10.Feuds and Rivalries

13th of September, Friday

Being back at Hogwarts and studying was odd but not unwelcome. Harry kept up his usual routine but couldn’t help but notice that he could regain his magic quicker here than at Diagon Alley, thus somehow accelerating his training. He was confident that in a month or three, he would have enough control to cast most of the third-year spells without fail.

As the weeks passed, he remembered the slain students and the stench of death less and less, as if Hogwarts itself forced the painful memories to fade from his mind, although Harry’s unease lingered. Thankfully, he could remember nothing of his dreams, and his sleep was restful and calm, possibly due to the lack of Horcrux lodged in his forehead. The more Harry spent in the castle, the less his mind dwelled on the past, no, future? It did help that things were different.

Being in Ravenclaw was a novel experience, but the house was far quieter than Gryffindors. He did miss the boisterous commotion, but peace and calm had an allure of their own. Few bothered him directly with more than a handful of polite inquiries; his housemates were gracious and content to leave him to his own devices. It helped that Professor Flitwick was a far more enthusiastic head of house than McGonagall ever was. To Harry’s surprise, the diminutive charms master had taken a shine to him and favoured him publicly as much as Snape had favoured Malfoy. It certainly felt nice to have an actual adult watching his back!

Ron and Hermione were also doing well, or at least as good as any other first years. The bushy-haired muggle-born girl was still her bossy, studious self, while the red-haired boy was laidback and awkward. Both were so young, so small, and so innocent and happy in their own way. Harry was glad not to have approached his former friends, as they deserved what happiness they could find. If he had to pinpoint where things really differed, it would be the new faces around the school. He knew only a handful of names, but there were simply more students in the school, more than half a dozen in his year alone – most notable were Lily Moon, Damien Greengrass, Juno Lestrange, and Diana.

It took him some time, but eventually, he realised that he considered Diana a friend. She was a curious yet sensible girl, as hardworking and intelligent as Hermione yet not as strung up. Harry did not mind her presence.

The other big surprise was Juno Lestrange, Bellatrix’s daughter. Harry had almost attempted to curse her when he realised who she was, but had ultimately managed to suppress his rush of anger in the end. Not that he was in any way capable of casting anything even remotely nasty. Not yet.

Oh, the burning hatred of Bellatrix was still there undiminished, even though she had not done anything to him or his this time. This was one thing Harry found himself unable to let go of despite everything. Yet, her daughter was just a girl. A tall, overly capable girl with unrelenting politeness and a hint of danger. The other housemates seemed to be wary of her initially. Still, after nearly two weeks, she had already won over Mandy Brocklehurst and Morag MacDougal, who followed after her almost everywhere.

Draco was also far more amiable this time, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was because he had been polite, Ravenclaw, or the lack of Ron goading Malfoy’s prickly ego. Could have been Bellatrix’s daughter, who seemed to terrify his former nemesis, which amused Harry to no end. The fewer annoyances he had to deal with, the better.

Most of the teachers were the same – McGonagall was strict, and Snape was still as big of a git as ever, although the Potion master’s attempts to get a raise out of Harry elicited no response. After six years of suffering from the overgrown bat, he knew how to deal with Snape’s provocations. Given his experiences, why should Harry care about fairness or grades anymore?

The world wasn’t fair. It was a bitter lesson learned the hard way, but no less true for it. Besides, the memories from Dumbledore’s pensive only made him distrust the Potions master all the more. As for grades, schoolwork felt laughably easy, as did his classes. Harry spent most of them reading ahead or practising his silent casting, though he had yet to achieve any results.

The oddest thing was probably Quirrell’s competence. There was no turban on his head, no overwhelming smell of garlic, and the teacher was charismatic and, as much as it pained Harry to admit, one of the best Defence teachers they had. He had heard rumours that the man had been a brilliant mind even as the Muggle Studies professor before his yearly sabbatical, but seeing it was another thing.

Was he always so good before Voldemort had possessed him?

