Chapter Text
Harry had a hard time sleeping.
It was an ailment he’d suffered from his entire life. He would often lay in bed for hours, his mind racing with a velocity he could rarely stop. Then, when he would finally doze off, Harry would often wake with a start—anywhere from five minutes to a few hours later—heart pounding and pulse racing… yet he never knew why this happened.
Harry never remembered his dreams.
Or nightmares, as they were more likely to be. He would simply wake up with adrenaline coursing through him—sometimes even tangled in his bed sheets, like he’d been trying to escape—but he never had any recollection as to why that was the case.
His mother, expert Healer, had run diagnostics on him multiple times. Sleeping Draughts didn’t help at all, nor did anything else she had him try. It was just one of the strange, inexplicable traits of Harry James Potter.
One which filled him with bitterness as he lay on his cozy, four-poster bed in the Gryffindor common room, the curtain drawn but doing little to keep out the sounds of Neville’s snoring or Ron’s occasional murmuring. At least Dean and Seamus slept quietly, Harry thought, just as Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘spiders’.
Harry’s lips twitched. Ron’s sleep talking had resulted in some hilarious gems, though only Harry ever knew about them, because everyone else in their dorm was always asleep.
Private jokes for the insomniac. How lucky was he?
Even if Ron and Neville were quiet sleepers, Harry knew he would still be tossing and turning. Especially tonight, after all that transpired. He and his dorm mates had stayed up until the prefects had come and ordered them to be quiet, speculating about it all. The tournament, the age restriction, no quidditch, and his sister, a Slytherin…
And though he was not a part of the conversation with his peers, Harry was also privately preoccupied by another individual:
Riddle.
Harry’s blood boiled as he recalled it so perfectly, the way Tom Precious Riddle had just sauntered across the hall, taking and kissing his sister’s hand like he thought he was some kind of prince charming, then bowing to his kingdom afterwards to cheers and applause…
Harry scowled. He was shocked no one thought to conjure roses so that they could throw them at his feet.
Forcing aside the morbid but humorous image of Riddle choking to death on roses, Harry focused instead on his sister and her misfortune. Poor Isla, he thought. She must be devastated, being put into Slytherin. She had been so excited to be a Gryffindor, just like him and their parents before them. He wondered how she was doing right now, surrounded by her snobby peers with their pureblood supremacy. Would they be cruel to her because she was a Potter?
Probably. Everyone knew that the Potters were a progressive and liberal family, while most of the purebloods were extremely conservative and, quite bluntly, bigoted.
Then Harry remembered how all the other first-years had scrambled out of the way the second Riddle had welcomed her, offering their seats.
…Maybe she would be more well-received than he thought.
They’re going to ruin my sister, Harry lamented. They’re going to eat her alive.
Harry ran his hands down his face, sighing. Ron turned over in his bed, mumbling something along the lines of, ‘hate them’.
Harry nodded in agreement. Yes, he certainly did hate the Slytherins. Malfoy’s evil little smirk and Riddle’s charismatic smile were burned into his psyche forever at this point.
At least with Malfoy, the rivalry was understandable. It was bound to happen, in fact, long before they’d ever met. Harry’s father worked as an auror at the Ministry, and James Potter hated Lucius Malfoy with a passion. According to him, Draco’s father strutted about the Ministry like he owned the place (Minister Fudge at his side more often than not—‘following the money’, as his Harry’s dad remarked) making suggestions on how things he knew nothing about should be run.
It was an animosity that Harry had quickly inherited after his first interaction with Lucius’s son, who had taken one look at Harry’s hair and asked if he had been raised by muggles (which was, in pureblood social circles, worse than asking if he’d been raised by trolls).
They were in the same year, they were in opposing houses, they had fathers who despised each other. Even their hair styles were in direct opposition to each other: slicked back blonde and unruly black. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were born to hate each other.
…Riddle made far less sense.
He was three years older than Harry, after all. It was not often that students who were older even took notice of younger students, let alone wanted to passive-aggressively destroy their entire lives.
Where did it all begin, with Tom Riddle?
It wasn’t a difficult question to answer. Harry knew exactly when that hostility had been born.
It was a day that would be remembered forever in Gryffindor house history as ‘The Double Snitch Win’.
In his first year, Harry had made a name for himself by being appointed Seeker for the Gryffindor quidditch team. He hadn’t tried out, though he had very much wanted to—Harry’s own father told him that first years never made the team, almost by principle. It hadn’t happened in over a hundred years. That, and his mother wanted him to focus on school.
“I’m sure you’ll play in your later years,” she’d said resignedly, “and then your life will be nothing but quidditch. Take at least one year to just focus on studying and making friends?”
She practically begged him not to with her eyes alone. And while his sister, Isla, had always been a spoiled daddy’s girl… Harry was very close with his mother.
He hadn’t tried out.
He got on the team, anyway.
It was Draco Malfoy’s fault, really. Stealing a Remembrall, taking it from poor Neville and threatening to hide it in a tree because he was terrible at flying. It was a scenario that had resulted in Harry making an incredible catch, and McGonagall, who had been keeping an eye out for a possible new Seeker even more adamantly than Wood, the then-captain, snatched him away from class and tossed a quidditch uniform at him right then and there in her office.
When Harry had written his parents explaining what happened, his mother had written back that she was surprised she was surprised. His dad, naturally, was delighted. Harry had a feeling that the story of how Draco Malfoy had helped his son become a quidditch legend was one which was told very loudly the next time Lucius Malfoy was lingering near the auror department.
Harry had never felt more nervous than he had before his first match.
The weeks leading up to the event were suspenseful, to say the least. The first game of the season was Gryffindor versus Slytherin. With the rumor of how Harry had gotten on the team having spread far and wide, the animosity between the two houses was at an all-time high. Dungbombs were aimed at players from both sides at a regular basis. Harry received an anonymous howler at breakfast once that did nothing but scream ‘You’re gonna die!’ repeatedly (Harry suspected Draco, but was unable to confirm). Oliver Wood sent Howlers back to each of the Slytherin players the following morning in retaliation that screamed the same thing. Half the owls had gone flying back the way they’d come before delivering their letters that day, the noise had scared them so badly.
