thickness in his throat, but didn’t look away.

“I don’t think I implied anything. There’s no way that was just legilimency.”

The Dark Lord smirked, but said nothing to confirm or dissuade his conclusion.

“I had to make certain you were not attempting to deceive me. Coincidence is one thing, an opportune moment is another thing altogether. It seems you’ve managed to obtain both. There is now no reason to perform any further investigation by the Court- which I guarantee is great deal more bothersome than a brief headache and a nasty potion.”

Harry wasn’t certain he agreed. The idea of that man skipping through his brain was extremely distressing, and if he thought on it too long he knew he was going to need a calming draught pretty soon as well.

“Justice will be carried out swiftly. Your assailants are on their way up now.”

“What? Just like that?!”

“Just like what?” Voldemort said, starting to become annoyed. “Your innocence has been proved, as has their guilt. Why prolong the matter? I for one would like to get back to other matters, wouldn’t you?”

Frankly, yes he would. Harry could think of a hundred things he wanted to do right now that didn’t involve worrying about Morgenson or Whitehall sulking behind every corner. But it all seemed too fast. He’d spent three long days away from the world, and suddenly he was back in it and it was spinning too fast.

But it was out of his hand. And he was glad for it. He couldn’t imagine what punishment attempted murder of a classmate was awarded, especially not by the Dark Lord himself. Suddenly, he didn’t want to know.

“Can I go then?” Harry asked.

“And miss the best part of the trial?” Voldemort asked, looking genuinely surprised.

“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be a PG-13 show.”[1]

Lestrange and Snape didn’t seem to understand the reference, but Voldemort smirked wickedly.

“Nevertheless, it will certainly be educational. Sit down before you fall down. This won’t take long.”

Harry reluctantly obeyed, taking up the one end of the chaise and staring resolutely out the window. Time passed and no one spoke, enveloping the entire tower in a tense silence. A knock on the door made more than just Harry jump.

“Enter.”

Morgenson strode into the tower confidently, his school robes so perfectly pressed and presented that Harry just knew a spell was involved. The older boy looked as smug and conceited as Harry remembered him. It made him want to chuck something heavy at him.

Behind him, Whitehall slunk in. Unlike his accomplice, the Slytherin Seeker looked exhausted and nervous in the way that chronic worriers are. Neither boy noticed Harry sitting by the window, their gazes focused either on the Dark Lord or their feet. Morgenson tried to meet Voldemort’s eyes directly, as Harry often did, but they inevitably ended up focusing above or to the left of the intimidating man’s head. If Harry weren’t so worried that both boys were going to become nothing more than bloody stains on the carpet in the next few minutes, he would have mocked them for their cowardice.

“Do you know why you are here?” Voldemort asked, looking completely nonchalant as he started pulling out forms from his desk.

Both boys shook their heads. The Dark Lord raised a regal brow.

“Really? Absolutely no idea?”

Whitehall shifted a bit behind Morgenson, while the other started to shift a bit uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I suppose you want to question us about the Gryffindor Seeker,” Morgenson said, not hinting at the slightest bit of guilt. “But we’ve told the headmistress and our Head of House everything we know already.”

Morgenson turned to Lestrange, who wasn’t looking at him, and then to Snape who was looking at them a bit too keenly. Harry was surprised when he didn’t seem to notice him sitting right behind the Potion’s master. Instead, the boy looked over him as if he wasn’t even there and returned his attention to Voldemort.

“Yes, I have looked over their reports of the matter and found nothing amiss,” Voldemort said, amicably. “Young Mr. Potter’s disappearance is indeed very mysterious. Whether by Potter’s own will or someone else’s, the plan was quite clever…”

Whitehall’s frown deepened, and Morgenson practically puffing up like a blowfish and still trying to appear unaffected.

“…but sloppily executed. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Potter?”

Voldemort made a gesture towards him, not exactly like pointing, and Harry felt the magic that he hadn’t been aware of slipping away from him. The two Slytherin boys turned to him, their expression of horror identical.

“Im-impossible! You’re dead.”

Harry gave him an angry scowl. “If that’s the case. Perhaps you’re dead too.”

Morgenson turned white and Whitehall look just barely above fainting.

“Now, Mr. Potter, that’s not a very nice thing to say,” chided Voldemort, “Although, I do understand your ire. I am rather upset myself.”

Harry turned away from his would-be murders and from the Dark Lord. He looked out the window, curled up a bit, and mentally curled up on himself. There was nothing he would have liked better than to be somewhere, anywhere, else. Yet, he couldn’t help but hear, and every swish of clothing, every footstep, and every labored breath unfolded the scene of two lives at their possible end.

“It’s not so much that you should wish to vindicate yourselves,” Voldemort continued, “It is perfectly natural to wish to maintain one’s supremacy, more so with Slytherin’s than most. A few hexes… some form of public humiliation… a curse, at the very worst. Any of these would have sufficed on any regular student over a schoolyard grudge.”

Harry felt his insides twist in horror at the man’s words. Was the leader of Wizarding Britain really condoning such wretched behavior? He wanted to cover his ears and stop listening, but he didn’t dare. Voldemort had wanted witnesses, sadist that he was, and apparently his two cronies weren’t going to cut it.

“However, your actions went far beyond acceptable bounds. Not only did you select for your victim a person whom I, your sovereign and patriarch, have shown personal favor to with the intent to murder, but you violated the Snake and Wolf Treaty, adding treason to your list of crimes. Have you any idea the damage you could have caused?! Our peace with the lycantropes is tenuous at best without fools like you making it worse!”

As the Dark Lord spoke, his once calm voice began to increase in pace and volume, his anger rising like an unstoppable tide.

“I tell you now if Greyback demands restitution for this trespass, I will not hesitate to throw you both to the wolves. Pun intended. Crucio!”

Harry bolted out of his seat as two tortured screams pierce the room. Instinctively, he turned towards the source and found the older boys withering on the ground under the same spell. Briefly, his eyes found the Headmistress, who was sneering down at them from her chair and found an instant hatred for her. Beside him, Snape watched with a silent intensity. What he was feeling, Harry couldn’t decipher, but what ever it was it didn’t seem to be pity.

The cursed dragged on, as did the screaming, and with each passing second he felt his mind and soul twist into a painful state as if he were under some strange curse himself. Finally, he could stand it no more and covering his ears to block out the sound, he let out a scream of his own.

“IT’S ENOUGH!”

His concentration broken, Voldemort turned sharply to the shivering Gryffindor, his anger still hot and shining through his eyes like embers. Whitehall and Morgenson laid on the floor at his feet whimpering, crying, and curling in on themselves. Harry could barely stand to look at them.

“What did you say, Potter?” Voldemort hissed in what may or may not have been parseltongue. The young Gryffindor felt suddenly thick, and his throat tightened as if in some phantom’s grasp, but couldn’t not speak. The consequences of not speaking seemed worse than facing the Dark Lord.

“It’s enough,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He swallowed thickly, and spoke again, louder this time. “I’m satisfied. They’ve been punished enough for their crime against me. Their crime against Greyback will be dealt with by Greyback himself. It’s enough. There’s no need to keep… to keep hurting them.”

The tightening around his throat became very real as Voldemort’s cold hand was suddenly around his throat, his crimson eyes glaring down at him angrily. Harry could only stare up at him, wide-eyed and terrified.

“I decide when enough is enough, you silly whelp,” he hissed, throwing him to the floor. Harry instinctively curled up, expecting to be kicked or cursed. Instead, the Dark Lord stalked back to his desk and reseated himself. “It is enough,” he said once he was seated. “For now. I must begin explanations and negotiations with Greyback before I decide the rest of your punishment. But just so we understand one another, this is the last day you will ever step foot in Hogwarts. Should you violate this condition, your lives with be forfeit. If you should ever approach Mr. Potter again, in malice or contrition, your lives are likewise forfeit. Headmistress, take them to the dungeons while they await the proper authorities. Professor, escort Mr. Potter to his dormitory, and explain to him the need for discretionon this matter.”

Harry didn’t wait. He was out of the office before Whitehall or Morgeson to climb to their feet. He paced back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, until he was finally joined by considerably more composed potion’s master. The man’s expression was no different than before, and the nerve wracked Gryffindor found it more disturbing that if the other had been scowling at him.

“When you are asked what happened to you after the match,” Snape began, his tone the same as with any lecture he thought of particular importance. “You will tell them that Whitehall and Morgenson did in fact kidnap you.”

Harry blinked owlishly. Certainly, Snape wasn’t going to instruct him to tell the truth. He wasn’t much of a politician, but Harry knew the situation was delicate and could hurt a lot of reputations, Slytherian House’s not being the least among them.

“Their sudden disappearance from classes upon your return would never go unnoticed,” the professor explained. “However, you will tell no one about them attempting to kill you or about the werewolves or Lupin’s impromptu rescue. Instead, you will say you were ‘confounded’ and abandoned in muggle London. The Vanguard[2] tracked you down yesterday evening at British social services, completely unharmed, and you were detained at the Court for questioning and returned to Hogwarts this morning. Don’t get clever. Keep everything as vague as you can, and let the public make up the rest.”

Harry nodded. While he didn’t like the idea of lying just to benefit Voldemort’s grand scheme, he couldn’t deny that he was relieved he wouldn’t have to recount those awful moments before Remus’ rescue when he was certain he was going to die. Also, on some level, he wanted to keep his new friendship with Remus a secret. It wasn’t that he felt ashamed to have a werewolf for a godfather (two of them in fact), but he didn’t think he could stand anyone criticizing the kind, gentle man who had saved his life and happened to turn furry once a month.

“Will Remus get in trouble for this?”he asked timidly.

“Yes,” Snape said waspishly, though he wasn’t looking at Harry.

The young Gryffindor wanted to protest, point out that the man had done nothing wrong, but had been very brave and selfless. His platitudes filled his chest, waiting to be expelled in one long testament, but he swallowed them instead. It was useless to say anything. Snape wouldn’t care, and even if he did he wouldn’t be able to do anything. Remus’ fate lay with Fenrir Greyback.

With Snape’s quickening stride, it wasn’t long before Gryffindor Tower was in reach. Before they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, his guide grabbed him by his shoulder and spun him around to face him. Harry, having already been grabbed by the neck that day, slapped the hand off sharply and jumped out of his reach. They eyed each other cautiously, mutual animosity and distrust flowing between them like a palpable heat.