There was a hint of caution in Harry – was the dark lord really… not here? Dumbledore had laid his trap on the third floor again, still. Looking at the Defence professor, Harry found himself indecisive. He liked having a capable teacher in the subject, but the apprehension was still there. Not that it mattered; Harry had more important things to do. His training was progressing well, but everything else?

Not so much.

Harry had still failed to find the Room of Requirements while wandering around the castle, though he was not in a rush. Worse, he had not confirmed Scabbers’ presence with Ron. He had subtly asked around the other first years, but none had seen a rat with his former friend.

Without Wormtail, Harry had no way of proving his godfather’s innocence.

At least he could think of one way to confirm Pettigrew’s presence – the Marauder’s Map. It should have been with the Weasley twins, but their pranks were far less successful than he remembered, and Fred and George spent almost all their free time in detention. Something that hadn’t happened last time, and it took him some time to realise – it was quite possible they had not found the Marauder’s map just yet. They would not spend all their evenings with Filch or McGonagall if they had.

Any sneaking was unlikely, too – the disillusionment charm was a sixth-year spell for which he lacked control and magic, and his invisibility cloak was yet to be returned. He could try and brew an invisibility potion, but he had to get into the restricted section to read Moste Potente Potions, which already required a measure of stealth. That was not to mention the lack of ingredients, the fact that he had never brewed it before, that it would take him a month, and that a single failure would render all of his efforts useless.

No, that would not do either.

Harry felt restless but was out of options.

With a sigh, he focused on the painting with a bowl of fruit before him. After tickling the pear, it giggled and turned into a large green door handle. Harry opened the painting-turned door, revealing the bustling kitchens. The clanking of pans and plates greeted him as the dishes were being cleaned, along with a few overly enthusiastic pairs of large eyes gazing his way. An elf, wearing a green tea cousy, bounced toward him.

“How can Pinky bes help?” Harry blinked at the dark, tennis ball-sized eyes looking at him expectedly.

“Do you know where the Come and Go Room is?”

“Ah-” the house elf shuddered, and her gaze frantically darted around, everywhere but at him. “Pinky cannot say.”

“Cannot?” Pinky just shook her head while trembling, and her big, bat-like ears drooped, making Harry grimace and let go of the topic. “I am hungry, though. Could I have an additional serving of garlic-broiled chicken?”

When had things ever been easy?

“Today, we’re going to practice one of the more important skills for any self-respecting wizard.” Quirrell twirled around to face them, “Anyone wants to wager a guess what that skill would be?”

Hermione shot her hand up immediately, bringing a soft smile to Harry’s face, which he immediately schooled away. Some things never changed. Yet, she wasn’t the only one eager to answer the question; Quirrell was never stingy with points if you answered his questions correctly, so two weeks later, many were keen to earn some for themselves.

After a few moments of silence, the Defence professor pointed towards Anthony Goldstein’s outstretched hand.

“Shielding, sir!”

Quirrell hummed thoughtfully at the enthusiastic reply while pacing back and forth. “A fine answer, Mr Goldstein. But certain spells cannot be shielded against, and not all shields block… everything. A more powerful warlock could tear through your shields as if they were made of paper. Still, shielding is quite an important skill, but the more useful aspects of it require power and control beyond what a first-year can achieve. No, the skill I mean to impart today is something far more basic but no less important.”

The rest of the raised hands fell as the professor looked around in askance.

“Nobody? Today, we shall begin to learn dodging. Yes, Mr Boot?”

“Isn’t dodging a muggle thing, sir?”

The distaste in the boy’s voice was palpable, and it earned him a few scowls from some of the other students.

“Not at all,” Quirrell smiled widely. “Dodging saves valuable time and allows for retaliation, you see. You can put up a shield and be on the back foot, or… you can dodge and retaliate against your foes instead. Avoidance is not the end-all or be-all of combat, as not all magic can be avoided. And beware, even if the scruff of your sleeve or robe gets struck by a spell, it would be unpleasant, if not deadly. It’s a useful skill in your arsenal and takes dedication to master. Any questions?”