The fact that it was Harry Potter’s first match was not the only unusual point of interest for that game. Madame Hooch had a family emergency a few days before the match and had needed to leave the castle… so Snape had become the temporary referee.
Snape! Severus Snape, the Slytherin head of house! The backlash from Gryffindor at that announcement was severe. Fred and George hit the Slytherin team’s beaters arms with shrinking curses, leaving them with the appendages of infants for twelve hours. It had been a humorous prank, but not an overtly serious one—they were back to normal before the match.
Someone who was not back to normal in time for the game, however, was Lee Jordan, the twin’s Gryffindor friend who served as the commentator. He’d been struck with a tongue-swelling hex the morning of the match, and not even Madam Pomfrey could get it back to normal quickly enough for him to speak.
Because Snape was the referee, he had taken it upon himself to appoint a new announcer.
Naturally, he chose a Slytherin.
Naturally, he chose Tom Riddle.
Though just in his fourth year, everyone in school knew who Tom Riddle was, even though the star student didn’t play quidditch himself. If he had, how would he possibly have time to live in the library, be at the very top of his class in every subject, and serve as captain of both the Dueling Club and the Debate Team?
His ability to speak flawlessly and with great precision—not to mention the fact that people already hung off his every word—made him the perfect candidate for the job.
The match was vicious.
It was an unusual arena: for possibly the first time ever, the stands were not segregated entirely by houses. There had been a small section of all females wearing scarves of every color who had grouped together in front of the Hufflepuffs, for no other reason than to be close to the announcer’s box—the better to look at, and drool over, Tom Riddle, no doubt. Harry rolled his eyes at the mere memory of such ridiculousness.
Not that he’d cared very much then. Before the match had started, he’d just been trying not to vomit from anxiety. Riddle had been the least of his concerns—he barely even knew the fourth-year student—but Snape was a different matter altogether.
Snape hated him. He hated Harry James Potter because he had hated James Potter, and really, his father was the cause for a lot of his drama, Harry realized as he lay there with his face buried in a pillow.
Snape had made calls against Gryffindor that bordered on ludicrous, while never once calling a foul on Slytherin. All insanely unfair events which were narrated in the most pleasant voice of Tom Riddle, who had taken the temporary position of commentator very seriously, as committed to announcing quidditch plays as flawlessly as he was doing anything else.
Of course, he did it in a very biased manner. Tom Riddle praised each one of Snape’s discriminations, as well as commending the Slytherin house players whenever they performed well. He never said anything when a Gryffindor player did the same, though he was quick to point out when they made even the slightest blunder.
As far as Harry was concerned… Riddle started it.
Well, he did, didn’t he? Harry hadn’t done anything; neither of the Seekers had done anything. Thirty minutes into the game and they had done nothing but circle each other, looking for the snitch which had remained elusive.
There had been a time out. During the lull in action, Riddle, for the first time, mentioned Harry.
“…The Seekers have not yet been spurred into action, but one does wonder how they will perform against each other. If a portion of the castle rumors are to be believed, then Harry Potter of Gryffindor House was only appointed on the basis of necessity and sheer luck. The Slytherin Seeker, on the other hand, Terrence Higgs, has been playing on the Slytherin team for years, yet still followed protocol and was made Seeker once more based on his performance during try-outs. So the question is: What will prove to be more valuable in completing the most important task of catching the snitch? Experience and knowledge, or pure, dumb luck? Only time… will tell.”
And Harry would remember the following moment for the rest of his life: looking at Tom Riddle in the announcer’s box, who was looking back at him with the sweetest smile on his face, eyes visibly gleaming, even from a distance.
Harry had taken it upon himself in that moment to be his downfall.
“Fred. George,” he’d said with enough seriousness in his voice that even the twins looked worried. “When the bludger comes after me, don’t hit it away.”
“Er… Beg your pardon, Harry?”
“That’s sort of our job, to—”
“Don’t. Beat it. Away .”
Snape called to an end of the time out, and the twins could only shrug and nod.
Harry really was an excellent flier. He took to the air and sought out a bludger on purpose, getting just close enough to it to catch its attention. That’s right , he’d thought as it began to tail him. Come after me, it’s me you want…
Having never tried to get a bludger to chase him before, Harry was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was. He let it follow him around until he was absolutely ready.
…Tom Riddle was not ready.
Harry took off at top speed towards the announcer’s box, and then, making the tightest turn he’d made in his life, went straight to his left, out of harm’s way.
Riddle had been in mid-sentence, focused on the Slytherin chasers who were preparing to score. “And Pucey passes to Flint, who—bludger.”
Tom Riddle’s commentary had been as on point as ever: it was indeed a bludger which had gone flying at him with the force of a cannonball, led there intentionally by an eleven-year-old Seeker.
To be perfectly honest, Harry hadn’t meant to hurt him.
He hadn’t even been sure that it would work. Best case, Harry had hoped to just make the bludger hit the wall of the announcer’s box, or even just get close. McGonagall was in there, after all. He just wanted to scare Riddle with how close it would get, mess up his biased commentary. Really.
He never would have anticipated that it would work so spectacularly well.
The bludger hit Tom Riddle right in the face.
Apparently, it had looked very, very bad—Harry did vaguely remember some screaming from the girls nearby—but his focus had shifted, in that monumental moment.
The second he’d taken that sharp turn, Harry had seen it: the snitch. He’d twisted and caught it before he even realized that Tom Riddle had been hit.
Snape blew his whistle for a time-out just as Harry thrust his arm up into the air, victorious—and the Gryffindor stands exploded into such raucous applause that no one heard the referee’s whistle at all. Gryffindor had won, the game was over!
Except it hadn’t been.
Snape, horrible Snape, furious Snape, had pulled out the rule book and found some stupid regulation that if a player was injured to the point where they could no longer perform, then any scores made afterwards were negligible until a new player was appointed. Apparently, Riddle, the announcer —in the Snape version of quidditch—counted.
