8.Undercurrents

Helena Ravenclaw seemed far less chatty than the Nearly Headless Nick; she silently hovered over them with a forlorn gaze. From time to time, she would turn to the Slytherin table and scowl at the Bloody Baron, who was as gaunt and terrifying as usual.

Harry finished his dinner with a slice of treacle tart, and his gaze wandered around his table – the Ravenclaws weren’t even half as boisterous as the Gryffindors. It wasn’t a bad thing – there was far less chatter, and a few more curious ones glanced his way, but for the most part, they were content to focus on their meal. Not that the other houses were less nosy; he could feel a couple of gazes drilling into the back of his head from the Slytherin table.

Sitting with his back to them made him antsy, but he knew Slytherins rarely squabbled with the Eagles. Harry had no time and energy to spend the following years knees-deep in some silly school feud again. His problems with Malfoy ultimately culminated in hundreds of hours of detention over six years – which was a waste of time. Not that Malfoy was particularly pleasant, but Harry would try to be at least civil this time.

He would not sit with his back exposed to the Slytherin table again, even if he had to look at the likes of Malfoy and his bookends.

It felt odd to be here – the last time, the Great Hall was filled with a sparse number of students filled with fear, hate, determination, anger, and a myriad of other feelings. Then, the battle followed by wails of anguish and mourning, wounded students, dead bodies, and rubble. The coppery smell of blood and ruptured guts was heavy in the dusty air amidst the broken masonry. Yet, there was none now – the Great Hall was intact, full of cheer and hope, clear for all to see on the undaunted young faces.

It felt dreamy, almost perfect in a way, making Harry feel… lost.

Soon, the remaining food disappeared, and Dumbledore stood up. The Hall fell silent.

“Ahem, just a few more words now that you’re all fed and watered. First-year should note that the Forbidden Forest is, as the name suggests, forbidden. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well,” his twinkling gaze pinned the Weasley twins for a moment. “I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, our caretaker, to remind you all that, between the classes, no magic should be used in the hallways.”

Something tugged on Harry’s sleeve, and he turned to see Diana’s curious eyes shining at him, “Why is the forest called ‘forbidden’?”

“Some dangerous beasts can easily maim you and, if unlucky – kill you in there.” And a thousand acromantulas that wanted to eat you alive amongst other ‘misunderstood’ beasts, as Hagrid would call them – but Harry was definitely not supposed to know that.

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term – anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch,” Dumbledore’s gaze hardened. “And finally – the third-floor corridor on the right side is out of bounds for everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death!”

Only a few laughed, including Diana, who quickly sobered as she looked around.

“He’s joking, right?” Her whisper was furious.

“I wouldn’t test it,” Harry shrugged grimly, remembering an angry Fluffy.

He sighed inwardly; the trap gauntlet was here again. He often wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t tried to stop Quirrell and Voldemort from stealing the stone. Probably nothing; the headmaster would have returned, only to find the possessed defence professor stuck in front of the mirror. In hindsight, all Harry had done that day was get himself and his friends wounded.

Back when he was a green firstie, he had wondered why Dumbledore had done this, but now an easy explanation came to mind. The headmaster had wanted to see if he could draw the attention of the Dark Lord to confirm whether Voldemort was still alive.

Either way, Harry Potter did not feel ready to confront the Dark Lord, weak or not. Bloody hell, looking at the smiling Quirrell who lacked a turban – he might get a peaceful year for once.

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the Hogwarts song,” Dumbledore had a wide smile on his face while the other professors looked a tad muffled, especially Quirrell, whose charming grin became strained, “Pick your favourite tune and off we go!”

The headmaster flicked his wand, conjuring a golden ribbon that twisted into the familiar lyrics.

The following discordant cacophony was grating to his ears, but just like everyone else, Harry sang along, albeit with a sad tune. As he finished, he felt something lighter, as if the burden pressing on his shoulders was now gone. His lips twitched as, at last, the Weasley twins were the only ones left singing along to a particularly slow funeral dirge again. A snicker escaped his lips as Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand.