Hermione enthusiastically raised her hand, and seeing that she was the only one eventually, the Defence professor relented.

“Professor Quirrell, you mentioned last week that muggles are the biggest threat to wizards. Why is that?”

“There are many reasons,” the professor started pacing faster, but his words were slow and measured as everyone listened with rapt attention. “Muggles tend to fear what they don’t understand. I won’t bore you with the details, but that leads to either resentment, which can turn into hate, or the desire to destroy or control.”

“But there are good people-“

“Of course there are, Miss Granger. Muggles are just like the rest of us, some good, some bad, but only humans without magic. What do you think would happen if the Statute of Secrecy fell tomorrow? Half the muggles would want us dead, and the other half – controlled. After all, we’re too dangerous, are we not? We can fight back, but we’d be outnumbered nearly five thousand to one.” The words chilled the class greatly as Quirrell finally stopped and levelled his heavy gaze on them. Even Hermione looked mortified. “Enough of this dreary topic. Now, we shall practice dodging and the stinging hex from last week. Yes, Mr Finnigan?”

“What if we fail to dodge, sir? The hex can be painful.”

While Harry managed to hold in his amused snort, others snickered and outright jeered.

“Then you get stung,” Quirrell smiled sardonically. “Consider it motivation. Even if you fail to dodge, your opponent would be hard-pressed to do any damage with the hex at your age, Mr Finnigan. Now, pair up and sit up on the opposite sides of the room. Goldstein with Granger-“

Harry ended up facing an impassive Juno Lestrange, bearing a challenging smile on her face.

“Start!”

The word had barely left Quirrell’s mouth when a nasty blue spell flew his way, and Harry barely managed to jerk to the side to avoid it. A second, a third, and a fourth followed, and Harry felt like a novice ballet dancer as he tried not to get hit, but he failed to dodge the last one. A painful sting struck his side, making him wince. It was strong enough that it would leave a sizeable welt. Juno Lestrange’s spells were all muttered quickly and quietly.

His yew wand arched as he ducked, letting another stinging hex sail past his head harmlessly, “Aculeus!”

Lestrange barely managed to avoid it and continued flinging spells at him even more fervently, faster and faster than before. He gritted his teeth; little damage his arse; two could play this game.

Harry was just beginning to have fun when the booming bell announced the end of the lesson.

“Class dismissed,” Quirrell’s voice halted them. “Potter, Lestrange, stellar performance – take ten points each. The rest of you need to do more work on your casting and dodging.”

Juno, on the other side, was gasping for breath, and her icy eyes glared murderously at him. Harry could begrudgingly admit she was very good, but he was better. His torso pulsed in three places, courtesy of her vicious wandwork; his opponent, however, didn’t fare as well, and Harry had managed to hit her more than a dozen times.

If, after seven years of training and study, he couldn’t beat a first-year girl, diminished magic and control or not, he’d be better off burying himself in shame. Juno’s impassive mask was replaced with a wince the moment she moved, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt well up within him. The guilt quickly threatened to drown him when her movements towards the hallway’s entrance were stiff and rigid instead of her usual graceful stride. Her face was free of blemishes, but Harry had managed to land his stinging hex over her torso a lot.

Bloody hell, she was eleven years old!

Though, Harry had to admit that it was good practice, better than anything he had done lately. Maybe he’d have to focus on training his control; he wanted to practice, but not to actually hurt his classmate, even if he could not let go of his grudge with her mother.

The rest of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws looked fine; although most seemed short of breath, it looked like Quirrell was right. A beginner first-year student could barely put enough power in a stinging hex to do anything of significance. None seemed to be in pain, and there were no visible welts. Other than him and Juno, that was. His relentless practice had paid off, and Bellatrix’s daughter did seem very good in her wandwork, so in hindsight, he shouldn’t have been as surprised.