The commentator himself didn’t have a damn thing to say on the matter. He was out cold, levitated on a stretcher by Professor McGonagall (whom Harry recalled as being unable to suppress a thin-lipped grin), who took him at once to the infirmary after appointing a boy from Hufflepuff as the new announcer. And Tom Precious Riddle, who had probably not so much as tripped in the halls of Hogwarts before Harry Potter showed up, spent the night in the Hospital wing with a bruise so terrible that not even magic could prevent it from lingering for days afterwards.
The Gryffindor fury of their win not counting was overwhelming; Harry was certain that the already malicious tactics would have escalated to full-blown warfare. The beaters were more interested in beating each other than the bludgers, and Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood seemed intent to send each other plummeting to their untimely demises in the next thirty seconds of the match.
But it never got that far. A new snitch was released, the game was back on… and Harry caught it.
The Hufflepuff boy barely got to say anything. Seven seconds in, the quaffle had been passed once—and Harry saw the snitch and snatched it out of the air. He’d managed it so quickly and so easily that Harry himself thought he’d imagined it.
Joyful pandemonium would be an apt description for the reaction in the Gryffindor stands, then. Snape could find no rule to bend to dismiss that catch, and Gryffindor was (spitefully) declared the winner.
The celebration in the common room afterwards was one of the best nights of Harry’s life. Oliver Wood — after having a bit too much butterbeer, perhaps—had declared that he wasn’t gay, but that he would undoubtedly marry Harry James Potter.
“You destroyed Riddle! The Tom Riddle! Then you caught the snitch—twice! Only seven seconds! That’s a Hogwarts record! You are a Quidditch God! Will you marry me?”
…Or something like that.
Two days later, when Harry had first run into Riddle after the game, it had seemed like it was going to be a surprisingly calm interaction.
Of course, the older, bolder Gryffindors had been giving him hell. How could they not? But Harry hadn’t. He really hadn’t meant to hit Riddle in the face, but what could he do? It wasn’t like he was going to write him an apologetic, get-well card when he’d been the one to put him in the hospital wing.
He’d just avoided him. Not a terribly difficult task, considering Riddle was not in his year.
Harry had just been leaving the library with Ron when it happened.
Riddle was just on his way there when they met in the entryway. He’d frozen at the sight of the youngest seeker in a century, surely having heard the story a thousand times from both sides of how and why he’d woken up in the hospital wing with a black eye that hadn’t yet faded when Harry saw him.
“I… er… Hello,” had been Harry’s hesitant greeting, Ron tensing at his side.
“Potter.”
…The most tense silence of Harry’s life.
“It was an accident,” Harry had then blurted out, knowing even as he said it that it was a stupid thing to say (and something of a lie). “The bludger. Hitting you. That shouldn’t have happened.”
Tom had smiled, though the effect was less charming with a bruise surrounding one eye. “Of course it was. No one can control those things. It was an unfortunate accident. I would never think, despite what others have told me, that it was a pre-determined, malicious attack.”
Another smile. Riddle stepped out of the way, so that Harry and Ron could leave. “Have a lovely evening,” he said, all politeness and charisma.
Ron left first. And it was in that moment, just as Harry had gone to follow, that Riddle grabbed him.
He didn’t see his face. Harry only knew that Tom Riddle had, in a motion that was so quick he’d hardly registered it, pulled Harry to him by the throat, and spoken into his ear over his shoulder in a voice that was suddenly cold, vicious, mirthless.
“You are mine , Harry Potter.”
And before Harry could respond with anything other than his heart leaping into his throat, Riddle had let go. Harry turned to see the back of him, turned away and perusing the many bookshelves, looking so very casual.
Harry had just stood there, petrified. It had taken Ron coming back once he’d realized that Harry was not following him to snap him out of it, and even then, Harry could say nothing on the matter.
He never did tell Ron.
That had been that. Harry hit Riddle in the face— accidentally —and the visceral hatred had only grown since. The beginnings of a beautiful relationship, truly.
For months, nothing. Harry waited on pins and needles for something to happen, but nothing ever did. Riddle was the picture of perfection, a kind and generous student. On the few occasions where they passed each other in the hall and they made eye contact, he smiled, and Harry’s skin would crawl every time.
Classes ended, and Harry wondered if, by the time his first year was over, he hadn’t just imagined the encounter in the library altogether.
The following year, he knew he hadn’t.
That prefect’s badge on Tom’s chest changed everything. Riddle had stopped him outside the Great Hall on the very first day of term.
“Hold on, there—Potter? Your top button is undone on your undershirt. That’s a violation of the uniform regulation. Not to mention that same shirt is untucked, your robe is too large for you, clearly, as it’s falling off one shoulder, and is your hair really just like that, or have you intentionally sworn off of basic, human hygiene?”
Harry had been too shocked at this sudden attack to respond. Riddle’s group of older, Slytherin peers had laughed when he’d clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“That’s detention, Potter,” he’d said, and his face had looked so convincingly distraught, like he truly regretted needing to hand out punishments, that it was nauseating. “I’ll let my head of house know. I’m sure Professor Snape will be more than pleased to have the… assistance of a quidditch prodigy to clean cauldrons.”
Before Harry could say anything, he’d turned and left, a group of six other older students snickering and flanking him like a guard.
Harry avoided Riddle as best he could after that, but unlike the previous year, this task had become much more difficult. Tom Riddle had decided that Harry-hunting was his new favorite hobby.
Harry groaned and pulled the covers up over his head. He should be trying to get to sleep, not reliving each of his late-night encounters (some in which he got caught, many in which he did not, thanks to his Invisibility Cloak) with the seemingly ever-present individual which was Tom Precious Riddle. Honestly, was he the only prefect who walked the halls after hours?
And now he was Head Boy. That surely did not bode well for Harry’s future.
Memories of the arrogant, older student plagued Harry like an illness as he curled into a ball under his blanket, trying to ignore Neville’s snores and Ron’s unintelligible words. Mainly because, even within the privacy of his own thoughts, Harry knew he was lying to himself.
He wished his first memory of Tom Riddle was that fateful quidditch match.
…Except, it wasn’t. Not really.
Harry turned so that he was laying on his back again, staring up into the red canopy of his bed. He wished that were the first interaction with Riddle… but there had been one before that.