“You will tell absolutely no one of what transpired during your disappearance. That includes my goddaughter. If you drag her into this mess, the Dark Lord will be the least of your worries.”

Harry glowered hatefully at the man, then spun away from him to stalk to the portrait.

“And Potter.”

Reluctantly, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Congratulations on not doing something cliché, like dying. Hogwarts hasn’t had this much entertainment in years.”

1. I don’t know the English rating system for movies and television, so if you know just mentally insert the appropriate term.↩

2. The ‘Vanguard’ is Voldemort’s equivalent to Aurors, just as the ‘Court’ is the equivalent to the Ministry.↩

Return of the Prince

The password, surprisingly, hadn’t been changed over the weekend as per the usual custom. Harry wondered if they hadn’t changed it because of him, like a porch light left on to welcome home a prodigal son. Perhaps he was just being overly sentimental.

No one was in the commons room when he entered, and likewise, the first year dormitory was empty. The first thing he did was open his trunk and quickly locate those previous items he hadn’t risked carrying during the Quidditch match. His wand, warm and magnificent in his grasp, and his watch which was scorching hot.

“It’s not my fault I’m late,” he said, “I ran in to a couple of… problems.”

After a moment, the watch seemed pacified and cooled to his touch. Checking the time, he was unsurprised to find it dinner time. Not wanting to cause yet another scene in the Great Hall, he found his usual cubby corner in the common room and started to draw sketches in the troublesome diary. It was a strange little thing. Whatever he drew in there disappeared shortly after, but if he requested it back, it would appear again. Occasionally, the diary actually put in little comments or doodles of its own.

Today, it seemed particularly chatty.

Where have you been? And what have you been doing? The subject matter is very different from your usual.

Harry took a moment from his sketch of Remus, in werewolf form, staring up close at the observer. He was having difficulty translating the lycanthropes’ bright and curious eyes in ink alone, and welcomed the distraction.

You wouldn’t believe the last couple of days I had. I’ve won a Quidditch match, been kidnaped and nearly murdered, and met one of my father’s old friends who happens to be a werewolf and my godfather’s mate. He’s a werewolf too. And it turns out my parents were wizards after all. Seems they forgot to mention it to me.

He went back to his sketch, practicing the eyes with some quick doodles on the edge of the diary. It was several minutes later before the diary finally made a response.

And I thought drawing was your only outlet for creativity. I see you’re trying your pen at fiction as well.

Go suck an egg, was Harry’s tart reply.

The diary’s clever retort was to make the half completed sketch of Remus suddenly disappear.

“Hey!” he said, indignantly. Irritated, and now developing a slight headache, he shoved the diary into his bag and felt distinctly better. He had started to theorize that the charmed journal drew on the magic of the writer to perform its clever tricks, and handling it too long caused his frequent headaches. It was such a neat little book though, and having so little that was really his, Harry couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it or tell anyone who might take it away. This included Hermione, for though she was a very good friend, she was a bit of a worry wort. Any thing with even the most slim possibility of being cursed was a reason for days of endless and tireless research.

And that was why it was a stroke of luck that he got rid of it when he did, because not half a minute later Hermione came stalking through the door looking the most worried Harry had ever seen her… and angriest too.

“Of all the pig-headed, stupid, insensitive, load of swill..,” she seethed, stomping noisily through the portrait hole. She was followed closely by Clyde, who was still scarfing down a piece of bread from dinner. “As if Harry would just run away! He was just so bloody miserable after his incredible Quidditch victory and all his adoring fans, and then saying he’d explain everything later, that he just decided to take a jog through the Forbidden Forest! Honestly, does Draco think I’m that naive? That I’m stupid?!”

“Hermione,” Clyde protested, his mouth still full of bread, “he was probably just trying to make you feel better. You prophesizing Harry’s gloom and doom wasn’t exactly helping matters.”

“If he wanted to make me feel better, he could start by investigating some of those Slytherin housemates of his. If anyone had motive and opportunity, it was them. They’ve been acting suspicious for days now, and did you see that Morgenson and Whitehall were absent during dinner? Do you think the Court finally suspects they have something to do with Harry’s disappearance?”

“Well, I’m certain they do now,” Harry said, finally choosing to reveal himself as he stepped out of the hidden cubby. Both his friends let out a startled shriek at his sudden appearance, staring at him as if he were a ghost… well,a ghost other than usual wandering Hogwarts. He gave them both an amused grin.

“Not exactly the warm welcome I was hoping for, but-”

Before he could say anything further, he found himself with an armful of sobbing female.

“Thank God,” Hermione cried, “I thought for certain something awful had happened to you…” And then, conceiving that something awful still could have happened, she pulled away to give him a very thorough inspection.

“Harry, mate!” Clyde said, “Don’t scare us like that!”

“Well, I didn’t want you to choke on your dinner, so I waited a moment at least. And Hermione! Stop it! The school nurse gave me a very thorough check up already. I’m fine,” he assured them. Hermione didn’t look convinced .

“What happened, Harry? When you didn’t show up in the Tower, Fred and George went looking for you, but couldn’t find you. We had to tell McGonagall, and she alerted the entire school and we still couldn’t find you. The Court even got involved the next morning, and searched the entire castle and even some of the Forbidden Forest. There were rumors that they found some of your clothing or your equipment in there.”

Wrong forest, he wanted to say, but checked himself. It was so tempting to just spill the last several days he’d had, and the visit with Voldemort as well. Instead his mind scurried to pull together the story he had been told to give.

“Just rumors, I’m sure,” he said, “Though you were right about Whitehall and Morgenson. They ambushed me outside of the locker room.”

“I knew it!” Clyde announced, looking thoroughly indignant, “I knew it had to have been one of those bloody Slytherins!”

“Oh really?” Hermione said, her expression blank. The boy looked a bit sheepish.

“Well, I never disagreed with you.”

“Anyway,” Harry continued. He went on to give them the contrived story about being confunded and abandoned in the muggle world, WYRA’s rescue, and his return early that morning. He tried to play it off as a bad prank, keeping the telling light and even humorous. Clyde listened rapt with his tale, but the more he talked the more angry Hermione seemed to become.

“Of all the wretched…” she fumed, “You could have been killed! You could have been mugged, beaten, kidnaped, or even raped! I can’t believe those two would do something so horribly irresponsible and petty over a silly game!”

“Hey!” both boys protested on behalf of their ‘silly game’.

“Well, really!” Hermione huffed.

Before an argument could breakout over the merits of Quidditch, the portrait opened to let in a couple of third years. Their reaction, like Hermione’s and Clyde’s, was to let out shrieks of surprise and then stare stupidly for several moments. Feeling a bit awkward under their awed study, Harry forced a smile and a little wave.

“Hello.”

“No way!” cried a tawny haired girl. “You’re alive!”

“I think so,” Harry agreed, and then took his pulse to make sure. “Yep, still here.”

“Oh my God, no one’s going to believe this!” said her companion, a lightly freckled boy., and then an instant later disappeared back through the portrait hole. The girl looked suddenly flustered with being alone with the now infamous, Harry Potter. She opened her mouth as if to ask something, shut it, opened it again, changed her mind and ran after her escaping companion.

The trio stared at the portrait hole for a moment, then looked to each other.

“What was that?” asked Clyde.

“I dunno,” offered Harry, “but I hope everyone doesn’t react that way. It was funny the first time, but it gets old fast.”

Hermione looked a bit amused, her previous worry dissipating with the realization that he really was here and he was safe, unharmed, and in good spirits. With her good mood restored, her next words were a bit teasing.

“What do you expect? It’s not every day one of your housemates wins a Quidditch match against Slytherin, is kidnaped, presumed dead, and then returns. You can bet this is going to be in the Wizard Weekly too.”

Harry groaned at the thought. He, like most people, had his fair share of daydreams about being famous, but it had never occurred to him that it would be quite this… embarrassing.

“And then of course, there’ll be interviews,” Hermione continued. “There’s already been several reporters following this story who visited the school, and interviewed the students and teachers, so you can bet there will be at least three times as many as before.”

Clyde made a grimace.

“Bloody nuisance they made of themselves too. They must of heard we were good mates, ’cause they seem to follow me and Hermione like puppies… creepy puppies with cameras and notebooks and no respect for privacy. One bloke followed me into the bathroom! Can you believe it?”

Harry wished he didn’t.

“I know!” Hermione said, her teasing tone now indignant. “I think the same fellow tried to follow me up into the girl’s dormitory! He set the wards off and McGonagall came storming in. I’ve never seen her look so mad! She transfigured his notebook into a bird and threw it out the window. Then, he actually had the gall to yell at her about freedom of the press and the right to free speech!”

“What happened?” Harry asked.

“She transfigured his camera into a fish and threw out the window and into the lake! Then she said if she ever found him in the tower again she’d turn him into a pig and let him loose in the Forbidden Forest,” Clyde said, and then let out a long hooting laugh.

“But it’s going to be ten times worse for you, Harry,” she said, looking sympathetic. “Not only are the reporters going to come after you for the story, so is every other over curious classmate and teacher. And they can follow you anywhere in the school.”

Harry had hoped Hermione was exaggerating, but it was less than an hour before her prediction came true. The two third years had rushed off to immediately tell their entire house that the Black Cat of Gryffindor apparently still had an extra seven or eight lives. The other tables near by quickly learned of what was happening, and dinner wasn’t even half over when half the student body got out of their seats in order to storm Gryffindor tower. A few reporters who had lingered for the day managed to slip into the crowd with them.

Harry and his friends were soon cornered in the common’s room, and no amount of verbal or physical aversion could get them away or around the curious horde. A continuous stream of questions was poured out, most of which Harry couldn’t answer and the rest he had to lie about if he said anything at all.

Some of the questions were obvious: Where have you been? Why did you disappear? Who was responsible?

Other questions were just bizarre: Where you influenced by the alignment of the planets? Do you have any injuries now of a magical nature? Have your eyes always been that bright?

And some were just plan inappropriate: Did any of those London Muggles touch you, Harry? If you could take revenge on your abductors, what punishment would you choose? Do you think the love of your girlfriend (‘I beg your pardon!’ Hermione snapped.)guided you home?

To everything Harry replied either, ‘I’m not allowed to say, it’s under investigation,’ or ‘I don’t know. I was confunded most of the time,’. After half an hour of this, several repeats of the same questions and answers, and no end in sight, Harry said nothing and settled himself in for a long night.