The welcoming feast was over, and the students quickly stood up and crowded the exit.

“First years Ravenclaw, follow us,” the prefects led them through the chattering crowd up the marble staircase. “Careful with the stairs. They sometimes tend to move when you least expect it.”

The first years were quiet, and Harry could see most of them looking sleepy. He didn’t feel too tired after the nap on the train.

Diana stumbled on one of the vanished steps, but he caught her before she could fall.

“Thanks,” she mumbled drowsily, and Harry simply nodded.

The rest of their journey was rather uneventful. A handful of minutes later, after a few hidden doors and a winding spiral staircase, they finally faced an oaken door. It had no handle nor a keyhole, only a bronze eagle-shaped knocker.

“This is the entrance to our common room,” the prefect, a tidy-looking dark-haired boy, announced. “To enter, you must answer a riddle.”

“What happens if you can’t guess correctly?” Terry Boot asked timidly.

“You’ll be stuck outside, waiting for someone to help you answer,” Penelope Clearwater, the other prefect, answered.

They approached the entrance, and a moment later, a soft, alluring voice spoke, “What has many keys but cannot open a single door?”

“Anyone wants to guess?” The prefect turned to them.

Nobody responded. Harry rubbed his brow tiredly; he wasn’t particularly good at riddles, and no answer came to his mind either. Although he should definitely get some practice if he didn’t want to wait in front of the entrance.

“A piano,” Juno Lestrange finally answered with a silky, smooth voice that made Harry’s neck tingle.

The door swung open without a single sound, and the prefects led them into a large circular room split by a pair of staircases. It was a cosy, blue and bronze chamber filled with soft chatter.

“This is our common room,” Penelope said, “You can do pretty much everything here – relax, read, write your homework. Just make sure you don’t disturb those who are studying.”

“Downstairs, you will find the girl’s rooms while the boys are upstairs,” the other prefect motioned towards the intricate spiral staircase at the chamber’s centre.

They were interrupted by the jovial Professor Flitwick.

“Thank you, Mr Gamp, Miss Clearwater; I shall take it from here!” The prefects nodded respectfully and scrambled away as the charms teacher turned to the First Years. “My name is Fillius Flitwick, and I’m the head of the Ravenclaw House. If you need help, my office is in the western hallway on the seventh floor; my door is always open outside school hours. Older students in the common room are also happy to help, but I must ask you not to disturb fifth and seventh-year students as they’re preparing for their OWLs and NEWTs. Any questions?”

Padma Patil timidly raised her hand, and the professor nodded, “Err, when will we receive our timetables?”

“Tomorrow at breakfast, I shall hand them to you personally.” A boy raised his hand next. “Yes, Mr Goldstein?”

“How are we going to get to the Great Hall?” His cheeks reddened. “Err, I forgot the way already.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Clearwater and Mr Gamp will show you the way every morning for the following week. If that is all, I wish you all a good night!”

Nobody asked anything, and Harry could see a few of his yearmates blinking sleepily. Professor Flitwick led them to the staircase, where Penelope Clearwater ushered the seven girls downstairs while Gamp led Harry and the other three boys up the spiralling staircase.

“You’re quite lucky, little blokes,” the prefect said as they arrived at a small circular hallway with four doors, “There’s few enough of you to get your own room each. Boot,” the boy began pointing at the doors, “Goldstein, Corner, Potter.”

Harry quickly entered his room, closed the door, and looked around.

It was not only cosy but larger than he expected, bigger than Dudley’s bedroom, with ample free space. Harry’s two trunks were sitting next to his bed. Aside from it was a small table, a chair, and a drawer, all tapered with royal blue or lined with bronze. Hell, there was even a large mirror, and his window faced the surrounding mountains. The best thing was that any noise from outside seemed to be heavily muffled. Coupled with the small library downstairs, it appeared that joining Ravenclaw turned out to be the correct choice.

