Autumn for the Two. The First Moment of Eternity

Dumbledore could almost hear the Slytherin Head of House dashing from the dungeons towards him knocking aside everything in his path. So, when the door burst open, the Headmaster only thought distantly that his professors had lately acquired the odd habit of barging into his office without so much as a knock. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ asked Professor Severus Snape from the doorway, caring neither for the barest norms of courtesy nor for making sure he’s understood. Minerva, sitting in the chair opposite Dumbledore, placed her teacup gently onto its saucer and looked calmly at her superior. ‘You were right, Albus,’ she remarked. ‘Severus,’ the Headmaster smiled at Snape, who was glaring at him with a look fit to kill, ‘I was just waiting for you. Do sit down. Tea?’ He ignored the offer. ‘I’ll never stand for Potter being in my House!’ he barked. ‘I’ve steeled myself for ten bloody years, knowing I’d have to teach the brat sooner or later, but no one said I’d have to endure him in my own House as well!’ Albus thought that perhaps Snape had been holding himself back too long, and now it was best simply to wait patiently for him to shout himself out. Or at least run out of breath. ‘I demand he be transferred to another House!’ the Slytherin Head continued. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, Severus,’ Dumbledore replied cautiously. ‘The Hat’s decision is final.’ ‘Your Hat must have gone barmy to think Potter would ever fit in Slytherin!’ Snape snapped back. ‘And the ravings of some cracked piece of haberdashery are easily challenged. Knowing you, I expected you’d already be drafting the transfer papers! Never in life will I believe you’ve calmly accepted your golden boy being dumped in Slytherin,’ his eyes now fell upon the Transfiguration professor, whom he had only just noticed. ‘Oh, splendid, the Gryffindor Head of House is here as well. I daresay Minerva won’t object to claiming our scar-headed relic for herself.’ ‘Severus,’ Dumbledore fixed him with a steady gaze, urging him to calm down, ‘Harry cannot be transferred, and you know that as well as I do.’ Snape was silent for a very long time, swinging his furious stare between Minerva and Albus. At last, he exhaled sharply and dropped into the chair offered earlier. ‘You’re rather too calm for a man whose every hope has just gone up in smoke,’ he muttered. McGonagall hid a sardonic smile behind her teacup. She knew perfectly well just how un-calm the Headmaster had been — after all, she’d spent the last hour listening to his mournful, ‘But how could this have happened, Minerva?’ Still, there was no need to share that with Snape. In the end, she herself had been shocked by the Hat’s choice, though unlike either Snape or Albus, she had secretly foreseen it. Harry was a born Gryffindor, and Gryffindors had the habit of following their friends to the ends of the earth. At present, she was concerned only for the boy’s safety and state of mind. Slytherin could be a brutal House, and if Harry failed to fit in, he might find himself in serious trouble. ‘Still, if the lad comes to any harm,’ the Deputy Headmistress thought grimly, ‘I’ll wring Snape’s neck myself.’ Meanwhile, Dumbledore had launched into a long-winded discourse about fate, choices, and the bright side of things, punctuating almost every sentence with, ‘The boy is important to us, Severus,’ ‘The boy must be protected, Severus,’ and ‘I have faith in you, Severus.’ Minerva knew well how these ‘soothing’ speeches of the Headmaster worked on people, and even Snape found it difficult to resist such relentless pressure. She sipped her tea watching the anger fade from his eyes, replaced bit by bit with bleak resignation. He had little choice, after all. Albus was right: the Hat’s decision could not be challenged. More than that, overturning Harry’s own choice would be far harder. Which meant the boy would be a Slytherin, whether they liked it or not. Severus simply could not believe that this pair of Gryffindors through and through were sitting here telling him there was nothing dreadful about their precious Potter landing in Slytherin. Every warning of his — that the boy would be throttled within the first week, if only because the damn son of damn James Potter could not possibly avoid provoking the whole House — bounced off their iron-clad calm. McGonagall serenely sipped her tea, shooting him sly glances, while Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled with their blasted mystery, and not a whit of concern was shown. What in Merlin’s name was going on? Surely Minerva ought to be tearing her hair out with grief at their cherished hero being placed in the enemy’s House. Why wasn’t she saying anything? Why was she behaving as though she hadn’t been surprised for even a second? ‘You know something I don’t,’ Snape said, his tone edged with paranoid suspicion, first glaring at the Headmaster, then at the Transfiguration professor. They exchanged one of those blasted Gryffindor looks that no Slytherin could ever decipher. Upon the perch near the Headmaster’s desk, the phoenix gave a small cry and suddenly burst into flames. Silence fell in the office. Both Minerva and Albus watched the bird intently until it burned away entirely, leaving only a heap of ash on the silver plate beneath the perch. ‘I thought he’d just been reborn quite recently,’ McGonagall observed thoughtfully. ‘Only last year,’ Dumbledore nodded. ‘It troubles me greatly … perhaps something is wrong.’ They fell into uneasy silence. Snape was seething with fury, barely restraining himself from murder. He leapt to his feet fixing his colleagues with a look of utter contempt. At once, they turned their attention back to him. ‘Leaving already, Severus?’ Minerva asked sweetly. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll go and count the days until the boy comes running to you in tears begging to be transferred.’ “I might even do him the courtesy of planting the idea myself if he fails to come up with it on his own,” he thought darkly as he swept out of Dumbledore’s office.