It was almost midnight, when McGonagall finally arrived at the commons room and sent everyone to bed. Their own beds, and that included the other houses and the reporters who had invaded her domain. She spared a clearly exhausted Harry a pat on the shoulder, and sent him on his way. Even here his dorm mates tried to question him, until a rather protective Clyde told them all to leave Harry the bloody hell alone for eight bloody hours.

The next day wasn’t much better, and Harry had to use every bit of his (and Hermione’s and the Weasley twin’s) wits to get to his classes without being cornered, questioned, and made tardy. Classes were a welcome reprieve, as none of the reporters dared interrupt a professor’s class- they were all extremely short tempered it seemed and with collections of hexes that only the most deviant intellectuals might acquire- and they were all being extra firm on the ‘no talking in class’ rule. Harry had actually been relieved when Professor Snape had informed him he would be making up his lab practicals that Saturday. The prospect of that weekend without any privacy was bleak enough without the benefits of his professor’s protection..

Meals were taken in the kitchens with the house elves, who cooed and clucked over him, but didn’t ask any questions beyond ‘how many lumps of sugar would Mr. Potter like in his tea?’ Studying was the trickiest venture, since regular trips to the library were required and reporters liked to hang outside and wait for him or one of his friends to come through. Removing his glasses and transfiguring his tie and badge different House’s colors worked twice, but they quickly caught on. Luckily, the twins thought it hilarious fun to help their ‘idol’, and they were a treasure trove of disguises, pranks, and distractions.

By Friday, Harry was on the verge of hexing someone.

“Bloody hell, when will this end?”

Clyde shrugged, his demeanor almost as sullen as Harry. Constantly being questioned when Harry wasn’t around, and then completely ignored when he was, was a blow to his pride as well as his patience. Hermione was also irritable, but she had experience dealing with reporters because of her father’s activity in politics and could see the end in sight.

“The Dark Lord has been gone for most of the week,” she said, “And the Headmistress has been too busy trying to salvage the situation regarding her failure to protect a student to deal with it all properly. That’s the only reason this nonsense has been allowed to continue. When he gets back, those reporters won’t be allowed anywhere closer than Hogsmeade.”

He didn’t think it possible, but Harry was actually looking forward to Voldemort’s return. A return which would be the Saturday after next at the latest, when Slytherin and Ravenclaw Quidditch teams would face off.

That weekend Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were playing. Harry wished he could go and watch them, but with the enormous amount of overdue homework and the castle mostly empty, Hermione had succeeded in convincing him to spend the morning in the library. They were unexpectedly joined there by Draco and Natalie. Both complained it was too cold to watch a bunch of Powderpuffs and Bookworms fumble around on broomsticks. Ron, who was sulking over Potion’s essay, didn’t look like he agreed, but had tagged along anyway.

Their whispered discussions over alchemy, aconite, and the Elven-Orcan War of 1222 gradually lapsed into more casual matters in more casual tones.

“Where’s your other fellow today? What’s his name? Claude or something,” asked Draco, not looking up from his DADA textbook.

“Clyde? Unlike me, he’s actually had all week to do his homework,” Harry said, not bothering to look up from his Astronomy text book either.

“So what’s your excuse, Hermione?” asked Natalie, who did look up and rather slyly at that.

“I don’t much care for Quidditch,” she replied and made it an actual point to not look up.

“Then why were you at the Gryffindor-Slytherin game if you don’t like Quidditch?” the blonde witch inquired. At this Draco glanced surreptitiously up at her.

“Harry asked me, of course.”

“Really?” This time, Natalie’s curious gaze turned to Harry. It felt strangely accusatory, though Harry couldn’t fathom why she be imply he’d done something devious.

“She wouldn’t have come otherwise,” he explained defensively, “I was sworn to secrecy, and couldn’t tell her beforehand. I figured she’d be mad at me afterwards if I didn’t ask her to come see for herself.”

“How in the name of Merlin did you get on the team in the first place?” Ron blurted out, as it was clearly something that had bothered him for a while now. Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit smug with his answer.

“Punishment,” he said.

“Punishment?” asked the three Slytherins. Hermione, who had learned of it all from the twins and then from Harry directly, shared an amused look with her troublesome friend.

“Yes. I was forced to play Quidditch,” Harry explained, “As punishment for disobeying the professor during flying lessons.”

Ron had gone completely white.

“B-b-but… I had to scrub out cauldrons! Why aren’t I playing Quidditch?”

Harry thought it perfectly obvious, but the boy looked so disturbed that he didn’t have the heart to be bluntly honest about the matter.

“Well, I suppose the Head of our Houses chooses punishments that best help the school, and preferably their own houses. Professor Snape must have felt their was a greater need for clean cauldrons than for a new Slytherin Seeker.”

“Amen to that,” said Draco, “Father took me to a Gryffindor-Slytherin match last year. Gryffindor got creamed. I was almost embarrassed to watch. But still… Quidditch as punishment?”

“Were you watching the match out there? I thought I was going to die. Your team is evil.”

Draco’s looked backed to his book. None of his Slytherin friends, or Ron, had questioned him about the events of his disappearance, more out of lack of opportunity than anything else. The other three houses had been pretty protective of him, and he had not been alone with a Slytherin since his return. So Harry was unsurprised when the Malfoy heir used the conversational opening to ask in the most disinterested tone the matter that was most definitely of interest to him.

“Yes, well, you would know. I heard aWhitehall and Morgenson have been suspended because of their involvement in your disappearance. I trust they didn’t rough you up too badly?”

“I don’t know. I was confunded, remember?” was Harry’s automatic reply.

A look of annoyance passed over Draco’s face briefly, but it quickly turned neutral again. Ron who was slightly appeased by Harry’s earlier response, had returned to sulking over his essay. Natalie didn’t bother hiding her skepticism, her brow arched elegantly at him.

“Surely, you remember something,” she asked.

“Nothing I haven’t told half the reporters in Britain at least twenty times. I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me. WYRA probably knows more about what happened than I do. Ask Snape about it, he probably knows quite a bit. I wish everyone would just shut up about the matter and leave me alone.”

The opportunity for interrogation having passed, Draco slid easily onto other subjects. This time it was a matter so non sequitur , it threw off both Harry and Hermione.

“Father wished me to invite you to our family Christmas Party.”

“What?!”

Madam Pince, Hogwart’s rather strict librarian, sent a warning glare from the check out desk..

Amazingly, it was the adopted Malfoy and not the invited who had shouted out in surprise. Her expression was so horrified, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Malfoy Christmas parties were a code word for ‘apocalypse’. Draco rolled his eyes.

“You can’t be that surprised?” he said, “After all, he’s on good terms with the Dark Lord, and appeared in the papers on two separate occasions. And he isn’t even twelve yet.”

“Draco Narsissio Malfoy, my friends are not father’s toys! I won’t have him playing his deranged political games with him!”

Draco ignored his sister’s outburst, turning a conspiratory look towards Harry and grinning wickedly. “If Father invites you for a private talk, run. He’ll probably try to arrange a betrothal between you and Hermione… or me. Which ever he thinks will most appeal to you.”

Harry just blinked stupidly at him, unsure if he was joking or not, while Hermione sputtered and blushed.

“Oh, and of course, you two are invited as well,” Draco said, waving dismissively at his companions.

“Jeepers,” Natalie said sarcastically, “Thanks for remembering us non-celebutantes.”

“Yes, well, one must acknowledge the little people from time to time.”

“Brother!”

Madam Pince slammed down one of her ancient books.

“WILL YOU ALL BE QUIET?! THIS IS A LIBRARY NOT A GOSSIP HALL!”

That afternoon found Harry descending the stairs to the lower dungeons. He had two potions he was expected to brew, and according to Clyde they were lengthy. He’d need at least, three hours to finish them, and he couldn’t have been happier.

“Potter,” Snape growled, taking in the boy’s dusty, cobweb ridden clothes with irritation. “I know this is a Saturday, but a little effort towards your appearance is still warranted.”

Harry blushed, pausing a moment to pat some of the dust off. He only succeeded in making himself sneeze, and making Snape look even more irritated.

“Sorry, Professor. Some reporters tried to corner me outside the library and I had to duck into a secret passage.”

The dour potion’s master said nothing to that, and merely swished his wand at him. Instantly, the dust and cobwebs disappeared and his robe look freshly laundered and pressed.

“Thanks,” Harry offered reluctantly.

“Don’t bother. Cobwebs are a potent potion’s ingredient and I don’t want to spend all day here because they keep falling into your work,” he sneered, pointing towards the only work station with a burner already set up.

“Well, then thanks for nothing,” Harry muttered and stomped over his station. Skimming over the directions on the board, he filled his cauldron a third of the way full with water and set it to boil, then went to gather his ingredients. As he was sorting through the various containers, Snape settle behind his desk with stack of essays in front of him, but favored watching the boy like a hawk over his grading.

“Are you finished with your essay on aging botanicals and their affects on Sleeping Draughts, yet?” the man queried, looking like he already suspected the answer as unsatisfactory.

“Almost,” Harry responded. “Speaking of which, your wormwood is starting to mold.”

“That’s for sixth year potions. Fresh wood is just to the left. I suppose my Goddaughter warned you about that?”

Harry left the storage closet, and returned to his work station, separating each ingredient in the order he would have to add them to the cauldron.

“No, why?”

“You’re only the third or fourth Gryffindor to notice. And exactly how complete is ‘almost’. I expect it by Monday, along with the essay on Pepper-up.”

“I just need to write the conclusion and revise it. I’d be done by now, but Hermione got us kicked out of the library for yelling.” Looking over the directions again, the young Gryffindor began pulling the seeds out of the milkweed pods and separating them from the down. It was a bit tricky, as a lapse in concentration would cause the feathery material to fly into the air and drift dangerously close to his cauldron.

“Hermione? Yell in a library? I imagine Draco was involved in some capacity,” the dark man said, mostly to himself.

“Well, yes. And Malfoy Sr. too, I suppose. I’ve been invited to their Christmas party. Draco says his father’s going to suggest a betrothal, but I think he was just playing.”

The older man snorted.

“Don’t be so sure. Draco’s already gone through two betrothals, and Hermione’s likely to be engaged before graduation.”

“What?! That’s… that’s… gross!”