Harry hated that he remembered it, even now, for no other reason than it was completely insignificant. It was on the day he’d been sorted.
Harry, sitting on that stool in front of everyone, and after an exceptionally long and irritating sorting, the hat had finally (almost begrudgingly) declared: GRYFFINDOR!
Afterwards, McGonagall had plucked the hat off his head, and then—
Those eyes.
For whatever reason, Harry’s focus had flickered to the Slytherin table on the opposite end of the hall in that moment. And there were those dark, smoldering eyes. Almost antagonistic, even then. It had felt like all the air had been sucked out of the hall, like Harry had gone abruptly and momentarily deaf.
It had lasted only a moment, and it had bothered him for days afterwards that eye contact with another student had affected him so deeply.
Tom Riddle had been a mystery, then… but he wasn’t anymore.
He was a menace, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a demon masquerading as an angel within the Hogwarts’ halls. Not just the obnoxious source of perfection that all the other Gryffindors hated him for—no. Harry had heard it, the real Tom Riddle. He was a façade…and he was dangerous.
And he was bloody brilliant and talented and he, Harry knew, would probably be the Hogwarts Champion.
Thus, the real reasoning for my sour mood, Harry thought malevolently. Neville let out a particularly loud snore. Harry liked to think it was his way of saying, ‘I don’t blame you.’
Well, who could blame him? The thought of standing in the crowds was one thing—in fact, Harry thought he would not mind the respite from the limelight. He may have been a quidditch star, but he was not his father incarnate, and that expectation had begun to be unbearable. Harry had not yet lost a match for Gryffindor, and the stakes only got higher: Fred and George had begun an underground gambling system with the other houses, and the odds were always in Harry’s favor. If he lost now, he would make a lot of people very angry (mostly in-house), and a select, daring few very happy. The prospect of taking a break from all that was not so bad.
What was bad was the thought of sitting in a crowd and cheering on not a fellow Gryffindor… but Tom Riddle. Harry thought he would rather cheer on the other school’s champions, whoever they were, than that conceited, pretty boy.
Harry snorted to himself. Pretty boy. He really was, wasn’t he? Harry suspected that he spent more time on his hair than half the girls at this school, it was always so perfect and shiny.
Stop it, Harry berated himself, checking his watch. Stop thinking about stupid Riddle. It was already two in the morning. He needed to at least get some rest.
Besides, he should be more concerned with Isla, or excited at the prospect of the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arriving soon… Durmstrang, hadn’t his father mentioned the Headmaster at Durmstrang not too long ago? Some scandal with one of his students, but he’d taken the fall for it and ended up paying a very large fine… Rubbish, his father had said… that student should have been expelled and the Headmaster fired; gold shouldn't fix everything…
Harry yawned, exhaustion finally washing over him. He hoped Isla was doing all right… Poor girl, she’d never not be a Slytherin, now… Dad would be so disappointed…
The last thoughts Harry had before falling asleep were of Riddle’s haughty, dazzling smile, his sister’s hand in his while his Head Boy badge gleamed like it was made of sunlight. That, and the cold, whispered, words from years past:
You are mine , Harry Potter.
Harry woke with a start.
His heart was pounding; adrenaline was rushing through his veins. His limbs were twisted in his sheets and his skin was broken out in a cold sweat.
…He couldn’t remember.
Harry sat up, disentangling himself from the blankets. Something horrible, something troubling… He’d been having a nightmare, he was sure, but he couldn’t recall. Already, whatever dream he’d been having had slipped away, some uncomfortable truth that was just beyond his grasp.
He shook his head, not bothering to linger on it for long. Harry checked his watch and sighed. It was only six in the morning. He considered trying to go back to sleep for a while longer, but dismissed the idea at once. Once he was up, he was up. Rather than waste time staring at the ceiling, Harry slipped out of bed and rummaged through his trunk for his toiletries as quietly as he could.
One of the only but significant perks to being an insomniac was that Harry was frequently up early enough to have the showers to himself. Beating the morning rush meant he was allowed the luxury of standing under a hot stream of water for as long as he pleased, which he habitually did while at Hogwarts. He rarely got away with it at home—one of his parents or his sister would inevitably yell at him to hurry up—but here, possibly as the only Gryffindor to be aware that there even was a six am, Harry could linger.
Harry stepped into a stall and turned the water to a heat that bordered on unbearable. He sighed as the warmth washed away all thought of horrible, mysterious dreams, allowing his mind to focus on the day ahead.
He wondered about Isla. It would not surprise him at all if she were up right now, too. Harry’s little sister may not have had the same sleeping issues as him, but she had developed a sort of sixth sense of knowing when Harry was up. Maybe it was because she had so frequently climbed into his bed when she was little, becoming familiar with his habits and catching him when he was out of bed.
Whenever Isla had nightmares, it was always Harry she sought out, not her parents. Harry grinned, remembering quite clearly why this was the case. Isla had tried once and only once to crawl into her parents’ bed, and disaster had been the result. Their dad had been so startled by the unexpected visitor into their room that he’d snatched his wand and fired off some spell that to this day they could not identify, transfiguring the bedside table with a bang into over a dozen very loud, very lively rats.
Harry remembered it all so well because he actually had been asleep at the time. He woke up to the sounds of high-pitched squeaks and everyone screaming, his sister sprinting down the hallway and running right into his arms, horrified.
Harry’s mother had been furious. James was possibly an even bigger emotional wreck than Isla, apologizing, saying over and over that he wasn’t sure what came over him. He ended up blaming it on his auror training, saying it must have kicked in instinctually. The reasoning hadn’t made Isla any less traumatized… nor did it lessen the wrath of Lily. Harry had never seen Isla that frightened or his mother so furious.
Yet Harry thought he understood why his dad had reacted so frightfully, even if his sister and mum didn’t.
He suspected that his dad suffered from severe anxiety, and that he did not sleep well, either—in fact, he knew that this was the case. On several occasions, when Harry was too restless to lay in bed reading or to try to go back to sleep, Harry would sneak downstairs, thinking to steal some sweets from the pantry. He rarely could, though, because his father would often be awake, wearing his night things but out of bed. He was always in the living room, standing by the front door. He would pace, sometimes, but usually he would be quite still, staring out the window. Harry had watched him for a while once, hidden in the shadows by the stairs. His dad would stand there, looking haunted as he peered out between the curtains, like he was worried someone would try and break in.