Harry took a deep breath and relaxed for a short moment; the air here in Hogwarts felt different from Diagon Alley. Not only was it cleaner and colder, but it felt more vibrant as if it was subtly thrumming with power.

With a thought, the yew wand appeared in his grasp, and Harry’s eye shone with determination as he began to practice.

2nd of September, Monday

“The more you take, the more you leave behind!”

A breathless huff escaped his mouth as he stared at the bronze eagle with annoyance.

“Can’t you, like, just let me through or something?”

“I can, but only if you answer the riddle.”

He rubbed his sweaty brow and glared at the knocker. Bloody sodding riddles.

“Could you, err, repeat it, please?” he tried his very best not to let his annoyance leak into his voice. He was not going to argue with an enchanted knocker. Nope!

“The more you take, the more you leave behind.”

After a handful of minutes of thinking, Harry sighed, “It’s footsteps, isn’t it?”

The door swung open to his relief, revealing a handful of students already awake in the common room.

Harry took a quick shower to wash away the sweat and grime from his morning run and changed into his dark robes. More than a dozen older students were murmuring drowsily or taking notes now. Like the Lions, it seemed that the Eagles weren’t early risers. Now that he wasn’t in a hurry, he quickly looked at the room.

Breakfast would begin in half an hour and classes in two, so he still had plenty of time. He picked up his school bag, urged Nyx to hide in his sleeve and left his bedroom.

Ten minutes later, he was at the West tower, in front of a varnished ebony door decorated with graceful bronze letters reading ‘Fillius Flitwick’. Harry hesitantly knocked.

“Quite early! One moment,” the professor’s squeaky voice was heard through the door. “Enter!”

The office was big, bright, and full of royal blue and bronze, similar to Ravenclaw Tower. The Charms master was sitting behind a relatively short ebony desk, fitting for his stature, littered with scattered parchment.

“Good morning, Professor Flitwick.”

“Ah, an early riser, just like your mother!” Flitwick smiled excitedly before he coughed abashedly and placed down his quill. “Good morning, Mr Potter. How may I help you?”

“I was told that any pets outside of the standard three must be approved by the head of the house.”

“Indeed.”

“Well,” Harry hesitated, “I have a pet snake I found in Diagon.”

“Hrm, while unusual, there’s no problem with snakes and spiders, as long as they have their own vivarium and stay in it,” Flitwick nodded amiably. “Though, I have to note the appearance and breed of the pet for the register. There have been cases of students trying to smuggle acromantulas before.”

Harry grimaced, remembering the gigantic Aragog and his army of flesh-eating children.

He slowly unfurled his sleeve, revealing the small black serpent coiled around his right forearm. The snake raised its horned head and looked around with her black beady eyes.

“This is Nyx.”

“Oh my,” the diminutive Professor was looking at the snake with a mix of interest and caution. “What kind of snake is this? I’m not sure I recognise it.”

“The proprietor at Magical Menagerie said it’s some kind of hybrid,” Harry shrugged. “She’s harmless, though.”

“If that’s the case, I’m afraid I cannot allow her presence in Hogwarts,” Flitwick sighed sadly. “I’m sorry, Mr Potter.”

“Why would they not be allowed?”

“Breeding magical beasts is considered illegal, and any unidentified species that could be venomous are simply too dangerous. There was an accident with a similar pet nearly two hundred years ago. The student couldn’t control his mutated toad – it escaped, and a few days later, it killed a first year with its venom before even a bezoar could be administered.”

Harry tiredly ran his hand through his messy hair, “What would happen to Nyx, then?”

“She would be given to the potion Professor for ingredients or released into the Forbidden Forest.”

The only reason a slew of curses didn’t escape his mouth was because he managed to bite his tongue in time and grit his teeth. He wasn’t going to lose his new companion, especially not to Snape, of all people. It took him nearly a minute to calm down, and an idea began to take shape in his mind.