Snape rolled his eyes. “I know, imagine all those nasty cooties they got!” he said sarcastically.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” he huffed, turning down the heat to his now boiling cauldron and stirring the water twelve times with the piece of wormwood. There was a long silence, before questions started popping up in his head. “Would he really try to set up a betrothal with me?”

“To you? Perhaps. With you? No. You’re still a minor and a ward of the school. If he were to ask anyone it would be the Headmistress or even Voldemort.”

“What? Why would they have any say in the matter?!”

Snape gave him an irritated look.

“Are you or are you not a ward of the school?”

“… Voldemort, though?”

“No authority technically, but do you think the headmistress would defy him in any manner whatsoever?”

Harry said nothing to a perfectly obvious answer. For nearly half an hour he worked on his potion and pondered what he should do. He certainly didn’t want anyone marrying him off, but his presence at the Christmas party didn’t seem like it would prevent it if that was what the Malfoy patriarch wanted.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked finally.

Snape, who had been quietly occupied with his grading said nothing and Harry thought he was either being ignored or hadn’t been heard. Heaving a heavy sigh, he turned back to his potion and nearly dropped his ladle when the man spoke.

“Why ask me?”

“Er…well, you’re friends with the Malfoys so… I figured… Slytherins and all…um..”

“I’m sorry I don’t speak in fragmented sentences. Shall we bring in someone to translate?”

“Well, do you want me as your other godson…er, godson-in-law?”

The man gave him a long, considering look, and the longer he looked the more his considerations seemed to disturb him. Harry gave him his nastiest scowl.

“I doubt it’s something you… we… need to worry about. You might have gained some attention, but that may fall on either side of the fence or fade away altogether. Lucius Malfoy won’t make such a gamble so early in the game.”

“So I should go?”

“If only so as not to insult the Malfoys, yes.”

Harry nodded, feeling relieved that a course of action was decided upon. Unfortunately, his relief was short lived as he realized his potions had turned from the correct blue green to dark green. Letting out a startled yelp, he quickly removed the overheating potions from the fire.

“Of course,” Snape said, watching smugly as Harry puttered about trying to save his brew, “Advice from Slytherin is always self-serving. I recommend taking it in small doses.”

Ballrooms and Backrooms

Time passed, Voldemort returned, the reporters left, the Weasley twins released a clutch of Gurgleburks (a sort of small pixy with beak like a humming bird, which it used to collect earwax to build their nests) in the middle of the Halloween feast, and Harry’s grand, albeit vague, adventure was gradually forgotten.

Despite speculation on possible trauma resulting from his kidnaping, Harry went on to win both his matches against Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw and was looking forward to facing off against Slytherin for the Quidditch Cup. The closer the final match drew, the more apt his potion’s professor was to giving him detentions.

This should have been extremely irritating, but it was quickly becoming an anticipated reprieve from his housemates. Hermione, who had not given up on the belief that Harry should not attend the Malfoy Christmas party, had unwittingly enlisted the help of just about every Gryffindor in school to back her up. Malfoy’s were Slytherins (Hermione being adopted Malfoy made it forgivable for her associate with them). Malfoy’s were evil. Malfoy’s would trick him into betraying his House. Malfoy’s would make him do bad things. Malfoy’s would cut him open and give his blood to Snape (that particular one was a favorite of the Weasley twins, and was soon elaborated upon with rituals of virgin sacrifice and monsters composed entirely of tentacles). Snape, being a Gryffindor-hating bastard, kept things nice and balanced with his snarky comments and favoritism.

“I trust you have something appropriate to wear?” Snape asked off-handedly, peering over at Harry who was hunched over a growing pile of beetle eyes. Harry was serving his fourth detention that month for … he couldn’t remember what, and tearing apart fragile beetle bodies for second year potions.

“A friend is lending me some dress robes. He promised to re-size them to fit me properly.”

“You could always re-size the clothes yourself.”

“If I weren’t serving so many detentions with you I might actually have the time to learn spells outside of homework,” Harry said, looking expectantly at his potion’s professor.

Snape merely smirked.

“I will be escorting you to and from the party, so don’t expect to be there long. You will arrive here appropriately attired at seven-fifteen sharp, or I’ll leave without you.”

Harry said nothing and continued working on his beetles until Snape finally released him to wash up before dinner. He couldn’t say that he was displeased with his escort’s decision to make their visit brief, as he wasn’t really looking forward to the party despite his insistence on going. He was going on principle, but pragmatically thinking he doubted he’d enjoy it much.

Christmas time in Germany had always been spent with family, playing out long standing family traditions from both sides and creating new ones every year. Parties were very few and only with their closest friends and their families in attendance.

Christmas at the Dursley’s had been a farce in comparison. A time of gaudy decorations, Dudley being even more horrendously spoiled than usual, and constant cleaning and baking of sugary treats. The least favorite part of the season by far, however, was the ostentatious parties where in Harry was dressed up in his only nice set of clothes and an ugly green tie with red Santas on it. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley would parade Dudley around to all their associates with a beaming pride matched only by Dudley’s own conceit. Harry would be forced to follow as he was introduced as their adopted ward of some war torn nation in Eastern Europe. And he would be forced to stand there under the pitying and condescending gazes of strangers and endure listening to them wax on and on about how kind and generous the Dursley’s were for taking him in.

He hated them in those moments.

He imagined the Malfoy’s party would more closely resembled the later than the former, although he had to admit he was curious to see more wizarding traditions. The decorations around Hogwarts were breath taking, and he couldn’t imagine a family that had sired Draco Malfoy would allow anything less. What he worried about most was the people. What sort of people attended a party held by Voldemort’s right hand man?

Fred and George Weasley gave a rather colorful list, on the top of which was Voldemort himself, followed shortly after by the Seeker of the Chudley Canons, and Satan.

Would they ignore him? Would they pity him? Would they sneer? Would they stare?

What would the see when they looked at him? The orphan of two of Voldemort’s most hated enemies? The lucky Gryffindor who survived an attempted murder by his school mates?

“Harry? Are you just getting back?”

Looking back from the portrait of the Fat Lady, Harry saw Hermione coming up the stairs with two large books in her arms and her school bag at her side.

“Yeah. Snape gave me beetles this time. How did the study session go? Gobbledegook.”

The portrait swung open and they both climbed inside. Hermione let out an exasperated sigh.

“You didn’t miss out on anything important. Everyone was too distracted talking out their holiday plans to get much studying in.”

Harry smiled.

“Can you blame them? Two weeks without classes and only a few essays for homework? Besides, I’m sure there excited to be going home for the holidays. Aren’t you?”

Hermione smiled back weakly. Harry gave her a weird look.

“You really don’t want to go home for Christmas?”

She sighed, and pulled him into a little nook in the corner of the common room. They sat across from each other, and Harry only now realized how miserable she looked.

“Go home to what, Harry? My foster father barely looks at me at the best of times, and curses my birth at the worst. Narcissa pretends nothing’s wrong, convinced hiding me under pretty bows and good manners will make everything fine and wipe away the supposed blemish of my dirty blood. My house is a museum and death trap rolled into one, and I’m not even allowed in the library!”

Harry wasn’t sure what he should say to that. He had known Hermione didn’t get along well with her foster father, but he hadn’t realized it was so bad that she would shun her own home rather than face him, and he had never heard her utter a complaint about her foster mother before.

“Is that why you don’t want me to come to the party, Hermione? Because you think your foster family will look down on me too?”

“Yes…no… sort of.”

“Thank’s for clearing that up.”

“Harry, it’s not that I care what they thinks of you. You’re a wonderful friend and wonderful person, nothing they think or say will convince me other wise, but Harry… if they choose to… if they wanted… they could… they could…”

“Hermione, what could they do?”

She wiped the corner of her eyes and sniffed.

“They could… forbid me from being your friend.”

Harry looked in the mirror critically as Clyde bustled around him, straightening up his robes and making sure they fit properly. They were blue with silver clasps and bangles, and made him look unusually pale.

“Not to sound too much like a girl, mate,” Clyde said, “But you’d look way better in green.”

“Professor McGonagal would have a heart attack.”

“Snape too, if we were lucky.”

They both laughed.

A familiar warmth in his pocket alerted him to the fact he was running late. He pulled out his watch and cursed.

“Too late to do anything about it now. Thanks for letting me borrow this, Clyde.”

The other boy shrugged dismissively. “Not like I’ll need it. Me and my ‘uncles’ won’t be going home till the night before Christmas.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry that your Grandmother hasn’t been feeling well.”

“Don’t worry about it. This happens every year. She’ll be fine once the stores stop selling eggnog. Now go on before the greasy git leaves without you!”

Harry hurried down into the dungeons alone. Hermione, Draco, and most of the other students who were going to attend the party had left several days before to spend the holidays at home. Despite his friend’s reluctance to return home, once there the letters she sent suggested she was having some fun. Mr. Malfoy was even busier than usual at Court, and the result was the rest of the family was left to enjoy their holidays with each other. Harry didn’t begrudge her happiness, but couldn’t help but feel lonelier than usual.

While there were only a few students left behind during the holidays, and that number kept decreasing the closer it came to Christmas, those that stayed were intent on enjoying themselves. The remaining students all sat at one large table now, allowing the otherwise segregated houses to mingle freely with each other and their older and younger companions. Harry tried to be sociable, but there was this barrier of infamy between them, one he had gotten during the Welcoming Feast and strengthened with his Quidditch victories and kidnapping. Every time he spoke to someone unfamiliar he felt their unspoken expectation.

Clyde was by far the most enjoyable company, but he also craved large groups of people and wasn’t above leaving Harry alone for hours to go out and have a snow ball fight. The Weasley twins… well, they were really only safe in small quantities. Like alcohol, too much and you found yourself either embarrassed, injured, or in trouble with authority. All his Slytherin friends had left about the same time as Hermione.

Well, at least he’d get to see them he thought.

Harry arrived at the potions lab just in time to catch up with Snape.

“Cutting it close aren’t you? And what a horrid color,” the greasy git said by way of greeting.

“There’s nothing wrong with blue, and beggars can’t be choosers.”

“What a perfectly muggle sentiment. Cambi rosso.”

His robes suddenly turned Gryffindor red. The boy looked himself over and regarded Snape skeptically. “What? No white fur trim?”

“I could just as easily turn them pink if the color is not to your liking.”

“Ho ho ho.”