***

As far as lessons went, the first weeks at Hogwarts proved fairly easy. Most classes were introductory: the professors got to know the pupils, explained the meaning and importance of their subjects, and set relatively small amounts of homework. Harry even caught himself feeling slightly disappointed; he had half expected to be showered at once with torrents of information, bombarded with fireworks of spells, and buried under piles of homework. In practice, things were rather ordinary and calm. Still, it was hardly a reason to let one’s guard down. Harry had always had a knack for winding himself up into paranoia, and lately he had been worse than ever. Now, surrounded day and night by potential enemies, his nervous state had risen to new heights. He had never imagined that Ron’s words about Slytherins on the train together with Professor McGonagall’s warning in Diagon Alley would so affect his view of the world. He could not shake the feeling that he was sitting on a ticking time-bomb, ready to go off at any moment. But the days went by, and nothing happened. The supposed cold-blooded killers with whom he shared a table, attended lessons, and even slept in the same dormitory were in no rush to poison, strangle, or curse him. Hogwarts’ most fearsome House showed not a jot of the bloodthirsty hostility everyone had warned him about. His fellow Slytherins treated the Boy Who Lived with calm curiosity. No one pestered him to show his scar, no one stared at him all hours, and no one pointed fingers — unlike the pupils from other Houses, who did all that and more. For the most part, the Slytherins were simply ordinary children, each with their own flaws and merits. Rather reserved, fairly secretive, and — much to Harry’s surprise — entirely self-sufficient. Of course, one could not dismiss the arrogance and monstrous conceit that all Slytherins seemed to possess to some degree, but Harry had spent long enough with Tom to know how to take that in his stride. Everyone in Slytherin House reacted differently to the presence of the boy who had defeated Voldemort. Some preferred to ignore him, some tried to make friends, some avoided him and even feared him a little — but not once did Harry face any open hostility. Of course, people always said Slytherins were duplicitous and deceitful and one could never rule out the possibility of a stab in the back, but Harry had grown so tired of flinching at every little sound that, once he had reached the very edge of his nerves, he suddenly fell into indifference. And he found he rather liked the feeling. For the first time in his life, he truly did not care what anyone thought of him. He did not try to please, to imitate, or to prove anything to anyone. This did not happen to Harry often, but when it did, he would become quiet and detached. He ignored no one, avoided no one, replied if spoken to, even laughed and joked — but he felt no deep emotions towards anyone. He no longer strained to be the person others wanted to see, and he refrained from judging those around him, preferring simply to drift with the current. Within a week, the Slytherins relaxed deciding that this Potter was, all in all, perfectly normal and unlikely to disgrace their House with any Gryffindor foolishness. To them, Harry became just another boy — ordinary in every way but for the scar on his forehead. Soon, they realised they were mistaken. At his very first flying lesson, Potter managed to quarrel with Malfoy over some silly Remembrall belonging to a Gryffindor, break school rules, earn himself a reprimand from McGonagall, display remarkable talent on a broomstick, and — with the permission of the Slytherin Head of House and the Headmaster — join the House Quidditch team as the youngest Seeker in a century. Thus, in Harry Potter, Slytherin gained not only a celebrity but also a gifted Seeker. And Slytherin, above all else, valued advantage. All that remained was to rid the boy of his Gryffindorish idiocies, instil a measure of restraint, and his presence in the House would become not a regrettable fact but a valuable asset. After all, who knew what other talents might emerge in the young hero, and what ideals he might yet form? Harry was quite content with the way his relationships with his housemates were shaping up, and he even began to enjoy their company without constantly worrying that friendship with them would somehow betray his parents’ memory. In the end, what was so bad about being in Slytherin? It hardly made him the same as He Whose Name Everyone Was Afraid To Speak. Especially since his best friend was there with him — and, truth be told, thriving. From the first days, Tom had built for himself a clear pattern of behaviour, one he always followed to create exactly the impression he wanted. With Slytherins, this method worked as brilliantly as with anyone else. A few casually dropped remarks, a couple of mysterious smiles, a well-timed pause — and soon his classmates were spinning wild theories about who Archer’s parents might have been. They recalled the names of pureblood families, discussed Tom’s eyes and features as though to trace his lineage, and within a month everyone was convinced Archer was a pureblood wizard who had simply been unlucky enough to end up among Muggles as a child. How Tom managed to fool people so thoroughly was always a mystery to Harry, but it worked a treat. Even Malfoy, besotted with himself and convinced the world revolved around him alone, treated Archer with utmost respect, preferring to count him as friend and ally. “Just keep your mouth shut and let people believe their own fantasies,” Tom would shrug with a smug grin at his best friend. “What could be easier?” And so, waking up day after day in the Slytherin dormitory, Harry found himself realising that being a Slytherin was not so bad after all.