“What… if Nyx could be controlled?”

The serpent chose that moment to nudge his hand with his head, and Harry absentmindedly began scratching underneath her chin.

“Most normal solutions are not good enough,” for the first time, Flitwick’s grey eyes lost their cheer. “And the kind of magic that could ensure this is quite dangerous and beyond the capabilities of a new student.”

“How about parseltongue?”

“Well,” the professor’s brow scrunched up in thought for half a minute, “That would certainly guarantee it. But Mr Potter, the ability to speak to snakes is not something that can be taught. It is a rare talent passed only through blood descent, considered extinct in this corner of the world-“

“Nyx, say hello to Professor Flitwick!”

“The old two legs feels nice,” she hissed back. “I like him!”

The black serpent looked at the stunned teacher, uncoiled its tail and happily shook it as if waving a hand in greeting. The diminutive man stood frozen and blinked with disbelief at Nyx, then at Harry.

The seconds began to tickle by, and just when he thought that revealing this had been a mistake, Flitwick finally gathered himself.

“Extraordinary!” The professor’s eyes were shining with interest.

“I even have a bezoar on hand at all times, just in case, sir,” Harry took out the kidney-like stone from his pocket and showed it with his free hand.

“Good, good. Nyx, was it? The snake can definitely stay now,” Flitwick nodded. “I’ll fill in all the registers myself, Mr Potter. But beware – as the owner, you’ll be held responsible for your pet’s actions.”

“Thank you, Professor Flitwick,” the boy let out a relieved sigh, “Though… would it be possible to keep the fact that I’m a Parselmouth a secret? I heard that the ability is rather reviled.”

“Hmm, well, yes,” his head of house coughed after staring at Nyx for half a minute, “Don’t worry, I shan’t say a word of this to anyone. Though, I will have to pen it down in the registry – but, just between you and me, that particular paperwork never gets reviewed unless there are extreme circumstances.”

Harry thanked the diminutive professor one more time and left the office with a smile on his face. This whole affair had gone far better than expected.

A quick look at his waterproof watch told him that breakfast had just started, but he wasn’t in a rush to get to the Great Hall. It lasted an hour and a half, so he had plenty of time left – he could be there in about ten minutes and would spend another twenty to eat at most.

Out of all the noteworthy things Harry had planned for this school year, all required plenty of time and effort. But there was one thing that would aid him greatly in all of his endeavours – the Room of Requirement.

Two turns later, he found the correct hallway but froze – both walls were bare, lacking any decoration at all. Most importantly, the tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach ballet to trolls was not here. Harry quickly made his way to where the entrance of the Room was supposed to be and walked back and forth thrice.

Nothing happened. Harry tried it again, thinking of a different place, and, once again, received no result. If someone was inside, there would be a door, and he simply wouldn’t be able to enter. The next few minutes were spent walking around, checking if this was the correct hallway. Yet there was no mistake, and Harry’s scowl turned to a grimace as he stubbornly gazed into the granite wall.

“Bloody shite!”

Cassiopeia made her way through the Black Manor. Curtains, decorations, and furniture were all in inky dark colouring; other hues were so dark and deep that they bordered on black anyway. It gave off a still, macabre feeling. The place used to be far better looking, but since Melania died, there was not a shred of joy left in the house. Arcturus was still mourning even now, ten years later. Not even Nurmengard was so dull and gloomy.

Finally, she reached the inner yard where her cousin loved to spend his mornings. And indeed, he was there, sitting on an ebony chair and gazing at the cloudy sky. His hair had long turned white, though she couldn’t say whether it was from the stress or the passage of time.

Arcturus didn’t bother turning. “Cass?” His voice was hoarse and icy yet tired. Although she could feel the barest sliver of relief, which could count for a warm greeting with him.