Snape rolled his eyes and led Harry further into the dungeons. They entered the Slytherin dorms. Harry had visited once or twice with Hermione, but hadn’t stayed long in the gloomy place. This was first time he’d seen the Slytherin common room decorated, and it looked very pretty and very cold with its Christmas tree laden with silver ornaments and pure white furniture.

They walked to a narrow door and Snape pulled a key from his pocket. Using the key on the door, a glimmering light seeped through the cracks of the door before fading away. As they stepped through, Harry knew they had just warped to Malfoy Manor. They were deposited into what appeared to be a cloak room. They were immediately greeted by a rather ugly little creature dressed in what appeared to be a pillow case. It looked around the at the rows of hanging cloaks, gloves, and scarves with barely concealed terror.

“My Masters bid you welcome, my Lords,” it, she?, said, bowing so low its floppy ears brushed the ground, eyes flitting about from side to side. “Gigi is escorting you to the ballroom, now.”

She practically ran from the room.

“What on earth is that?”

“Boggart,” Snape informed him. “The only way you can catch them by locking them in a closet. Their quite terrified of them.”

“Oh.”

Harry was so distracted by the funny little creature skittering about, he failed to notice Snape’s dark eyes glowing with humor.

They were led down a very long corridor lined with portraits that followed their progress with calculating grey eyes. Between the portraits were display cases, filled with many strange items and books that turned their own pages every so often. Harry was hard pressed not to stop and study them all more closely, but Snape’s insistent hand pressing on his shoulder kept them moving forward.

“Hermione was right,” he said, “This place is a museum.”

“Not a sentiment I recommend repeating to the rest of the Malfoy family, Mr. Potter.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve heard it said.”

Draco Malfoy was leaning behind a marble pillars. He slunk from his hiding spot, smiling mischievously. He was richly dressed in dark blue and silver, and on him it looked quite flattering. “Father sent me to wait for you. Our Lord is holding a private discussion with some of the inner circle.”

Snape nodded. Draco turned to Harry.

“Just go through that door. Hermione’s probably sulking in a corner somewhere. Nice robes, by the way.”

With that, Harry was left to his own devices. He was seriously tempted to go back the way they’d come and get a better look at some of those display cases. Then he remembered Hermione had described the house as not only a museum, but a death trap as well. With a deep breath and a conscious effort to maintain his posture, he opened the door.

A waltz was playing, but from where he couldn’t see. There had to have easily been over three hundred witches and wizards filling the room, all dressed beautifully in their finest. Harry felt distinctly underdressed, but no one paid him any attention as he made his way through the- good god was that a diamond or a crystal ball?

“Harry!”

He turned to see Hermione, Natalie, Ron, and several of Draco’s other friends clustered together in a corner. As he made his way over, he couldn’t help but notice Ron standing awfully close to Hermione and looked rather pink in the ears. She was dressed in a satin white gown, embroidered with crystal snow flakes that flickered different colors every time she moved. Her hair had been curled into ringlets that escaped from her silver hairpin to cascade down her naked shoulders. Combined with the glowing smile escaping her pink painted lips, he could sympathize with Ron for the first time ever.

Hermione was gorgeous.

“About time you showed up, Harry,” Natalie greeted, looking mysterious and beautiful in black silk and white gloves. “Hermione was starting to develop a twitch.”

“Natalie!”

“Don’t melt your snowflakes, Princess, I was only teasing. Come on, Zabini, lets squeeze in a dance before everyone starts getting drunk.”

“Natalie!”

The blond bombshell was already off, leading her rather flustered date away. Harry just smiled as she disappeared, then turned to his friend.

“You look nice.” She just shrugged and looked him over. Her expression turned quizzical.

“You look…ah..”

“Like a prepubescent Santa,” Ron offered, smirking.

“I was going to say ‘festive’, but…”

“It used to be blue, but you know … your godfather’s Christmas spirit and all.”

That earned him several snickers, and a sympathetic look from Hermione. From somewhere in the folds of her dress she pulled out a wand.

“Cambi verde.”

His robes turned green.

“What am I? A mood ring?” Harry lamented. “Think Snape will cry ‘blasphemy!’ if he sees me like this?”

“No, but he might turn you pink.”

“Who has he done that to?”

“Lucius for one.”

From there they fell into casual conversation, laughter, and the occasional interruption of an adult dropping by to extend their greetings to their host’s daughter. Draco eventually showed up, shoved Ron onto Parkinson for a dance, and then made an escape before they got back. The other Slytherins eventually wandered off to get something to drink or mingle with their dates, leaving them to wander by themselves out onto the balcony. Aside from a few wizards enjoying a smoke, the large balcony was practically empty. Although the area was covered in a layer of snow, they left no foot prints and it was only slightly cooler outside than in.

“Didn’t you want to dance, Hermione?” he asked, realizing they were probably the only two who hadn’t yet.

“Is that your way of inviting me to?”

Harry blushed. “I don’t really know much about dancing. I think the last time I tried was when my mom taught me to waltz at her friend’s wedding. I was only seven, so…”

“Well, come on… show me what you remember, I’ll fill you in on the rest.”

“Oh…um…okay.”

He stepped up to her, feeling awkward and clumsy before they had even started. It was a lot different dancing with someone about the same size than it had been with his mother. Hermione had to correct the position of his hand on her hip and remind him not to keep looking at his toes. His face was on fire and Hermione was on the verge of laughing.

“Okay, I think we’re ready to start,” she said, “Lets just keep to the basic steps, then we’ll try something adventurous like twirling.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

“And one, two, three, and one, two, three, and- Ouch!”

One moment Harry was fumbling through his dance steps, stepping on Hermione’s toes no doubt, and the next he found himself face down in a snow drift. Lifting his head, it took him a moment to spot a large mansion almost half a mile away, and then realize it was Malfoy Manor. No sooner had he realized this, than he was landing heavily on his back and looking up at Hermione’s concerned face.

“… Okay…”

“Are you alright, Harry?”

He considered the question. “I hope so. Tell me, did something odd just happen a moment ago?”

She smiled and helped him climb back to his feet. Now at a proper angle, Harry could see that they had company in the form a ‘bogart’, a different one than before, wearing a flour sack. It was peeking at Harry rather guiltily.

“I’m sorry about that, Harry. You stepped on my toe and Dobby overreacted a bit.”

“Dobby?”

The ‘bogart’ let out a mournful wail.

“Dobby has disgraced his mistress and attacked a wizard! Oh, Dobby is the most awfullest of House Elves. Dobby must punish himself!”

“Oh, Dobby! Don’t-”

In a rather alarming display, the strange creature picked up a flower pot and smashed it over its own head. Harry watched stunned as Dobby snapped his fingers, and the pot fixed itself, and he smashed the pot on his head yet again.

“Dob-”

Smash.

“No, stop-”

Smash.

“Immobilis corpus!”

Dobby stopped mid-self-punishment. Hermione let out an exasperated sigh.

“Now I command you stop that. It was an honest mistake, and you know I dislike it when you decide to punish yourself,” she chided, then turned to Harry. “This is my personal house elf, Dobby. He can be a bit… overzealous, but he’s really a very good elf.”

“I thought he was a boggart?”

Dobby let out a horrendous wail.

“Oh, Dobby is a boggart! How he has shamed his mistress!”

“What is all the racket about?!”

Draco came storming out to the balcony, took one look at Dobby and rolled his eyes.

“I should have known. I thought you were told to stay out of the way tonight?”

“Oh, Dobby is the worstest elf ever!”

“Draco, you’re not helping!”

“Dobby, go do dishes in the kitchen. I’m sure there’s plenty of sharp pointy things still in the sink for you to punish yourself with.”

Dobby bulbous eyes widen, look far to pleased at the prospect of pain to be healthy. Hermione sighed and released him for her spell, allowing him to disappear with a loud ‘pop’.

“Blimey,” Harry said. Draco smirked.

“Takes a bit of getting used to. Dobby’s been Hermione’s elf since she was five and she still doesn’t know how to deal with him.”

She scowled darkly at her brother, who smiled sweetly and draped an arm around Harry.

“Sister dear, mother was looking for you. She wants you to meet her in the powder room.”

Hermione sighed, then looked apologetically at Harry.

“She probably wants me to meet all her society friends again. I’ll try to keep things brief.”

Once she was gone, Harry found himself alone with Draco. He expected the other boy to return to the party, but instead he pulled Harry off to the side. The pale boy regarded him cooly and Harry was suddenly reminded of that moment on the train where Draco had threatened him.

“I like you Harry,” the Malfoy heir said finally, “You make school… interesting. And you’re a fairly descent fellow, for a Gryffindor of course.”

“Of course,” he conceded.

“I can appreciate that my sister likes you, but I have to wonder… why do you like my sister?”

Harry frowned. “I don’t know what you mean. Why wouldn’t I like Hermione? She’s clever, funny, and a good friend.”

“Yes, yes she is. She is also bossy, condescending, and a spoil sport.”

Yes, Harry admitted to himself, that was true, but that wasn’t all Hermione was.

“She’s… I dunno. She’s Hermione. Sometimes she’s a bit too smart for her own good, but… she’s… well, she’s like me.”

“Like you?” Draco asked skeptically.

“I don’t think it’s something you could really understand. We’re both trying to make the very best out of what happened to us.”

“Happened to you? Nothing happened to Hermione. I never would have allowed it. Our family never would have let anything hurt her.”

“But she’s still hurting, isn’t she, Draco?”

The other boy looked ready to snap at him, but hesitated, then looked away. When Draco looked back at him, his expression was mutinous.

“You sure you just don’t think she’s cute?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Draco made a frustrated gesture.

“Well, damn. Why couldn’t you be shallow? This would be so much easier if I could just shove Natalie off onto you.”

“What are you babbling about Draco?”

“You know my parents are going to arrange a marriage for my sister, don’t you?”

“…”

“Despite what I said, I doubt they’ll arrange it with you. So listen, don’t go making her fall in love with you, ok?”

“Er…”

Draco shook his head, looking at Harry like he was imbecile. “Gryffindors!”

“Yes, well, Slytherins!” Harry said, pointing towards the ballroom dance floor. From amongst the many twirling couples, a rather flushed Hermione and Ron were dancing. Draco gaped.

“I leave him alone for five minutes!”