Which was a silly concern to have, really. James always checked the wards before bedtime, sometimes as many as four times before he felt secure. Obviously, that irrational fear of a break-in never abated, because he’d wake up to check them in the middle of the night, regardless. Harry was pretty sure that his dad was just an overall restless sleeper, and that he, his son, had inherited the twitchy behavior.
Isla never did try to sneak into her parents’ room again after the exploding rat fiasco. The only member of the family who had been happy about the affair was Nyx, their cat, who had a marvelous time hunting down the rats. And though Harry was sure it would have happened otherwise, he thought that this was the incident which caused James to begin spoiling Isla like his life depended on it… forever making up to her the fact that he had nearly turned her into a rodent that would have been chased by their cat.
Harry snorted, doubting that would ever be the case. Even if his sister had been transfigured, that stupid cat loved Isla more than anything, and she was frightfully attached to Nyx. Her parents had even let Isla bring the foul feline to Hogwarts, because she said she’d rather bring Nyx to school than get an owl.
Her loss, Harry thought. Hedwig was a thousand times more useful than Nyx.
Harry squeezed a generous amount of shampoo into his hands, rubbing it into his perpetually messy hair. Ah, but would his father still dote on Isla so much now that she was a Slytherin? Harry was honestly unsure; his dad had made his opinion on Slytherin house very clear, yet his darling daughter, Isla, could do no wrong in his eyes...
It would be interesting, no doubt, to hear about his parents’ reactions to Isla being in Slytherin… where Snape would be her head of house, Harry realized with a start.
Harry internally shuddered as he rinsed his hair. He couldn’t fathom having to answer to Snape all the time.
Tempted as he was to stay and bask mindlessly in the warm water until others began to rise, pretending like last night had not occurred at all, Harry sighed and turned the water off. Maybe he would be able to talk to her, at some point, away from the watchful eyes of their housemates. Maybe she would be up now as well, and he could catch her…
Following what he could only assume were his protective, older sibling instincts, Harry dried off and returned to his room where his dorm mates still slept. Harry felt a stab of jealousy as he grabbed his bag, making sure he had parchment, quills, and the books he would hopefully not need for their first day of classes.
Feeling wholly unprepared despite this, Harry left to go face the day.
With it still being half an hour until breakfast was served, the Great Hall of Hogwarts was practically empty. It was a rare, fleeting state; soon it would be full of students and staff, bustling with activity.
Harry sat at the Gryffindor table in the same spot they had yesterday, sliding his bag off his shoulder. He was just about to pull out his new Defense textbook to get a head start when a dot of familiar scarlet caught his eye.
He was pleasantly unsurprised.
Isla was headed towards the Hall from a different corridor, the side which the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs all came from in the mornings. Her red hair and nervous disposition were startlingly familiar, and in the moment when they first made eye contact, it felt like they were right back at home, before either of them were old enough to come to Hogwarts.
Isla made a beeline for Harry when she spotted him. Harry stood, glancing quickly around the hall to double check that it was still empty. Once this was confirmed, he opened up his arms, allowing her to rush into them.
“Harry,” she breathed, squeezing him quickly but tightly. Her big, blue eyes were wide with anxiety. “I can’t believe it put me in Slytherin! ”
“Me either,” Harry muttered. He bit his lower lip afterwards, conflicted. He briefly considered telling her about his own sorting, thinking it might make her feel better, but quickly decided not to.
That was a secret he planned on taking to his grave.
“Do you know where our dorms are, Harry? Do you know where they make us sleep?” She lowered her voice, whispering dramatically. “The dungeons! It’s cold down there, Harry! And dark! And creepy! The prefect said it was under the lake! ”
She stared at him like she was waiting for him to offer some reassurance. When he didn’t, she grabbed his hand, looking desperate. “Do you think Dippet would let me change houses? Can people do that?”
“I don’t think so,” Harry said. “Otherwise there would be no point to being sorted by the hat in the first place, would there?”
Isla’s face fell and she dropped his hand. “Do… do you think mum and dad are going to be mad at me?” she whispered.
“What? No, how could they be? You’re the good child! I’m the one they’re always yelling at.”
Her lips twitched with the threat of a smile. “But dad hates Slytherins,” she said. “And now I’m one.”
“Well, you were bound to not be perfect in some fashion, eventually.”
A few more students came filtering into the Great Hall, and the sound of the oncoming masses was echoing in the corridors. Harry turned and spotted Hermione and Ron, both of whom looked surprised to see Isla with him.
“Oh, I have to go, I shouldn’t be seen at this table with you,” Isla said quickly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “They really don’t like you in Slytherin, Harry!”
Then she turned around and walked away. Harry gaped, utterly indignant as he pointed his hand in the air. “No, it is I —!”
But she was already out of earshot. Isla had run from him so quickly that Harry was sure she hadn’t heard him. His arm dropped to his side just as Hermione and Ron arrived.
“—who shouldn’t be seen with you ,” he finished quietly and lamely.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or were you just snubbed by your little sister?” Hermione asked, taking a seat at the Gryffindor table and smirking.
“Your eyes deceive you,” Harry muttered, plopping down next to her. He sighed heavily as Ron sat across from them. “Stupid…”
“Don’t fret, mate,” Ron said with forced cheer. “Sisters were made to infuriate. Best to ignore them, remember? We cause enough drama on our own, yeah?”
Harry frowned, glaring spitefully when he looked up and caught Malfoy’s eye. The icy blonde swaggered into the Great Hall with Crabbe and Goyle at his sides. “Yeah,” Harry agreed, looking away from the Slytherin table only once he saw that Isla was sitting with the other first-years, far from any older, more disturbing influences. “Yeah, we certainly do.”
“Wonder if we can cause a bit more,” Ron said, smirking.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Hermione snapped. “Term has just started, don’t tell me you’re actually planning on causing trouble already!”