“Who else,” She sighed and sat on a chair beside him. “My nephew, Cygnus, died from that nasty curse ten years ago. My brother, Pollux, died last year from dragon pox. Walburga-“

“Don’t mention that dumb cow!”

Cassiopeia wasn’t daunted at his roaring. Arcturus was a dangerous politician, but not too deadly with a wand. Not like Dumbledore, or Grindelwald. Besides, a ‘dumb cow’ was an apt description of Walburga.

“She is still your kin, the daughter of Pollux and your daughter-in-law besides,” she reminded wryly.

“A mistake! That’s all that stupid cow was, all from her Crabbe mother. Walburga not only seduced my foolish son and heir but ran roughshod over the stupid boy, ruining the education of my grandsons, turning them both into wastrels,” Arcturus heaved heavily, and his grey eyes were like two chips of cold granite. Cassiopeia couldn’t help but agree.

“What of Lucretia? She’s alive, but I hear she’s gravely ill now. You can still visit your daughter while she lives.”

“Why would I?” He scowled fiercely. “Lucretia is no daughter of mine. She didn’t even show her face for her mother’s funeral. I have not received a single word from that ingrate for fifteen years now. A single word!”

Ah, if anything else, her cousin could hold a fierce grudge like nobody else.

“Why not disown her, then?”

“House Black needs no more scandals,” Arcturus gritted his teeth, “Besides, she didn’t even bother conceiving children, so it matters little. Although now that I think about it, Prewett might have been infertile.”

Cassiopeia snorted. It was unlikely to be a fertility problem, especially with that shrillish Prewett cousin who kept popping out kids without stopping. No, knowing Lucretia had done everything in her power to avoid getting pregnant out of her dislike for children more than anything else.

“Druella could have visited too, you know,” she reminded as she waved over Wally to serve her a cup of black tea.

“She might have married Cygnus, but she was born a Rosier still,” he grumbled as the elf brought over the tea. “Besides, dear Druella is far too busy trying to drown herself in firewhisky now that her granddaughter is at school.”

“But she won’t succeed, I hope?”

“She won’t; her allowance isn’t that big,” a heavy sigh escaped him. “Twenty years ago, there were more than a dozen of us born to the Black name. The most powerful and influential House in all of Wizarding Britain! Now, we’re reduced to two old fools too stubborn to die and a young girl for an heir.”

“Ah, what a girl. She might be young, but she has talent, drive, and power in spades,” Cassiopeia giggled. “Although she’s technically a Lestrange.”

“So what if she is a Lestrange?” Arcturus let out a short bark of laughter. “House Black takes primacy. Her children will take the Black name; thus, House Black will absorb the Lestranges completely – their seat on the Mot and all their wealth and property.”

“Is that why you killed Lord Lestrange?” She took a small sip from the silver-bound porcelain cup. It was warm and bitter, just like her life.

“Old Corvus died in an accident.”

The denial was ironclad, yet the twitch in his lips told another story.

“How unfortunate that he couldn’t take custody of his granddaughter, the Black Heiress,” Cassiopeia snorted.

“Indeed,” Arcturus’ weathered face twisted in regret. Others might have been fooled, but she could tell it was fake. “Knockturn Alley is dangerous, and walking there alone at night is begging for trouble.”

“It seems that you have everything planned out well,” Cassiopeia took another gulp of tea. “Have you prepared her a consort, too?”

“No. I shall not make the same mistake again. Juno can make her own arrangement as long as she picks someone from a respectable lineage.”

“Aren’t you afraid that they would try and usurp the Black Lordship?”

“Oh please, you trained that girl yourself for nearly two years,” he snorted. “Do you think anyone can run roughshod over her?”

“No,” Cassiopeia agreed with a smirk. Juno was a spitfire, just like her mother, but far more charming and powerful. “Still, is it wise for a girl, albeit a wise one, to choose her betrothed?”

Youth could led astray too easily.