Harry laughed at his retreating back. A familiar warmth drew his hand to his pocket, and he pulled out his watch. He had been at the party almost three hours now, longer than he had anticipated. Was his watch telling him Snape wanted to leave now? Deciding he should find the potion’s master before the man found him, he went back inside. As he suspected, Snape was no where in the ballroom. Natalie tried to coax him to dance, but he made his excuses and kept looking. Hermione, Draco, and Ron had all disappeared into the crowd. Harry had almost despaired of finding the bastard, wondered why he would even want to find him, and then spotted someone who could help him.

“Gigi!”

The saggy eared house elf turned curiously to him, and gave him her usual bow.

“Mister Potter honors Gigi by remembering her name. How may Gigi help young Mister Potter?”

“Er… yes, I’m looking for Professor Snape. You know, the man I arrived with.”

“Professor Snape is in the drawing room with Master and Master’s Master. Gigi will take you there!”

“Master’s Master? You mean-”

Before Harry could protest, Gigi had taken hold of his robe and with a loud ‘pop’ was transported into the drawing room. Instantly, there were at least a dozen wands pointed directly at him. Blinking owlishly, Harry slowly lifted his empty hands.

“Potter?!”

Harry turned his head towards the fireplace where three very familiar Slytherins were seated and one man who could only be Malfoy Sr. with his hand entwined intimately with beautiful, haughty woman that had to have been Narcissa. His eyes skimmed them briefly, and something about their stances suggested he had interrupted something. When his gaze found Voldemort’s, he tensed.

“I didn’t do it!” he blurted, then slapped his hand over his mouth.

Voldemort let out a bark of laughter. The room was suddenly less tense. The other witches and wizards in the room put their wands away, and set their expression to something other than vacant surprise.

“Oh, Mr. Potter, what does such a reflexive statement say about our relationship?” Voldemort asked rhetorically, striding towards the young wizard. He stopped just before him, raising his hand to touch Harry’s cheek, tilting his face for gentle inspection. Harry remained tense and quiet, feeling more than just the Dark Lord’s gaze on him. Finally, the elder wizard released him. “What brings you to our little corner of the world, Mr. Potter?”

“… I’ve misplaced myself again, My Lord.”

Voldemort smirked, turning away to take up his position by the fireplace again. “I believe we had a discussion about that at the start of term.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No luck?”

“It’s one of my New Year’s resolutions, sir.”

Voldemort chuckled, and several others did as well, though Harry doubted they knew why. Lucius Malfoy was watching their interaction with intense curiosity, his grey eyes alight with thoughts Harry could not possibly dream of. Beside him, Lestrange, dressed in a green gown so dark it was almost black, was fixing him with a stare that rivaled Nagini’s. Snape… Snape was expressionless, which Harry knew meant something. If the bastard was content he’d be smirking.

“Do tell how you ended up here. I trust vampires weren’t involved?”

“Er… no, no vampires,” Harry stammered, then turned a rather dark look on Snape. “Though there might have been a boggart.”

Snape’s stoic expression cracked, just bit. It was enough that Harry felt some of his confidence return to him.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted your gathering, My Lord. I was merely looking for Professor Snape, when one of the house elves sought to… assist me.”

“And why were you looking for him?”

Harry shrugged. “He might not have to abide by a curfew, but I do.”

Voldemort looked to the clock resting on the mantle, and then back at Snape.

“I must apologize my friend, it seems we have impeded your responsibilities with all this idle conversation.”

Snape inclined his head. “Not at all. You are always my highest priority, My Lord.”

“Then I release you for the night. Go, take your young charge home and enjoy the rest of the holidays.”

The potion’s master stood, bowing respectfully to the Dark Lord and then to Lord and Lady Malfoy, his hosts. He strode towards the door, snagging Harry who was caught again in Voldemort’s crimson gaze. The connection broken, Harry’s stride easily matched Snape’s toward the exit, his hand the first to reach the door nob.

“Oh, and Mister Potter.”

Harry stopped, peering hesitantly over his shoulder at Voldemort, looking like the devil in the fire light.

“Merry Christmas.”

Lord and Lady Malfoy retired to their bedroom at three o’clock, leaving the clean up for the party to the already weary house elves and the few caterers they’d hired for the party. This being the first time they had been alone in days, they were both desiring the other’s company. So while Narcissa sat on the bed, and her husband worked to remove her shoes, they began their first and only honest discussion of the entire day.

“A rather eventful party wasn’t it?” Narcissa began.

“Indeed, if Potter hadn’t shown up when he had, your sister and Severus might have crossed wands,” he agreed, his hands sliding up her leg to unclip her pantyhose from her garter. He graced her with a mischievous smirk and kiss to her ankle as he exposed her naked skin. She smiled back, reaching to unfasten the silver clasps of his robe.

“She was being extremely antagonistic tonight, wasn’t she? I know Severus has been especially competitive with her recently, but I hadn’t realized she was feeling so defensive. I would never have allowed so many of her cronies into the private party if I had thought she was going to gang up on him. We’ll have to write Severus an apology letter.”

“Hmmm… I don’t know… Potter showed up at a very convenient time for him. He completely ruined her flow of innuendo about his professionalism as an unbiased teacher, hah!, and rather discredited her by actively seeking Severus out. What Gryffindor would seek out the cruel, tormenting Head of their rival house? I can’t help but wonder if he didn’t somehow signal Potter to come and save him. Do you need assistance with your jewelry?”

“Just my necklace if you would. Severus conspiring with a Gryffindor? James Potter’s son, no less? I can’t see it. Besides, his arrival was too perfect. There was no way Severus could have planned for that specific situation nor Potter’s specific method of entrance. It was a fluke. Gryffindors have a knack for them.”

Lucius conceded to her logic with a tilt of his head. She took his wrists to remove his cuff links.

“Speaking of Potter… what do you make of him?” Narcissa asked. Lucius scowled.

“I wanted to throttle him.”

She laughed and moved to unbutton his shirt underneath his robes.

“He wasn’t that bad. I found him quite endearing. And such pretty eyes, he had. Even from across the room you could see how green they were.”

“Yes, our Lord seemed to think the same thing. They couldn’t look away from each other.”

Narcissa paused, thinking back on the encounter. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but the boy had not looked away from Voldemort. Not once. When was the last time anyone had held the Dark Lord’s gaze for so long without look away or dying? Perhaps not since Dumbledore had been forced to retreat across the Channel.

“Do you suppose the boy is love with our Lord?”

“Well, it would explain Bella’s hatred for him, wouldn’t it? But it’s Voldemort’s reaction that concerns me I’ve never known him to entertain the affections of others, especially not children. There’s something going on, and I’m sure Severus and Bella know what it is.”

Helping Narcissa to her feet and allowing her dress slide to the floort, he stood behind her and began untying her bodice. They stood quietly until the contraption fell away and left her completely naked. Lucius’ warm hands ran the contours of her natural form, massaging light indentations the bodice had left on her pale skin.

“Perhaps we should ask Hermione,” Narcissa suggested offhandedly. “Draco mentioned that they were quite close.”

Lucius grunted, and hid his scowl in her hair.

“Please don’t mention that little mudblood while we’re doing this. It’s rather a turn off.”

A rather nasty retort was on the tip of her tongue, but the argument was old and led nowhere, and she was much too tired to start it up again now. She took up a wandering hand and kissed it affectionately.

“Then we’ll just have to wait to see how things unfold. Perhaps in the end, you’ll have your chance to wrap these beautiful, strong hands around that boy’s little neck, but for now they belong to me.”

The King and His Prince

Harry’s Christmas came and went quietly. Hermione and all his friends returned to the castle refreshed from their break. He wasn’t sure who was happier. Him for being reunited with his friends or Hermione for being reunited with the library.

Classes continued, tests were taken, points were gained and lost, detentions were served, and nothing crazy … crazier than the usual school related accident happened. Voldemort came and went from the castle, rarely seen accept at Quidditch matches and the occasional dinner. If he showed Harry any special interest, the boy didn’t know as he made it a point never to look in his direction.

The highlight of Harry’s second semester was definitely Quidditch. Transfiguring pens into forks and creating potions that equaled a visit to the dentist was great and all, but Harry had yet to find any sort of magic that rivaled the feeling of flight. In the air he felt powerful, like he could go straight into battle with only his broom and still come out the victor.

It was a very good feeling to have, especially as the final game of the season was once again between Gryffindors and Slytherins. They may have been short a Seeker and a Chaser, but Slytherin’s strength had always lay with its Beaters. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had grown bolder since Gryffindor’s first victory, but they lacked the blind aggressiveness that was Slytherin and the intense competitiveness of Harry’s house.

Walking to the Quidditch pitch, his team encircling him like an armed guard, the young Seeker was practically shaking with excitement. He had been to almost every match, as participant or spectator, and his knowledge of the game and of Slytherin’s tactics had grown immensely. With every flying maneuver, every point earned, and every foul called Harry imagined using what he learned against his most dangerous rivals.

And today he would have his chance.

“Alright there, Harry?” asked George… Fred?

He gave him a grin.

“Oh I like that look!” laughed the other Weasley twin. “Makes me thinks there’ll be an explosion at some point in the match.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “Lestrange’s temper when Slytherin loses.”

The team laughed, but quickly sobered as they neared the pitch. Even from the outside, it was obvious the stadium was packed. He suppose he should have figured that the championship game would have more spectators than usual, but the audience wasn’t something he spent much time considering in Quidditch.

“Who are all the extra people?”

“Well, in addition to the entire school,” began team captain Oliver Wood, “There are mostly other parents. No one aside from students and their guardians are allowed to attend… security issues, you know? We usually get at least one player who goes off to the national league after graduation, so people like to come and guess who.”

Harry felt himself relax. Perhaps it was a bit egotistical, but after the year he’d had he was worried they were there to gawk at him. The team quickly prepped for the game, joking around to settle everyone’s nerves as they waited. Finally they were called to the field.

They were greeted with thunderous applause from one side of stadium and resounding ‘boos’ from the other. Harry tried to find Hermione in the crowd, but realized it was hopeless. He didn’t even know what side of the stadium she was on, as she might very well have sat with her brother amongst the Slytherins.

The only people he could recognize right away were Voldemort and the Hogwarts staff seated in the VIP section, but he avoided looking. Too many Slytherins with too much power over him to settle his nerves any. Instead, he focused on the Slytherin team.