***

Watching Potter build his relationships with his housemates, Minerva and Albus could not help but be pleased that the boy was neither bullied nor troubled. Everything seemed to be going quite peacefully — except for one person who truly could not fathom why, for Merlin’s sake, things were going so well when they ought long since to have gone wrong. Severus Snape had always known the brat would one day come to Hogwarts to ruin his life and flout every school rule, just as his brainless father had done before him. The only thing Severus had not expected was that Potter would end up in Slytherin. “What the devil?” he kept asking himself. “Why has Dumbledore’s precious pet suddenly become a Slytherin when it was his destiny to be a bloody Gryffindor saviour?” Still, the Head of Slytherin consoled himself with the thought that within a week Potter would be throwing hysterics, begging to be moved to another House, and Albus would be unable to refuse his golden boy. But instead of sulking in some dark corner of Hogwarts and whinging to anyone who would listen, the boy continued to live in the Slytherin dormitory and even managed to get on with his classmates. Snape expected outbursts of his father’s temper, but instead of aggression or hostility he saw calm good nature. Potter was not breaking rules, not showing off, not flaunting his fame. On the contrary, he seemed to be doing everything he could to be ordinary and unnoticeable. And if Severus had not known the brat better, he might have mistaken it for modesty. More likely, the little parasite was only playing the angel so that when he broke the rules, he could bat his innocent eyes and persuade everyone he was blameless. Since it was hard to fault Potter’s behaviour, Snape decided to take it out on his academic work, certain the boy was a lazy fraud basking in borrowed glory. It seemed a foolproof plan: not only would it sour his classmates’ opinion of him, but it would also give Severus the satisfaction he craved. Besides, if the brat dared to argue, he could always assign detention and enjoy watching him fume in silence. The wonderful plan collapsed the very day the little idiot nearly broke his neck in flying lessons, and a hysterical Minerva burst into his office demanding Potter be admitted at once to the Quidditch team. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Snape asked calmly, glancing up from his lesson plans. ‘May I remind you that if Potter is accepted, it will be the Slytherin team.’ ‘I’m perfectly aware of that,’ the witch bristled. ‘Then what are we even discussing?’ ‘Harry has talent, Severus,’ Minerva insisted. ‘To bury it would be a crime,’ her expression darkened, she was clearly eaten up with envy. ‘Even if he does play for another team. Besides, for all you pretend to despise Quidditch with every fibre of your being, I know very well you dream of winning the Cup this year,’ she smiled smugly. ‘Don’t you twist things around,’ Severus grimaced. ‘I’ve never thrown hysterics when my team lost.’ ‘No, you just gathered them together and described in vivid detail exactly how they would die if they lost again,’ Minerva retorted tartly. ‘Come off it, Severus, you know Harry’s a godsend. You’ll never find a better Seeker, trust me.’ ‘Oh, of course — accept the boy into the team so he can swell with even more self-importance and burst from smugness,’ he sneered. ‘Not a chance.’ ‘Now, now, Severus, I think you exaggerate.’ Snape spun round. From his fireplace, Dumbledore gazed at him with twinkling blue eyes. The Potions Master sighed in defeat. With the Headmaster himself intervening, this argument was already lost … ‘He’ll not be admitted to the team until he’s served detention for breaking the rules,’ Severus ground out through clenched teeth signing the permission slip the enterprising Headmaster had already drafted, signed, and carried along. ‘Naturally, naturally,’ Albus nodded. ‘And also,’ he added with a mysterious smile, looking at Snape over the rims of his half-moon glasses, ‘the boy will need a proper broom. We don’t want the Slytherin Seeker losing because he’s flying a decrepit Cleansweep, do we?’ with that, the Headmaster vanished in the green flames, leaving the professor to simmer in fury. The result was that instead of well-deserved punishment, Potter gained a place on the team and a brand-new broom. And then someone with his (or her, for that matter) inherent treachery and cunning hinted to the boy that he owed