They streamed into the hallway, and Diana joined him, hair tangled and sweaty.

“You aren’t even winded, Potter,” Padma joined with a breathless huff as they headed to the charms classroom, which was the floor above. “Yet you cast many more spells than the rest of us.”

“Practice,” he found himself shrugging. “You’re welcome to join me in my morning runs if you want.”

Running did help, but probably wouldn’t replicate his unlamented experience with life-and-death situations… Or dodging Dudley and his band of misfits. Trading a few spells during class was a child’s game compared to struggling for your life against an older witch or wizard. The additional spell practice early morning also helped Harry, as did training himself to sleep every evening.

“And get up hours before sunrise?” Diana recoiled as if struck. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Indeed, Diana barely manages to get out of bed for breakfast,” the Patil twin giggled, eliciting a protesting squawk from the other girl before turning to him again. “Why not run later when it’s not so freezing cold?”

“I’d feel tired after classes, and we have homework.”

It was pretty frigid before dawn in the Scottish Highlands, but Harry took it as another challenge to overcome. Besides, the cold bothered him less and less with each following morning.

“I’ve never seen you do much homework in the library, though,” Padma pointed out. “Yet you always hand in your assignments.”

Harry remained silent as he pondered what to say exactly, as he scarcely did homework beyond the bare minimum. Telling them that he already knew the material and homework was almost effortless was not an option.

“Well, it’s not too hard?”

That earned him a scoff from the tawny girl.

“Nothing is too hard for you, wonder boy. Sometimes, I wonder if the headmaster really trained you since you could walk.”

The mention of Dumbledore made him feel a tinge of annoyance – the man had never taught him much, if anything at all.

“Hey, Harry trains hard every day,” Diana objected, much to his amusement. “Sometimes, I think he trains himself to sleep.”

“I do,” he admitted. There was no reason to lie, after all. “The easiest way to be better is to put in more effort and dedication than everyone else.”

Padma looked at him as if he had grown a second head while Diana bobbed her head thoughtfully.

“Why bother?” Padma blinked at him with wonder. “You’re already at the top of the class with Juno!”

“I like it.” He hated feeling helpless and weak.

They went around the corner and halted; the hallway was blocked.

Neville, Seamus, and a new muggle-born boy named Jon Robins stood in the middle of the corridor, facing Lestrange, MacDougal, and Brocklehurst. The rest of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws were slowly gathering to watch the confrontation.

“How can I help you, Longbottom?” Juno’s tone was clipped, and a hint of annoyance leaked through.

“You think you can strut around like you own the place, Lestrange?” The venom in Neville’s voice made Harry wince. Diana tugged on his sleeve and looked at him with askance, but Harry could only shrug his shoulders. Oh, he had a good idea what had caused Neville’s hatred, but it was not his story to tell.

“I am just walking to charms, just like everyone else,” Bellatrix’s daughter sighed.

“You don’t belong here,” the pudgy Gryffindor gritted his teeth as he glared at Juno. “Why couldn’t you go to Durmstrang, where the rest of your ilk goes? Or better, to Azkaban to join your murderous parents!”

The surrounding crowd gasped, and Harry also stiffened. Bloody hell, had the Longbottoms died here?

The tall girl stilled, eyes becoming ice cold.

“Bold words for someone who can barely cast,” Juno retorted frostily. “Perhaps you should move to the muggle world, you’d fit right in.”

The insult seemed to have struck hard. The Gryffindor’s face had begun to redden while the crowd was now uneasy and backing away, and Harry couldn’t help but wince at the vicious words. Truth be told this Neville Longbottom did far better than his own back in the first year.

“You think you’re all big and important, don’t you, Lestrange?!” Neville all but spat out. “But Potter put you in your place just now!”

Harry barely suppressed an outraged protest. Bloody hell, defeating an eleven-year-old girl at mock practice in Defense was not something he would ever be proud of…

Just as it seemed that the two of them would come to blows, a loud bang tore through the tension as if a canon had erupted.