They looked as ogre-ish as he remembered, although they had gotten a smaller and swifter Seeker. Franklin Borgish was a thin boy with exceptionally long limbs and fingers. Harry had seen him play a few times, and that extra reach was a definite strength when catching the snitch but his balance was compromised as a result. He wondered if he couldn’t make that work to his favor.

Professor Gimms stalked onto the field.

“Players, mount your brooms!”

The stadium fell into a hushed silence.

The whistle shrieked.

The balls were released.

And the players were off.

“And Potter doesn’t waste any time!” cried the announcer, “He’s got the Snitch in his sights from the get go, and Borgish is just starting after him. Oh-no, they’ve both lost sight of it!”

Harry had not, in fact, lost sight of the Snitch, but it had suddenly changed directions and headed directly towards the Slytherin Seeker. He had looked in the opposite direction, and predictably, so did Borgish. The other Slytherin players had opted for a new strategy, and were not focusing on destroying Harry first. No, they seemed quite intent on destroying everyone else.

They were aggressively circling and obstructing the Gryffindors, not so much to gain or lose points, but to disrupt their movements in such a way that left them confused about their next move. The Weasley’s soon figured it out and were using the same tactic against one of the Slytherin’s Beaters. The others were having a harder time discerning their intentions, and Angelina nearly fell off her broom twice trying to avoid a collision with a player who just barely managed to change direction.

Harry could only partially follow his team’s movements, aided mostly by the announcer’s commentary, as a majority of his attention was focused on the snitch and keeping Borgish (who was still much closer to it than he was) from spotting it. The snitch flew downwards, finally away from the other seeker.

If it hadn’t moved so close to the ground, Harry never would have seen the shadow streaking towards his own. More on instinct than in thought, he angled his broom downward and shot towards the ground. He wasn’t aiming for the snitch, just avoiding that incoming shadow, but Borgish must have interpreted it like that and followed suit. Harry risked a glance back to see Slytherin beater, Marcus Flint, speeding after him. Above them, he could see the rest of his team preoccupied with battles of their own, and understood the Slytherin’s plan at once.

Keep the rest of the team busy, wait till Harry was distracted, then take him out long enough for their own seeker to catch the snitch.

A good plan, but Harry had no intention in letting them carry it out.

He leveled out at about six feet from the ground and angled his broom into the distance, encouraging Borgish to look that way as well. Once the Slytherin seeker was busy looking for the supposed location of the snitch, Harry slowed and descended even further so that his feet were brushing the grass. Quietly, almost sedately, Harry changed directions.

“Slytherin Chaser Corvis barely avoids two bludgers sent at him by both Weasley twin beaters, and Chaser Jones takes advantage by scoring a goal. Twenty points Gryffindor! And what the heck is Potter doing?”

By now Harry had practically stopped and Flint was coming at him full speed. He watched his progress by following the shadows on the ground, counting down until the moment of impact. Above him he could hear his teammates calling for him to look out.

“Five…Four…”

The shadow was too close now. He’d never be able to avoid a collision on his broom.

“Three…Two…”

His feet were suddenly solidly on the ground.

“One.”

He jumped-not flew or levitated or floated, but jumped to his left. Flint flew by him, unable to stop and expecting resistance, he had too much speed and too much of an angle. The nose of his broom hit the ground first, and the larger boy flipped clean off of it and smashed into the turf. No sooner had Flint’ face connected with the grass, then Harry was in the air again.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe he fell for that! I mean, Ouch! And Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint looks to be out of it for the game! But what’s this? Potter’s changed directions! Has he found the snitch?!”

He had never lost sight of the snitch, Borgish was on the wrong end of the field, the rest of the Slytherin team was distracted, and Flint wasn’t in any condition to stop anyone. All he had to do was reach out and-

“And Potter’s caught the snitch! Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup!”

Headmistress Lestrange had waited until she was in her office to explode. The endless number of portraits all looked down with either amusement or disgust, as she screamed and stomped and broke things in a mad fit. And from her perfectly white teeth and rosy red lips fell the blackest words of her black heart.

Like the jealous Queen cursing the fair and innocent Snow White, she thought only of the supposed wrongs against her. Her dearest and most precious Dark Lord, like a proud and solemn father he had presented yet another golden crown of laurels to that scruffy vagabond and his Gryffidork horde, while Slytherin House, his real family stood shocked and shamed from the side lines.

And while she could only stand there, and consciously fight to keep her hand from her wand, Snape had left her to talk to his House team. She had expected him to feel the same way, they were both Slytherins after all, and they all know exactly how badly they had failed their House, their families, and their Lord. As the Headmistress she had to appear impartial, but she itched to curse Borgish and Flint as much as she did Potter. But again, though it really shouldn’t have surprised her, Snape had disappointed her.

He quite solemnly gathered the players around him, handed Flint a healing potions from his robe, and spoke to them quite calmly.

“This is an unfortunate outcome,” Snape said, and the Slytherins looked dejectedly at their shoes, “But do not let this be viewed as a shame. Lift your heads and keep your eyes forward. You are Slytherins.”

They followed his instructions, the older ones quickly finding a way to stand on their injured pride. When they could all look their Head of House in the eye again, he continued.

“This was a very well played game. I have not seen our Lord so enraptured for many years. The Black Cat’s,” he sneered the nick name, “silly antics caught us off guard. Unlike the other Houses we learn far faster from our mistakes. We will have victory again soon.”

And it was a lie, a lie, a lie! But those stupid fools had seemed so satisfied with that insipid notion! To Hufflepuff with entire lot of them! You could never, ever fail. To fail was a weakness, and the weak died or lived wishing they had! Look at how quickly their Lord had turned from them for this small fallacy after ten years of perfection? Glory and Honor for Gryffindor?! Glory for the Mudblooded, useless, little Potter?

“AAAAAAAaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!”

In Voldemort’s office, Snape broke with his usual tradition to enjoy a bit of brandy with the Dark Lord. He was truthfully disappointed in his little Snake’s failure at the match that day, but in the scheme of things it was small loss. Their futures would not suffer for it. They would still graduate to become the leaders of Wizarding Britain, and two of his players had already received scholarships to play at wizarding universities. They would all get over it, and play even better next year.

Having consoled himself, he took the time to instead consider how he might take advantage of the situation. On a purely vindictive level, he took great enjoyment from the fact that he could practically feel Lestrange’s insane rage vibrating through the castle stones. On a more pragmatic one, he knew Lord Voldemort could feel it as well and that reduced her once again in his eyes.

It was clear the elder wizard was quite taken with Lily’s boy. Studying the Dark Lord during the match, he had eyes only for Potter, and that was a bit frightening. It wasn’t exactly affection he had seen, but a look he had seen men of very specialized profession get when they find an extremely valuable tool. The wizard’s dark mind had been spinning with possible uses for the child.

A Prince. He had said the wizarding world should have a prince, but what did that mean?

Voldemort hadn’t meant an heir. The potion master knew he was practically immortal and had no need of one, particularly a Gryffindor even if he was of Slytherin descent.

A vague idea of what the man might want, flitted in and out of Snape’s mind, tangible as spider silk. He gave up on the speculation quickly. If he couldn’t think of it with a clear head, he certainly wasn’t going to find the answer while drinking.

“You look pleased, Severus,” Voldemort said, looking quite content sitting across from him. They were placed by the warm fire, Nagini dozing around her master’s shoulder. It was rather intimate, and without Lestrange demanding the Dark Lord’s attention like a spoiled child it felt doubly so. “Especially considering Slytherin’s loss today.”

Ugh. So maybe he hadn’t consoled himself completely of that fact.

“Yes, well… their first loss in ten years. Gryffindor have been more like mewling kittens than lions since your rise to power, so I’m not surprised they were caught off guard. Potter turned out to be quite the trickster. Perhaps he should have gone to my House after all.”

He quickly shielded his mind, keeping the Dark Lord from detecting the lie. Potter was as Gryffindor as James Potter and…Lily… ever were.

Voldemort seemed pleased with the comment though, just as Snape thought he would.

“Yes, he was a little imp today, wasn’t he? I trust Slytherin wasn’t too devastated?”

“Disappointed of course, but they’ll recover. There’s still the House Cup, of course.”

“Of course,” Voldemort conceded and took a drink of his brandy. “I do hope Bella keeps that in mind before she starts breaking things. I do keep my Founder’s Collection in her office after all.”

Inside, Snape was practically singing! Voldemort, alone with him, openly mocking the headmistress lack of self control. If he weren’t afraid of Potter cooties, he would go and kiss the little waif right now! Outwardly, he kept his expression neutral, although his voice was vaguely condescending.

“She’s always been very… passionate about House pride.”

Voldemort looked amused.

“And you are not ‘passionate’, Severus?”

Snape smirked. “I am proud, my Lord, and I am dedicated. But passionate… I have always viewed passion as more of a Gryffindor trait than a Slytherin one.”

Voldemort just smiled and lifted his glass.

Harry spent the remaining weeks before the end of term trying to hide his silly grin from every Slytherin he encountered, especially Snape. The first week after the Quidditch Cup, it had been difficult with all the other Gryffindors smiling and congratulating him. Even many of the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws had been impressed with him. And truth be told, he was rather impressed with himself, as well. The three detentions he had received from Snape and the exploding inkwell in his bag had gone a long way in curbing his enthusiasm.

Now with only a week remaining until the end of term, his enthusiasm had all but disappeared. Soon the castle would be empty, and without Wizarding Culture classes that summer he would not see any of his friends or teachers until September. While the rest of his classmates would be returning to their families, he would be spending his summer alone at the Sleuw’s. It would be an improvement over the Dursley’s, but it still seemed a sad option when he could think of so many others he wanted to spend time with.

Hermione.

Clyde.

His Slytherin friends… acquaintances?

Remus and Sirius, the Godfather he hadn’t seen since he was an infant.

“A knut for your thoughts?”

Harry turned to see Natalie, strolling across the green. Classes had ended for the day, but Hermione had insisted on a trip to the library and all he had wanted was wide open spaces and fresh air. With the charmed journal in hand, he had found a grassy knoll outside from which he began sketches of the Whomping Willow, and hadn’t been expecting company.

The Slytherin girl had forgone her school robes, opting instead for a green summer dress with matching lace up sandals that wound up to her knees. A gentle breeze danced with her hair, her dress, the free ends of her sandal ribbons and not for the first time Harry thought her quite beautiful.

“Do you really have a knut?” he asked.