thanks to the Head of Slytherin. From that day forth no cutting remark, no scathing speech, no biting comment could wipe from Potter’s face that depressingly radiant grin. The beginning of the end came the day the brat himself appeared in Snape’s office, showering him with words of gratitude. Severus barely managed to throw the parasite out, snapping that if it were up to him, Potter would never set foot on a broom again after his antics at the flying lesson. But instead of the expected outrage, the brat looked at him with shining eyes and rushed off to his dormitory with the words: “Sorry for making you worry, sir.” He did not give the stunned professor a chance to voice the incoherent jumble of thoughts that boiled down to: “Who on earth was worried about you, you damned idiot?!” Things only went downhill from there. Potter stopped fearing him altogether — not that he had ever feared him much in the first place. With each passing day, Snape realised more clearly that Harry Potter had firmly taken root in his House and was growing bolder by the day. In the second week of lessons, the boy had the audacity to stay behind after class and pester Severus with some foolish questions about the potion they had been studying. ‘If you lack the brains to understand the material, Potter,’ he said coldly, ‘then kindly drag your empty head to the library and write an essay — perhaps that might help. Though in your case, I fear it will only be a waste of time and parchment,’ he gave Harry a contemptuous look. The boy left in thought while Snape allowed himself a few minutes of self-congratulation, convinced that such treatment would soon discourage Potter from bothering him with any further questions. Perhaps he might even provoke the long-awaited burst of anger, after which he could enjoy thinking that Potter was just as much a smug fool as his father and remind the boy of it day after day until he reached boiling point. Severus returned to grading essays in excellent spirits, thinking that sooner or later he would wear the brat down. He was wrong again. Instead, the little parasite decided to wear him down. The day after their conversation, Potter appeared in his Head of House’s office clutching a scroll of parchment. ‘What now?’ Severus asked coldly. ‘The essay,’ Harry reminded him. ‘I brought it, sir.’ ‘And what made you think I needed it?’ the professor asked a moment later. ‘But you told me to write it …’ ‘Did I ask you to write it?’ Snape asked with a nasty smile. ‘Yes, an essay about the potion …’ ‘Did I say it was me who needed it?’ he asked calmly, dreaming of tearing the boy’s head off. ‘No, sorry,’ Harry frowned for a moment, then suddenly smiled sincerely. ‘Of course! It was for me. Thank you, sir!’ With these words he vanished through the door, and once again Snape had no chance to shout at him. From that day, Severus began to hate his life. Now the boy was not merely pestering him with questions. Oh no, he had decided to make it worse. Every time something confused him, he would first write an essay — longer and more detailed each time — and then come to Snape to, as he put it, ‘clarify a few points’. Watching all this, Severus could not deny that Potter turned out to be a persistent child. Somehow, the professor missed the moment when, instead of throwing him out as usual, he sat down with him to go over his latest difficulty. As a result, instead of enjoying Potter’s ignorance and gloating over it, he suddenly found himself providing individual tutoring. The most horrifying part was that somewhere deep inside his soul alien thoughts began to stir. First, Potter was far from a talentless slacker. Second, he irritated him less with each passing day. And third, he really was an excellent Seeker. Two months later, Severus Snape concluded that if at first everything had been dreadful but fixable, now it had become simply unbearable. Because, no matter how much he wanted to believe it, Harry Potter was nothing like his father. That realisation helped the professor accept, if only a little, that the boy was studying in Slytherin. Severus had been so wrapped up in feeding his hatred for James Potter that he failed to notice how a similar feeling towards his son had dissolved into sympathy and curiosity disguised as contempt. He would never admit it to anyone … not even to himself. It was far too hard to accept that for the past ten years he had hated a child who, in truth, had done nothing to deserve it.