Ron’s eyes flashed down to where Fred, George, and the other older Gryffindors sat. “I was just thinking… Depending on who this impartial judge is, d’ya reckon Fred and George might have a shot at entering the tournament?”
“I highly doubt it,” Hermione said. “Whoever it is, they’re sure to be given the contestants’ birth dates, don’t you think?”
Just then, trays filled with food, pitchers full of water , silverware, juice, and steaming tea appeared on the tables. Breakfast was served.
“Maybe not,” Ron said, grabbing some bacon. “Maybe it won’t be a person. Maybe it will be a test, or something else they have to do…”
“Like the Sorting Hat?” Harry jabbed a few sausages with his fork and slid them onto his plate. The thought made him feel bitter; if it was some object which was the ‘impartial judge’, like that ragged old hat, it was likely to make a mess of things.
“Yeah,” Ron said wistfully, clearly not sharing Harry’s sentiments. “Something like that!”
“Well, whatever or whomever it is, I’m sure that Headmaster Dippet has come up with a way to make sure that no underage students try to compete,” Hermione said curtly. “Anyway, I think I know who the likeliest Hogwarts champions are. My dorm mates and I were up for hours, talking about it and compiling a list—hold on, I have it—”
Harry and Ron shared an amused grin as Hermione searched through her bag. They both knew very well that Hermione shared a room with three of the chattiest girls alive—Parvati Patil, who had a twin in Ravenclaw, oddly enough, Lavender Brown, a pure-blood witch who loved Divination, therefore causing Hermione to find her offensive nearly all the time, and Melody Williams, a muggle-born girl originally from Australia.
The fact that Hermione Granger, notorious bookworm who detested gossip and idle chitchat, had stayed up with the three of them to speculate spoke volumes about how excited she was. “Here, I’ve got it—”
Hermione opened her planner, which immediately sang out the words, ‘Organization is Self-actualization!’ . Harry cringed at the song, but Hermione beamed. “Isn’t it wonderful? I just got this planner last week!” she gushed.
Thankfully, she looked down and flipped it open before Harry had to respond. “Right,” she said, exposing a list of names, many of which were crossed out. “We narrowed it down to the three we think most likely.”
“Oooooh, you’re sharing our list?”
Parvarti, Lavender, and Melody sat around them, helping themselves to breakfast. In the span of minutes, the Hall had become absolutely packed. “And here I was, thinking we could trust you to keep our secrets!”
Melody snorted. “We never said it was a secret list. Besides, Hermione tells this lot everything.” She poured herself some pumpkin juice and nodded towards Ron and Harry, her voice almost business-like as she went on. “We ended up with three finalists. From our own house, we thought that Angelina Johnson would have a great shot.”
Harry sat up straighter at that. He had not considered Angelina, star Chaser who would have assuredly been captain this year, had quidditch not been cancelled. He spotted her at the end of the table, speaking animatedly to her friends.
He could definitely get behind supporting Angelina.
“Then there’s that brilliant Hufflepuff boy, Cedric Diggory,” Parvati said dreamily.
Harry shared a despairing look with Ron. Cedric Diggory was a prefect and the Hufflepuff quidditch seeker and captain last year. He was also the only one to have nearly beaten Harry in a match— should have, really. Diggory had spotted the snitch first, but Harry just happened to be closer, smaller, and therefore, faster. He’d caught the snitch right from under Diggory’s nose in the nick of time.
Harry spotted him at the Hufflepuff table, laughing and talking with his peers over breakfast. Despite having lost the match, Diggory had been anything but bitter. He’d shaken Harry’s hand afterwards and had even complimented his flying skills.
Nevertheless, the Gryffindors all still despised Diggory on principle, sportsmanship be damned. Though not nearly as much as they despised…
“And, of course, the third candidate,” Lavender said, her voice lowering reverently.
“Tom Riddle,” Hermione finished, snapping her planner shut.
…Tom Precious Riddle.
Harry instinctively, idiotically, glanced back towards the Slytherin table. Riddle was sitting with his back to them, but Harry could tell it was him by his hair and obnoxiously perfect posture.
Ron made a sound of disgust that fit Harry’s opinion precisely. “Riddle,” he sneered. “Merlin, let’s hope it’s Angelina!”
“I wouldn’t mind it being Diggory,” Parvati said thoughtfully. She shrugged when Ron and Harry fixed her with a reproachful look. “What? Hell, if one of the Tasks requires that our champions have to take their shirts off, I’m crossing my fingers that it’s him!”
“Or Riddle,” Melody said playfully. “Even I could cheer for a Slytherin champion, then.”
The three deteriorated into a fit of giggles, but Hermione huffed like she was above such things. “Personally, I thought that Bellatrix Black would have a good chance,” she said, to general astonishment. “What? She was a prefect, she’s Head Girl…”
“But she’s practically the leader of the Riddle fan club,” Harry pointed out venomously. “In fact, I would bet that no other Slytherins even consider entering, if only because they worship the ground Riddle walks on, and they want to see him be the Hogwarts Champion.”
He expected Hermione to argue, and was unexpectedly disappointed when she did not. “Yes, I have to agree,” she lamented. “We came to the same conclusion last night.”
“Can we just—can we talk about something else?” Harry muttered.
“Well, we’ve got Divination with that Lovegood woman to look forward to this morning,” Ron offered up, looking over his schedule. “That ought to be interesting.”
Hermione snorted but didn’t comment. Ron groaned when he looked at the following classes. “But then we’re stuck with the Slytherins the rest of the day. Defence following Divination, then double Potions after lunch!”
“At least we have Lupin before we have to deal with Snape,” Harry mumbled.
“Yeah, maybe we can just get conveniently ill at lunch every Monday from here on out.”
“You two are ridiculous,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “Well, while you all are in Divination, I’ll be in Arithmancy, learning something.”
“I do hope Professor Lovegood is as good as Trelawney,” Lavender said, either completely missing or choosing to ignore Hermione’s jibe.
Hermione laughed at that. “I would predict that you have little to worry about, there,” she said loftily, sipping her tea.