“In this dress? Heavens no. It took be half an hour to figure out where to put my wand. What are you doing?”

He lifted the journal, showing her some of his pencil sketches. She ‘oohed’ at the drawings and then grinned. She walked a little past Harry to a small outcropping of rocks between him and the tree, and sat herself primly down.

“Draw me?” she asked.

Harry turned thoughtful. He had been drawing for over an hour already, and he was already experiencing a faint headache from touching the book for so long. “I don’t know. People are harder to draw.”

“Oh, come on Harry! Consider it a birthday present.”

“It’s your birthday?”

She grinned. “Will you draw me if I say yes?”

“I’ll promise to draw you for your birthday if you tell me the truth.”

“I’ll give you a clue. It falls on a Sunday this year.”

“That’s not a clue!”

“Well, then I guess you’ll just have to draw me every Sunday until January.”

It was such a Natalie thing to say that Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“So what are you doing out here Natalie? And without Draco or your usual girly-ish friends for that matter.”

“Girly-ish friends?”

“Parkinson.”

She snorted. “I suppose she does only rank as ‘girly-ish’ with that unibrow. And she’s not a friend. Frankly, we can’t stand each other.”

“Then why are you always sitting by each other?”

“Because Draco likes to be seen sitting next to the prettiest girl in Slytherin, and Parkinson isn’t that girl. Poor thing, she’s insanely jealous.”

Harry shook his head. “I’ll never understand Slytherins. So why are you here instead of making all the other Slytherin girls jealous?”

“I wanted to talk with you before the term ended, and since Hermione has buried her brain in a book somewhere that doesn’t resemble ‘here’, I thought now would be the perfect time. Won’t you miss me when I leave for the summer?”

“Of course I will,” he said honestly. “I’ll miss everyone. Well… I’ll miss everyone except Ron and Snape anyway.”

“Will you write me?”

“If you write me first. I don’t have an owl, and the school’s owlry is off limits in the summer.”

“Well, then I’ll write you every week. And you better have my pictures ready or I’ll be very cross with you, Mr. Potter!”

From the tallest tower in the school, a silent observer couldn’t hear the boy’s ringing laughter through the gentle roar of the wind, but peering through his telescope his crimson eyes followed the movement of his throat and crinkling of his eyes. Adjusting the instrument just the tiniest bit, he could just barely recognize his journal set in the boy’s lap, forgotten but not discarded.

Back on the school grounds, with no viewing mechanism of his own, Harry could neither see nor hear Voldemort’s dark laughter. But he felt it as a chill running down his spine and a strange ache where his fingers touched the journal.

“…And with six-hundred and twenty-five points, the House Cup once again goes to Slytherin!” the Headmistress declared, and with a swish of her wand all the banners in the Great Hall turned green and silver.

“Blah, not again,” Fred groused, “I was so sure we’d win this year after we won the Quidditch Cup.”.

“What do you expect with Snape handing out points to his House like it was candy?” Clyde pointed out.

“… You might want to use a different analogy, mate. Who the heck would accept candy from Snape?”

“Stop groping my sister in public!” Draco snapped irritably, scanning the platform for gawkers. Hermione released Harry from her rather overzealous hug to glare at her brother. Harry grinned at the blond boy.

“Tell her to stop groping me first! Ouch! Don’t poke me so hard, Hermione. Your nails are sharp!”

“Boys, ugh!” she huffed. “Now, when I get back you better not have burned the Forbidden Forest down or flooded Hogsmeade or something. And get your homework done early this summer. If you do, you can send it to me and I’ll check it for errors. Did you remember to pack everything? It’s so silly with you living right next to the castle, but they won’t let you back in-”

“Hermione, come on! The good seats are going to be taken if you don’t hurry, and I’m not sitting next to a Hufflepuff. I’ve accepted that you’re a Gryffindor, but a man has to draw the line somewhere!”

The two best friends shared a grin, and reluctantly parted company. Harry remained on the train platform until all the other students were on board. Though he would be taking the Hogwarts Express to the school every year, he wouldn’t be taking it away from there. It was awfully tempting though.

He waved goodbye to his friends and fellow classmates until the train was so far away he could only make out its location by the trail of white steam, until finally even that was gone. Turning back towards the platform, he made his way over to the cluster of teachers standing a ways back in the shade of the station awning. The four Heads of House had accompanied each of their students there to make sure everything ran smoothly, but now with only him left he turned to McGonagall for instruction.

“Will I have time to gather my things or have they already been sent to the Sleuws?”

Their was a hesitance in the old witch’s response, and Flitwick and Sprout gave each other a rather obvious look. When Snape’s mouth curved in a strange mockery of a smile Harry knew he was in trouble. McGonagall gave him what she must have thought was a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“They’ve been sent on ahead, but Our Lord has requested to speak to you.”

“… About what?”

Another hand replaced McGonagall’s, this one making no attempt at comfort. Snape peered down at him.

“That is between the two of you, Mr. Potter. Come along. It’s best not to keep him waiting.”

McGonagall glared daggers at Snape’s back as he lead one of her Gryffindors towards the castle. All year the man had been taking liberties with Harry, and the more it happened the more Harry seemed to take it for granted. And she hated that. She hadn’t thought of herself as bias when it came to each of the Houses, but watching Lily’s son finding his company with snakes left her skin crawling.

But what could she do? Snape’s interest in Potter was a reflection of the Dark Lord’s interest, and how could she fight against that now? That same reckless and proud nature that defined Gryffindors had drawn the King of Serpent’s cool regard.

Her only consolation was Harry had not yet suffered any permanent damage…yet.

It was his first time completely alone with the Dark Lord. Snape had not lingered, though for moment Harry thought he might have, and disappeared to places unknown. Lestrange was gone, for which he was thankful, as was Nagini. He should have felt better about his enemy number being reduced to one, but this one was more dangerous than them all combined and he felt like that eight year old child again, being lead from a life he knew into some unknown danger.

He lingered by the door.

Behind his desk, Voldemort regarded him with his usual amused expression.

“Tell me, Harry,” he said, his voice serpentine, “What do you think of being a wizard?”

It wasn’t a question Harry had been prepared for. The man may as well have asked him the meaning of life. But his mouth opened, and as usual, he spoke without thinking.

“I don’t think about being a wizard anymore than I think about breathing,” he said, and with a conscious effort, continued in English. “I am what I am.”

The Dark Lord let out a soft laugh, and gestured for Harry to sit in one of the chairs across from him. Reluctantly, he obeyed.

“A simple answer followed by a vague one. Who do you suppose you are, Harry?”

This gave the boy pause. Did he really know who he was? Until last year he hadn’t known he was a wizard. Until a few months ago he hadn’t known his parents were either, that he had a living Godfather, or that he had a history still far beyond his grasp. And even if he did, how could he answer a question like that?

“…”

“Shall I tell you who you could be?” Voldemort offered, leaning back in his chair. “You could be great. You’ve already accomplished great things.”

“…”

“Is that modesty or fear that keeps your tongue?”

“What do you want from me?”

At this, Voldemort’s snorted and turned away, irritated.

“Gryffindor.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Guilty as charged.”

“I suppose these are matters that require more forethought. Perhaps you’ll have better answers by the end of summer?”

“…I’ll think them over.”

They fell silent, both regarding the other cautiously. Harry having no clue why he was there to begin with and Voldemort having found his bait ignored, neither were familiar enough with the other to fall into a conversation easily. When the silence stretched into awkwardness, the young Gryffindor tried his best.

“…so… Where’s Nagini?”

Voldemort considered ignoring the asinine question, but decided to encourage the child’s confidence. It was part of the reason he was here after all.

“I’ve sent her ahead to my summer home. I thought it best, since I brought a gift for you. She’s rather jealous, after all.”

That seems a common trait among Slytherins, Harry thought to himself. Aloud he said, “A gift? What for?”

Voldemort stood, striding towards an oddly shaped item with a black cloth draped over it. He set his hand on it and turned back to Harry.

“Consider it a ‘thank you for amusing me’ present.”

Removing the cloth, he revealed a large gilded birdcage, in which was perched a beautiful white owl. It blinked sleepily, and turned its bright yellow eyes to study Harry. Despite his wariness, Harry couldn’t help but be drawn from his chair to get a better look at it. So enraptured he was by the owl, he completely overlooked Voldemort’s pleased smile.

“I had heard that you have no familiar, and when I saw her I thought her perfect for you. She got in a fight with Nagini the moment they met.”

Harry chuckled, but did not look away.

“Here, let me introduced you properly.” Tapping the very top of the cage with his wand, Voldemort hissed an unfamiliar spell and the gold wires pulled away from each other, curling out from the base of the cage like flower petals. Without a barrier, the white owl stretched her wings and hopped onto Harry’s outstretched arm. Her black talons, which could have ripped him to shreds, pinched his skin beneath his shirt but he ignored the pain.

“Oh, My Lord… she is beautiful.”

“I am glad you like her. You will be keeping each other company for many years to come.”

He ran his fingers through her white feathers, and she puffed up proudly under his adolescent adoration. Turning a timid, questioning gaze towards the elder wizard, he asked, “What is her name?”

“A good question. What is her name? She’s your owl.”

His mind filled with name after possible name. Bianca… no, too snobbish. Whitey…too lame. Hedwig… cute, but not quite right.

“Elsbeth,” he decided.

“Elsbeth, the White Witch of Ireland?” Voldemort asked, considering it. “A fine name, although I would like to point out she killed and ate her husband’s mistress.”

Harry shrugged. “No one’s perfect.”

Voldemort just grinned and stood back, admiring his work. Snape appeared to have been right. A small bit of kindness at the right time went a long way with the child. Already the Gryffindor was more at ease being alone with him. It was a frail sort of trust, but it was a start. In time, he fully intended Harry to associate their private time together as something positive.

Just like all his servants did.

Snape had been so pleased with their private audience after the Quidditch Cup. Bellatrix used to be the same way, back when he actually allowed such meetings to occur. They, like all his former Death Eaters, knew that while alone together he was pleased with them, and while in company he either wasn’t or was on neutral standing.

It was only a matter of time before Harry was counted among them..

In case you’re not sure, Elsbeth is Hedwig, just with a different name. I never cared for the name Hedwig.

And that is the last chapter of Harry’s first year. Next week will Harry’s summer followed by his second year. It should be even more exciting than his first year. I hope you all enjoyed it! Reviews (and critiques) welcome!