“There will be no fighting in the hallways!” Flitwick had appeared at the end of the corridor, looking uncharacteristically stern and dangerous as his wand was drawn in his hand. “Mr Longbottom, fifteen points for trying to goad your fellow student. Hogwarts is a place of learning, not some dingy pub to try and brawl with others!”

A sigh of relief left his chest; Harry didn’t want this to escalate but was not keen on trying to get in between the quarrel.

“But professor-“

“No buts,” the Charms master cut. “Detention with Filch for the evening for your cheek, Mr Longbottom. I heard the whole thing from the start, and be sure I will tell Minerva of your actions here.”

Neville gulped his response and nodded, face pale.

Flitwick then quickly ushered them towards the charms classroom.

“Our head of house is so cool!” There were stars in Diana’s eyes, and Harry nodded in agreement. She was far from the only one; the other Ravenclaws seemed to have a similar opinion. Truth be told, Harry could understand Neville’s anger, yet Juno had done nothing to earn his ire save for existing.

He tiredly rubbed his brow as he sat on one of the desks towards the back of the classroom. Either way, it was none of his business. Harry had bigger issues than the squabbles of two first-years, especially when it did not concern him. Yeah, he felt for Neville, truly did, but wasn’t he doing the same thing as the purebloods in blaming someone for who their parents were?

Attendance was quickly checked, and Flitwick quickly left his desk and climbed his favourite pile of books to address the class.

“Today, we shall practice the wand-lighting charm-“

Harry zoned out from the explanation and stared at the yew wand in his hand. Once the professor had let them practice, he concentrated and began following the simple wand motions silently. Once, twice, thrice, he lost count as he chanted the words in his mind, and he tried to coax his magic to listen to his command. It was incredibly frustrating, but this was the only thing he could do in class without raising too much suspicion. Besides, he needed to re-learn his ability to cast silently, whether he liked it or not.

The minutes passed dully as he repeated the simple motions again and again. A few of his classmates had already succeeded, throwing around beams of light from the tip of their wands. Juno had been first – she already knew the spell and was more than proficient in it.

Harry closed his eyes to ignore the flickering lights around the classroom and continued.

“Wonderous show of silent casting, Mr Potter!” Flitwick’s excited squeak came right beside him, and Harry barely resisted jumping out of surprise. “Twenty points for Ravenclaw!”

He opened his eyes and couldn’t help but grimace – his wand was now lit, throwing a soft beam of light right ahead. The charm master’s outburst had, however, attracted the whole room’s attention. More than half of them were gazing at him with awe; Diana was blinking in confusion, Hermione was glaring at him as if his name was Malfoy, and Juno seemed to have taken his success as a challenge.

“It seems that my lessons aren’t engaging enough,” his head of house rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Just like Ms Lestrange, you’re quite ahead, Mr Potter. Oh my, this will not do!”

15th of September, Sunday

Flitwick entered the headmaster’s office, ready for the yearly staff meeting. On the second Sunday at the start of every school year, Dumbledore would gather the professors to see if any particular concerns about the students could be addressed.

The headmaster seemed lost in thought as the rest of the teachers streamed in one by one and took a seat. The old warlock looked particularly tired this year, and Flitwick could recognise the tenseness in his posture.

“Thank you for joining me,” the headmaster nodded genially, and with a clap of his hand, the table was filled with refreshments. “Let us begin with the first years. Are there any pressing concerns?”

“Misters Crabbe and Goyle’s work is horrendous,” Minerva sighed and grabbed a plate with a roasted salmon. “The boys’ writing is barely eligible, and its contents are atrocious if you even manage to decipher it!”

“I shall inform their parents, then,” Dumbledore tugged thoughtfully onto his wizened beard. “Is there anyone else struggling?”