“It shall be fine, I taught her myself. Cygnus’ daughters all chafed under my arrangements, and I cannot risk her deciding that elopement with some no-name muggle just to run from Malfoy or the such.”

Like her lamented grandniece had done. Ah, Andromeda had been such a promising witch…

“So Narcissa is still pissy about that, eh?”

“Indeed, that woman is more Malfoy than Black now,” Arcturus grunted. “The only reason she and her husband are still around is that I wouldn’t hesitate to disinherit that little blond ponce if they look at me or Juno wrongly. Besides, Lucius is useful – he is cunning and has made plenty of connections.”

“Really? If you wanted to bother, you could have half the Mot in your grasp again within half a year.”

“Politics is a young man’s game,” he waved dismissingly. “I’m ninety now, and my patience for any of that has long run out. Nurturing the future heir of House Black is far more important.”

“If that was the case, you should have sent Juno to Durmstrang.” Cassiopeia squinted. “Yet you’ve sent her straight into Dumbledore’s arms instead. What if the old coot managed to sway her just like Sirius?”

“I’d like him to try. That girl is sharper than me and would easily see through the headmaster’s affable veneer,” he rubbed his brow tiredly. “It’s not like I didn’t warn her either. As for why Hogwarts – I have more connections there than in Durmstrang, including the direct influence of over half the school board. And most importantly – the best Transfiguration and Charms teachers in the magical world are there, not to mention the grandest magical library.”

“What about the dark arts?!”

“Well, aren’t you tutoring Juno yourself? Who in Durmstrang could teach the Dark Arts better than Grindelwald’s left hand?”

“That might be true, but aren’t you afraid I’ll infect her with my ‘silly ideas’?” Cassiopeia smiled sweetly. Not that she hadn’t already in the last two years.

“I hold no love for Grindelwald, but he wasn’t… wrong.”

She blinked and even pinched her arm to check if this was a dream – but it wasn’t.

“Blood matters, but ability matters more.”

“Everyone has their uses,” he admitted begrudgingly. “The last three great wizards were all half-blood. A muggle-born killed that last Dark Lord!”

“Oh, you think it wasn’t the baby?” She snorted with amusement.

“Come now, don’t tell me you buy that codswallop. The Potter family magic might be powerful, but that fool James got caught without a wand, and a fifteen-month-old baby would never be able to do anything more significant, even with accidental magic. No, I’ll freely admit that the only thing that makes sense is for Lily Potter to have managed to set up a trap for that arrogant half-blood.”

Cassiopeia burst out in laughter, and it took her half a minute to calm down.

“So Voldemort was a halfblood?”

“Indeed, although it took me some time to uncover it,” Arcturus hummed. “But that doesn’t mean we must embrace the muggle filth and their ideas! Lily Potter was the exception – not the rule.”

“Well, that’s all good. But what would you do if Juno ended up in Gryffindor?”

“She’s a consummate Slytherin if I’ve seen any. Besides, we can easily check that now. Wally!”

Juno’s personal house elf popped, garbed in a stylish butler uniform.

“Yes, Master Black?’

“Which house did your mistress get sorted into?”

“Ravenclaw,” the elf squeaked.

“Consummate Slytherin,” Cassiopeia snorted.

“Ravenclaw is a respectable house, so it’s fine. I might be old, but I am not easily fooled – that maggot Snape is in Dumbledore’s pocket, while Flitwick is not,” Arcturus clicked his tongue. “Besides, Ravenclaw is not without opportunities.”

“Wally, has anything else of interest happened in Hogwarts?”

Arcturus raised his hand to stop the elf from answering her.

“Come now, aren’t you too old for gossip, Cassie? Where’s the rush? Let Juno handle things on her own; some lessons can only be learned, not taught. Besides, she will write letters regularly and knows when to ask for help.”

“Fine,” she sighed and returned her attention to her tea.

Her cousin dismissed the elf as she sipped and swore inwardly – it had grown cold.