The Divination classroom was uncharacteristically quiet; professor Lovegood had not yet arrived. Harry and Ron sat across from Dean, Seamus, and Neville, but none of them spoke. Even the girls, who were usually louder and more boisterous than ever in this class, were whispering under their breaths to one another. Lovegood was an unknown entity—whether she would turn out to be strict or lenient remained to be seen. The class was cautious, pulling out their new textbooks and wondering how the lesson would go.
On all their tables was an object that looked like a miniature cauldron, as well as a teacup, one for every seat. The cauldrons were filled with a liquid which emitted a light vapor, creating an even more mysterious and ominous atmosphere in the already dim room. No one dared to touch them, only gave each other curious looks. Harry hoped that the teacups did not mean that they were to ingest whatever it was that was simmering there. The liquid looked dark.
At exactly nine o’clock, the curtains in the back of the room parted, and Professor Lovegood appeared.
“Good morning!” she said, smiling brightly. “And welcome to the first day of your second year of Divination! Before we get started, let’s get roll out of the way…”
Her cheerful disposition could not have been more different from Trelawney’s, who had always tried to impose a deep sense of foreboding upon her students. Lovegood grinned and bounced on the balls of her feet as she listed off names, making her butterbeer bottle cap necklaces and long, blonde hair bounce.
“I am so very excited to be here as your interim Professor!” she announced once she had confirmed that her entire class was present. “While I am confident that Professor Trelawney will be back to good health soon, I hope that I will be able to teach you the art of Divination from a new and helpful perspective in her absence. Oh, books away, please!” She gestured flippantly at the textbooks she saw scattered across the room. “I have something fun planned for today, and those won’t be necessary!”
Everyone smiled as they shoved their books back in their bags. Lovegood’s energy was infectious, and Harry had a feeling that maybe, just maybe, there would be less sinister predictions made by this Seer.
“Wonderful! So. As I am sure you have all noticed by now, there is a potion sitting in front of you at each table. This is a draught called the Spiritus elixir. It’s an advanced potion, tricky to brew, so I doubt any of you have heard of it. Also, it’s relatively useless.”
She paused when everyone chuckled, yet only grinned more widely at the sound. “But I thought that this would be such a fun way to get to know all of my students! Would anyone like to take a guess at what the Spiritus elixir does?”
No one lifted their hands. Harry wondered if Hermione would know, were she present. “It is a potion which reveals the animal most closely connected to the maker’s spirit ,” Lovegood answered, her giant eyes shining with enthusiasm. “What I mean by this is that, with this brew, one can discover the creature which represents their true nature. Should any of you continue with Defense Against the Dark Arts to advanced levels, this will likely be the form that your corporeal patronus would take. It is also usually, though not always, the form your Animagus will take as well.”
Everyone instantly perked up, murmuring in excitement. “Wicked,” Ron gasped, looking at the small cauldron eagerly.
“However, I must confess… the Spiritus brew before you is incomplete. I prepared as much of it as I could, but there is one last ingredient which needs to be added for it to work. Allow me to demonstrate.”
She grabbed a teacup and went to the nearest table, scooping a small amount of liquid into her cup like a ladle. She then set it down, pulled out her wand, and said, “ Parva ferrum. ”
A small, thin blade emitted from the tip of her wand. Without pause, she pricked the tip of her finger on it, and once a droplet of blood welled on her skin’s surface, let it fall into the teacup. Instantly, the vapor which had been hovering over the rim of the porcelain turned silver. It rose out of the liquid in a cloud, twisting in midair, turning into something corporal, something moving…
Everyone watched in awe as a lightly glowing, silver rabbit appeared. It twitched its nose and cocked its head before bouncing around the room, peppy and delightful.
Most of the class laughed; some, including Ron, had even grabbed their cups and were about to help themselves to some elixir, but Harry was frowning. He rose his hand.
Lovegood waved her wand—which was no longer emitting a small blade—and the rabbit vanished. “Yes? And it was Mr. Potter, correct?”
Harry nodded. “Yes. Is this… are we going to be performing blood magic?” he asked.
The class froze. Ron set his cup down, suddenly looking concerned.
“Technically, yes, this is blood magic,” Lovegood said, looking unconcerned. “But a harmless kind. Does that bother you, Mr. Potter? Oh, dear—is anyone in class squeamish at the sight of blood? I suppose I should have asked that first!”
“No, it’s not that,” Harry said quickly. “It’s just—I thought blood magic was dangerous. It’s dark, isn’t it?”
A few of the other students murmured in agreement, and Harry knew he was not the only one to believe this. His father had told him about criminals he’d gone up against in the past, many of whom had performed questionable magic. Blood magic, he’d said, was one of the most powerful and dangerous kinds.
Lovegood folded her hands together, and her face became quite stoic. “Well,” she said calmly, “blood magic may be used by some witches and wizards for dark purposes, but that does not make it dark in and of itself. This bit of magic, for example, is not dangerous at all. Saying that all blood magic is dark would be like believing that the wand of a dark witch or wizard is also dark. It’s not the magic itself, it’s how it’s used. However, I would hate to make anyone feel uncomfortable. If you don’t want to participate, you may absolutely sit out, if you’d like.”
“Oh, no, I totally want to do it!” Harry said quickly, and everyone else laughed and voiced their own agreement. Lovegood’s radiant smile returned.
“Excellent! All right, everyone get some elixir into your cups, you won’t need much… I have sterilized needles that I’ll pass out so you don’t need to use the spell I just did, though do be careful with them…”
It was easily the most fun Divination class they’d ever had. Ron went first at their table, and it was revealed that his spirit animal was a dog—a jack russell terrier, to be precise.
“Not bad!” he said happily, grinning as the silvery dog ran about the room. It instantly started chasing Lavender Brown’s, who, looking disappointed, discovered that her spirit animal was a mouse.
Seamus beamed as his vapor became a fox, and then Dean’s turned out to be a rooster. It puffed out its chest as it strutted through the air, looking far more menacing than Harry would have thought a rooster could be.
They all turned when someone suddenly shrieked, caught off guard by a large animal. “A wolf!” someone shrieked, pointing towards the massive creature which prowled the perimeter of the room, looking threatening despite the fact that it was made of smoke. “Whose animal is that terrifying wolf ?”