***

Harry snapped shut his Potions textbook and stretched loosening his stiff muscles. Snape’s advice about writing essays when he failed to understand something had indeed been very helpful, but could the professor really not have just explained things to him directly? Ploughing through mountains of literature for the sake of a single potion was often quite exhausting. Still, Harry could not deny that this practice had made him one of the top students in Potions. And later the professor found time to explain the most difficult parts to him, which left Harry utterly delighted. Harry Potter held his Head of House in great respect. Of course, at first the professor’s behaviour had puzzled him. Snape seemed genuinely to dislike him: he was gloomy, harsh, often unfair, and every time he drenched Harry in waves of contempt, anger, and biting remarks about his intelligence. Harry could not understand at first why Snape hated him so much. But after observing him for a while, Harry realised two things. First, gloominess and sharpness were inseparable parts of Snape’s character, and it was foolish to take offence at them. Second, Professor Snape clearly associated Harry with his father to whom he bore a striking resemblance and whom, apparently, Snape had loathed. ‘What does it matter why?’ Tom shrugged when Harry shared his thoughts. ‘Let him hate, as long as he doesn’t compare you to him.’ ‘But he does compare us,’ Harry sighed. ‘All the time. You’ve heard him yourself,’ he twisted his face into a parody of his professor. ‘“You are the spitting image of your father, Potter, the same conceited fool!”, “I fear your father’s genes have done irreparable harm to your brain, Potter — since you clearly have none at all!”, “Your father was always an idiot, Potter, and you’ve not fallen far from the tree!”’ Harry sighed again. ‘Honestly, it’s getting on my nerves.’ ‘Ignore it. You know provocation is Snape’s second nature,’ Archer smirked. ‘Just ignore it. I know it hurts you, but think — why does the professor behave that way at all?’ ‘You mean my father really was a conceited fool?’ Harry flared. ‘I mean that Snape is trying to push you to be better than your father,’ Tom snorted. ‘However he really was, the professor wants to draw a line between you and him. Can’t you see that?’ ‘If you ask me, he’s doing the opposite — constantly putting an equals sign between us,’ Harry muttered. ‘I don’t understand. Everyone says my dad was kind, cheerful, brave. I saw the Quidditch Cup he won with my own eyes! Professor Lupin says he never knew a nobler man. Professor McGonagall insists he had a sharp mind and exceptional talents, and everyone, absolutely everyone, keeps telling me how much I resemble him, expecting me to match his achievements!’ ‘Except Snape,’ Tom inserted. ‘Except Snape,’ Harry agreed. ‘But then who’s right? Whom should I believe?’ ‘No one,’ Archer chuckled. ‘Be as talented as your father, but don’t try to be him.’ Harry considered his friend’s words. Everyone compared him to James, and he had unconsciously begun to fear disappointing them. Snape, on the contrary, tried to sever the resemblance. Suddenly everything fell into place, and Harry felt even greater respect for his Head of House. The professor was demanding from Harry higher achievements than his father’s, so that others would judge him by his own deeds and talents. It was a great comfort to know that among his teachers there was someone like that. Snape’s character was harsh, and his comments often drove Harry mad, but he could not deny that his Head of House, in his own way, cared for him — constantly pushing him to become better than he was. Still, nothing changed the fact that the Potions Master despised James Potter, and Harry had to accept that Snape would often drag his father’s memory through the mud. In the end, Tom was right: Snape was a terrible provocateur. All in all, Harry liked life at Hogwarts. He enjoyed studying magic, loved reading and learning new spells, and held great affection for his professors. He was especially thrilled by Professor Lupin and the subject he taught. Unlike Potions — which, though Harry liked them, sometimes pushed him to the verge of a coma — Defence Against the Dark Arts made him feel almost as though he had sprouted wings. Each lesson, when Professor Lupin introduced them to a new spell, turned into a game, a mock battle, or sheer fun, depending on what they were learning. And Professor Lupin was an extraordinary storyteller and conversationalist. Sometimes, after lessons, Harry would visit him; the professor would offer tea and biscuits, and they would spend hours discussing various spells. When Harry learned that Lupin had been friends with his father, it became nearly impossible to pry him away from the professor’s office. Harry could have listened endlessly to the stories of his father’s adventures. In truth, Defence was perhaps the only subject that came easily to Potter. Everything else he mastered either in the library or by working with his classmates in the Slytherin common room. ‘Hey!’ Harry blinked, breaking free from his thoughts, and looked up to meet the gaze of a short girl standing beside his table. Judging by her expression, she had already called to him for attention several times before he noticed her. ‘Sorry, did you say something?’ Harry tried to recall her name. He was certain she was a Gryffindor — he often saw her in the library but he had never taken particular interest in learning her name. The girl snorted, shook her mane of chestnut curls, and gave Harry a displeased look. ‘I said,’ she repeated for what was clearly not the first time, ‘that if you don’t need this book, then I’d like to take it,’ she pointed to the Potions textbook lying before him. ‘Er … yeah, go ahead,’ he nodded. She took the book, turned to leave, then suddenly stopped and looked back at Harry. From her eyes he understood that she desperately wanted to say something. Harry wondered when they would all tire of staring at him and his scar. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and the Gryffindor girl immediately blurted out: ‘You know you’ve made a mistake here.’ ‘Huh?’ he stared at her in surprise. ‘In the text,’ she explained. ‘Your conclusion is wrong.’ ‘Really?’ Harry looked down at his work and frowned. ‘I think it’s right …’ The girl snorted and sat down opposite him. ‘Yes, if you were writing about a Calming Draught. But you’re writing about a Sleeping Potion.’ ‘When did you have time to read what my essay is about?’ Harry scowled, wondering when she would finally leave. ‘While you were daydreaming, one could not only have read your essay but rewritten it three times,’ she said sternly. ‘By the way, the library exists for reading, not for indulging in daydreams.’ ‘Then why don’t you go read?’ Potter asked. ‘Because you’ve usurped the textbook I needed,’ she shrugged, eyeing him curiously. ‘Why are you doing this work anyway? We weren’t asked to write a comparative analysis.’ ‘For myself,’ Harry muttered, irritated by the girl’s persistence. ‘Oh,’ she tugged thoughtfully at a lock of hair, ‘but your conclusion is still wrong.’ ‘In what way?’ he sighed. ‘In every way,’ she replied, paying no attention to his unfriendly tone. ‘There’s no logic at all.’ ‘Why are you pestering me?!’ Harry burst out, earning an offended look from her. ‘Just wanted to help,’ the girl answered hurt, rising from the table. ‘But clearly you know everything already.’ With that, she moved to another table and began laying out her books and quills. Watching her, Harry couldn’t help but notice that she bit her lip as if she were afraid she might cry. “What did I do?” he groaned inwardly, beginning to feel guilty. To distract himself, he reread his essay and suddenly realised the girl had been right. He had made a mistake in his conclusion, and had Snape seen it, he would have gloated for ages about how single-celled organisms were unable to spot the obvious. Harry sighed, scratched his head, scooped his books and homework into his bag, and walked over to the Gryffindor girl, stopping beside her and clearing his throat delicately. She ignored him. ‘Er … um …’ ‘Forgot something to say?’ she asked coldly without turning. ‘Yeah … um … sorry,’ Harry mumbled. ‘You were right, I was wrong.’ ‘Naturally,’ she snorted haughtily, turning a page. ‘But you Slytherins are far too proud to admit such things.’ ‘I just apologised!’ ‘How noble!’ Harry suddenly realised that this could go on forever. He exhaled sharply and sat down opposite her himself. ‘Listen … I didn’t mean to upset you, it just … well … just happened.’ ‘Fine,’ she nodded without looking at him. ‘That’s it?’ ‘Am I supposed to do more?’ the Gryffindor asked irritably. ‘Doesn’t sound much like you’re not angry,’ Harry smiled in a conciliatory way. And then she gave a sudden sob and burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. Harry froze — he had no idea what one was meant to do in such situations, but he was certain it was his fault she was crying. ‘Wait! Hey!’ he panicked, glancing around. ‘Don’t cry. I’m sorry, really, I didn’t mean to hurt you, don’t cry, please …’ Unexpectedly, the girl stopped sobbing and looked up at him with perfectly dry eyes, a sly smile playing at her lips. ‘Caught you,’ she said, propping her chin on her hand. ‘What?’ Potter didn’t get it. ‘Nothing,’ she shrugged. ‘I was just curious whether you really were as much of a smug show-off as all Slytherins.’ Harry blinked, baffled by the strange logic of girls. It seemed he had been played. ‘Well, what’s the verdict then?’ he asked. She shrugged again. ‘Nothing special. Just an ordinary boy,’ the Gryffindor said with a friendly smile, and Harry suddenly found himself smiling too. ‘I’m Harry,’ he introduced himself for no reason, though by now at Hogwarts only the deaf didn’t know who he was. ‘I know,’ she said, as if answering his thoughts. ‘Hermione Granger.’ ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘Likewise,’ she nodded, and immediately grew serious again. ‘Now please don’t distract me. I’ve still got loads of homework.’ ‘Sorry,’ Harry muttered, rising from the table and leaving the library. “Strange girl, that Granger,” he thought with a slight smile. “But amusing.” ‘Where have you been?’ Tom looked up from his Charms homework as his friend entered the common room. ‘Library,’ Harry dropped onto the seat beside him, tossing his bag to the floor. ‘Writing more pointless essays?’ Archer smirked. ‘Why pointless?’ Potter stretched. ‘You won’t deny that I’m much better than you at Potions.’ ‘Who needs Potions?’ Tom arched a brow in surprise. ‘I know enough to pass the exams, and I’ve no ambition to be a Potions Master.’ ‘Funny, I thought someone wanted to outdo me in everything,’ Harry teased. ‘I do outdo you,’ Archer grinned. ‘In everything.’ ‘Utter nonsense,’ Harry said pompously. ‘You’re no better than me at anything.’ Days passed. Harry and Tom went to lessons, did their homework, spent time with their housemates, and enjoyed the calm rhythm of life. At the same time, Harry, as the new Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team, attended training sessions where he was mercilessly driven by Marcus Flint, the team’s captain and the prefect of their House. At first glance, the fifth-year had struck Harry as harsh, rash, and rather frightening but later he found that overall Flint was not as dreadful as he liked to appear. Marcus kept strict order within the House, quashed any conflicts among housemates, and deeply respected Slytherin ideals, which could be summed up in two phrases: “Your House is your family” and “Everything that happens within the House must remain within the House.” But on the Quidditch pitch Flint became a monster. He could easily reduce any player to tears if something displeased him. At the same time, he always made sure every team member ate properly, got enough sleep, and stayed healthy — and he was ready to kill for any breach of these rules. Harry, as the youngest player, received special attention from the captain falling under his overzealous care, which at times was very inconvenient for Harry was not used to — nor did he want — being fussed over. But who cared?

***

Halloween was approaching, and the students of Hogwarts were paying less and less attention to their studies preferring instead to discuss the upcoming holiday. Harry ignored such gatherings, escaping to the library where, in the quiet company of Hermione Granger, he could study or debate particularly interesting aspects of magic. Harry liked her; unlike the other Gryffindors, she did not behave as though he had betrayed someone’s hopes and committed a few murders by ending up in Slytherin. Even Ron, though not openly hostile, tried to avoid him. Hermione did not care where the Hat had placed Potter. She enjoyed talking with him, and that was the only thing that mattered to her. Often Harry thought that apart from him no one else hung out with her and the girl seemed lonely, though she never showed it. But why the other students could not or would not be friends with her, Harry could not understand. She was smart, calm, and always very collected. At the same time, she did not give the impression of being full of herself as both Slytherins and Gryffindors called her. She was simply curious and, as Harry soon discovered, very perceptive. They could argue for hours and Granger always managed to win those arguments. Harry hadn’t even noticed when Hermione went from being an interesting conversational partner to becoming his friend. A rather good friend. Tom only snorted contemptuously at this friendship, sneering that Harry could have found more interesting company, but Potter cared little for that. After all, he did not forbid Tom being friends with Malfoy whom Harry secretly disliked for his sharp remarks about Hermione and other students whom Draco considered “unworthy of studying at Hogwarts.” Halloween itself passed relatively peacefully, except for a conflict with Ron over Hermione whom Weasley managed to bring to tears with his comments. Harry did not even understand why he had gotten so angry. One moment he was standing among his classmates and the next he was already attacking Ron with accusations. The Slytherins reacted by silently pretending nothing was happening, though they prudently waited for the quarrel to end in case any Gryffindors decided to attack Harry. Luckily, the conflict ended without incident, and the rival Houses went their separate ways: Gryffindors showing sympathy for Ron, Slytherins casting disapproving glances at Harry. But Potter could not calm down and eventually went in search of Hermione, finding her in the library. ‘Leave it, Harry,’ she said when the two of them sat down at one of the distant tables. ‘Ron is just terribly afraid of looking stupid in front of his classmates, and in his view I always make him look like a fool.’ ‘But he is a fool,’ Potter protested. ‘I heard what he said! Does the fact that you love studying really must make you …’ ‘An outcast?’ the girl smiled bitterly. ‘Come on, you and I both know perfectly well how everyone treats me.’ Harry snorted irritably, leaning back in his chair. ‘They’re all just idiots,’ he finally declared, looking at Hermione. ‘I think you’re the best friend anyone could wish for.’ ‘Thank you, Harry,’ Granger smiled gratefully. ‘It’s nice to hear that.’ ‘Just don’t forget it,’ he whispered. A couple of hours later they parted ways, Hermione to prepare for the feast, and Harry in search of solitude, which he soon found in the Slytherin dormitory where he settled down with his homework. ‘Harry, are you coming?’ Tom touched his friend’s shoulder, forcing him to tear himself away from his book and look up. Potter raised his head and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t really want to go to the feast,’ he admitted, casting a slightly embarrassed glance at Draco and Blaise, who were waiting at the common room entrance. ‘And I’m not hungry.’ ‘Do you want me to stay with you?’ Tom asked quietly after a short pause. ‘No, go on,’ Harry shook his head. ‘I know how much you enjoy such events.’ Archer gave his friend a thoughtful look and sighed. ‘Alright, I’ll bring you a couple of sandwiches then,’ he smirked, and Harry gave him a grateful smile. Tom knew perfectly well why Harry did not want to attend the feast, and he had the tact and understanding not to insist. Once everyone had left, Harry closed his book and stared thoughtfully at the dancing flames in the fireplace, his mind far from Hogwarts. On this day, his parents had been killed, and Harry wanted to somehow honour their memory rather than celebrate in the Great Hall with his classmates. Though he didn’t know how exactly he meant to do that. So, gathering his books, he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed to the library, deciding it was the most harmless way to spend the evening. Imagine Potter’s surprise when he found Professor Lupin in the library. He stood near the entrance, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a gentle smile on his face. ‘I suspected you’d prefer solitude of the library rather than sitting in the Great Hall,’ he said in response to Harry’s startled look. ‘So I thought I’d keep you company … you don’t mind?’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ Harry smiled. ‘But you don’t have to …’ ‘Actually, I have something for you,’ Remus admitted. ‘Let’s sit at a table.’ Harry followed his professor deeper into the library, and when they settled at one of the tables, Lupin handed Harry a leather-bound album he had been holding. Harry cast him a curious glance and opened it. On the very first page, a dark-haired boy of about sixteen beamed at him with a mischievous grin, looking strikingly like Harry. His breath caught. ‘That’s …’ ‘James,’ Remus said softly. ‘We had just finished our sixth year when that photo was taken.’ Harry’s young father winked at him and waved. With a pounding heart, Potter turned the pages examining photos of his parents and their friends. His mother, Lily Potter, was a stunning young woman with dark red hair and the same emerald-green eyes as Harry. On every page she greeted him with an open, tender smile, and her eyes shone with unclouded love of life and infinite kindness. ‘She’s so beautiful,’ Harry whispered, feeling something suspiciously like tears burning his eyes. ‘Your mother was an extraordinary person,’ Remus smiled. ‘And more than anything in the world, she loved you.’ Harry said nothing. He simply could not utter a word, afraid his voice would break. He desperately longed to be there with them, to touch them, embrace them, speak to them, know them. But all he had were photographs — his young parents, happy, making plans for the future, laughing and rejoicing, unaware of how little time they had left. It was almost painful to realise that, looking into those familiar yet unfamiliar faces, he could do nothing to change their fate, could not warn them, save them, or even tell them that he was their son. They were only memories captured on glossy paper, unable to hear or understand him. Harry turned another page, and his attention was caught by a handsome dark-haired young man who had not appeared in any of the previous photos. He stood next to Harry’s father waving a red-and-gold scarf like a flag, a broad smile on his face. ‘Who’s that?’ Harry pointed to the Gryffindor. The boy winked at him and nudged James in the ribs as if about to say something. To Harry’s surprise, Remus’s face darkened and he looked away. ‘That’s … that was James’s best friend,’ Lupin answered reluctantly. ‘Oh,’ Potter said with interest. ‘And where is he now?’ ‘He …’ Remus wasn’t able to finish his sentence. A deafening clang suddenly rang out through the library as though someone had struck a massive bell. Harry flinched, clapping his hands over his ears. ‘What’s that?!’ he shouted, trying to be heard over the terrible noise. ‘An alarm,’ Lupin leapt to his feet, whipped out his wand, and pulled Harry along. ‘You need to get back to your common room immediately.’ ‘Why? What’s happening?’ Harry asked in confusion as his professor dragged him through the corridor. ‘The protective charms have been triggered,’ the professor said tersely. ‘An intruder has entered the school.’ “What?” Harry wanted to cry out, but when he opened his mouth, agony seared his scar as though someone had pressed a hot iron to his forehead. Biting his lip until it bled, Harry clutched his head fighting the nausea rising in his throat. The photo album slipped from his hands and fell to the floor. He did not hear Lupin, white with fear, shouting his name, did not see him, did not feel his knees buckle as he collapsed. He was unaware of his professor kneeling beside him, gripping his shoulders, desperately trying to help. All Harry knew, saw, and felt was the burning, unbearable pain consuming his entire being, swallowing him whole.