“As usual, most of the first years are complete dunderheads and a danger and shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a cauldron,” Snape tutted, voice laced with bitterness as usual. He tapped his goblet, and the house elves filled it with deep red liquid, a barely discernable aroma of wine wafting in the air. “Misters Longbottom and Weasley especially.”

Oftentimes, Flitwick wondered why Dumbledore was so keen upon holding a man who loathed teaching into such a position. None could deny Severus was a great potion master, but his methods were questionable at best, and the man clearly held onto personal biases in the most petty of manners.

“Those two could use a firmer hand in Transfiguration,” McGonagall reluctantly agreed.

“Indeed,” Quirrell echoed as he grabbed a lemon drop from the candy bowl and popped it in his mouth. “Although it seems that Ronald Weasley is struggling more out of lack of motivation than anything else, Neville is the reverse – he has that in spades, and results elude him. To me, it feels like their wands are fighting instead of aiding their masters.”

“The dunderheads must be using ill-fitted legacy wands,” Snape’s lips curled.

Flitwick knew such a practice was common enough, but most families avoided it and outright went to Olivander should no wands be a good match for the young wizards and witches.

“I shall write to their guardians then,” the headmaster hummed. That was a personal issue, and the school avoided involving itself in such matters beyond bringing it up to the families in question.

“There’s one more thing with Neville,” Flitwick added. “The boy was intent on provoking Miss Lestrange into a confrontation in the hallway.”

“Troubling, yet not truly surprising,” Dumbledore let out a pained sigh that made him look even older than he already was. “Minerva, did you speak with Mr Longbottom?”

Flitwick was torn here; Juno was a joyful student to teach, a bright and polite girl despite her parents’ infamous proclivities. The brutal murders of Frank and Alice Longbottom shortly after the Dark Lord’s demise came like a heavy blow and forced the ministry to take drastic measures to clear up the Death Eaters as quickly as possible.

“Yes, but I am unsure I managed to get through him.”

For Neville’s sake, Flitwick prayed the transfiguration mistress tried harder. He would not let one of his most brilliant students be pestered incessantly over something they didn’t do. If he had to slam Neville into detention for the rest of the year to get the message through, he would.

“And how about the rest of the first years?” Dumbledore stirred the topic away, his blue eyes twinkly.

“Well, it might be quite early to tell, but a few of them seem to show great promise,” Quirrell smiled. “Granger, Taylor, Lestrange, Potter, Fawley, and Greengrass, the boy, are quite ahead of their peers. In fact, Lestrange and Potter would fit right in with the second years with no trouble.”

“Truly?” Dumbledore turned to the other teachers, who nodded in agreement.

“The two of them are barely adequate, I suppose,” the reluctant words came out of Snape as if he was pulling his own teeth out. The man carefully stirred his cup before taking a sip.

“Adequate? More like brilliant! Both of them are natural at charms,” Flitwick added, barely managing to keep his pride away from his voice. “I already began giving them advanced tasks, and they had no trouble in theory or practicals.”

“Are you sure giving them such blatantly favourable treatment is wise?” Snape’s droll voice grated in the charm master’s ears.

“Funny you should say that, Professor Snape,” Quirrell gave the potion’s master a blinding smile. “I heard a certain Mr Malfoy brag how you’re tutoring him personally.”

“Let us not quarrel,” Dumbledore interjected. “Have there been any unpleasantness with Miss Lestrange or Mr Potter?”

“No, they seem to get along with their housemates just fine,” Flitwick said. “Although Mr Potter is more prone to solitude than his peers, it doesn’t seem to be a big issue – he has already made quick friends with Miss Taylor.”

Dumbledore ran a hand through his wizened beard again, face impassive.

“Then there is no need to impair talented students – we shall continue as we always have.” Namely, leaving the teachers to decide if they wanted to nurture talented ones. Flitwick began to plan new reading materials and exercises to recommend to Juno and Harry. “Now, let us speak about the upper years.”

McGonagall let out a quiet groan.

“The Weasley Twins will spend their whole school year in detentions at this rate, Albus-“