“M-m-mine.”
Tonks looked so small and timid in comparison to her creature that a few people laughed. “Marvelous!” Lovegood shouted, looking genuinely thrilled as she patted Tonks on the shoulder. "Very good! Carry on, carry on..."
Harry was about to do his when he looked over at Neville, who was staring at the needle in his hand, seemingly frozen in place. “D’you want help, Neville?”
“Yeah, one of us can jab you,” Ron offered happily.
Neville shook his head and took a deep breath. Flinching slightly, he pricked himself and shook the drop of blood into the cup as quickly as he could, sticking his finger in his mouth afterwards.
“…Whoa,” Harry and Ron said together.
It was a lion.
“Look at that!” Lovegood rushed over to their table, beaming. “The very same animal which Godric Gryffindor himself chose as his emblem! Is this one yours, Mr. Potter?”
Harry shook his head. “Nope. I haven’t done mine, yet. The lion is Neville Longbottom’s.”
Lovegood clapped. “How exciting, Mr. Longbottom!” she gushed. Neville turned an even brighter red than Tonks. “Right then, go on, Mr. Potter!”
Harry wet his lips, pulse racing in anticipation. He was about to find out what his patronus would be—what his Animagus form would be! Harry already couldn’t wait to tell the three Animagi he happened to know about this, and he didn’t even know what his animal was yet.
He had a good feeling, though.
Harry held his breath and jabbed his finger with the needle, letting the droplet fall into the cup. The vapor rose, shifted, and… It was something large, and four-legged… Harry grinned, thinking that he was right, that it was a—
No.
Not a stag.
Harry stared blankly at an equestrian creature which stared blankly back at him. It tilted its skeletal head to one side, its wide eyes unblinking, its leathery, bat-like wings folded flat at its sides.
“Huh,” Ron said, and he, Seamus, and Dean looked confused and disappointed. “Tough luck, Harry. Guess you don’t get one.”
Neville, however, had paled. He swallowed thickly, looking at Harry in concern… and Harry understood why at once.
“Why didn’t one show up for Harry?” Seamus asked their Professor. “Did he not put enough blood in?”
They all looked up at Lovegood, who, Harry was surprised to see, was staring directly at it. All traces of amusement were gone from her face. “Harry does have one,” she explained quietly. “It is a thestral.”
She looked at Harry with eyes that were unnervingly wide, more disquieting even than the hollow stare of the thestral. She did not ask if he could see them, for clearly, he could.
Harry remembered very well the first time he saw thestrals—leathery, winged horses pulling the carriages up to the castle. He’d asked Ron what he thought the creatures were, and in doing so discovered that neither he, nor Dean, nor anyone else he’d asked had been able to see them, either.
He’d thought he was losing his mind until Neville grabbed his arm and pulled him aside, admitting only then that he could see them too. He’d explained to Harry what they were and why they were invisible to most, because his own parents had prepared him.
“I saw my grandfather die a few years ago,” he’d explained quietly. “So my mum knew I’d see them and told me about them, that way I wouldn’t freak out. She said it’d be easiest to just pretend to not see them, either.”
Then he’d stared at Harry expectantly, probably waiting for him to return the intimate secret with one of his own. But Harry hadn’t, because he couldn’t. He had no tragic secret to divulge. Harry had never seen anyone die.
…But he certainly could see thestrals.
To this day, Harry had only told his closest friends about this abnormality. Until this moment, only Neville, Ron, and Hermione had known that he could see them.
Harry wished this were still the case.
“A magical creature?” Dean looked some mixture of perturbed and envious, his eyes looking just to the left of where the vaporous thestral hovered. “Is that normal? Everyone else had normal animals, I thought…”
“It is uncommon,” Lovegood answered, and she smiled again—though the grin looked far more forced now. “But not unheard of.”
They all stared at Harry with brows raised. Harry suddenly felt his own face burning as they all looked at him, like they were waiting for an explanation.
“I think that’s about enough of that!”
The class’s attention was diverted as Professor Lovegood brandished her wand across the room. With a wordless spell, the glowing creatures all vanished. Melody let out a particularly loud and distressed noise when her animal, a playful dolphin, disappeared before her eyes.
“Motivation to learn how to produce a patronus someday, yes?” Lovegood said. “We are nearly out of time, but I have one last thing for you before you depart.” She walked behind her desk and pulled out a large box, opening it and reaching inside. “These,” she said, “are diaries. You will each be getting one, and for the next few weeks, I am going to require that you write in it every day.”
Ron snorted, causing Lovegood’s eyes to narrow. “They are not just any diaries,” she went on, and Ron lowered his gaze. “They are dream diaries! As fourth-years, we shall begin the fascinating practice of dream interpretation. Naturally, to do this… we’ll need some dreams to interpret, first! So, as your first homework assignment, you must start writing down your dreams from the night before. I would advise doing this right when you wake up, but do whatever works best for you.”
Just as she finished speaking, the bell which signified the end of the period chimed. “Grab a diary on your way out, please!” she called over the sounds of chair legs scraping the floor and people getting to their feet. “I’ll set the box right here, next to the ladder! And have a lovely day!”
She hovered the box next to the exit, then disappeared behind the curtain from whence she had come. Harry made his escape from the classroom faster than anyone else, unable to stand Neville’s painful stare a second longer. Ron quickly followed his lead, catching up to him in the hall a few moments later.
“Hey,” he said, touching his shoulder. “You left in such a hurry, you forgot your amazing, shiny new diary .”
Harry glanced down, and his mouth went dry.
He couldn’t explain what had just come over him. It was just a book, a little black journal… A generic looking thing, really… So why did he feel suddenly so nauseous?
“Thanks,” Harry said, taking the diary and shoving it in his bag.
“Quite a class, huh?” Ron murmured, wisely not bringing up the questionable representation of Harry’s ‘spirit’. “I think I like Lovegood well enough, though, seems friendly… but a dream diary! What a pain, can you imagine how annoying that’s going to get after just a few days?”
Harry shook his head. “No,” he agreed. “I really can’t.”
For how was he going to write in a diary every morning when he never remembered his dreams?