The next morning, I was woken up by Harry, who’d accidentally knocked over the cage with Scabbers while reaching for his glasses. To be fair, the noise didn’t wake anyone else, just me. He looked mortified and apologized profusely, then dashed off to the shower, though I barely had time to explain how to work the magical taps.
According to Harry, the Dursleys were always moaning about how much he cost them, so he only ever got ten minutes for a wash—barely time to get started. Here, though, he could take his time, really splash about while everyone else was still sleeping, and there wasn’t even breakfast to make. Poor kid was so used to getting up early at his aunt’s house that he was up nearly an hour before my alarm.
I figured I might as well get up too and do something useful, so I got started on a detailed letter to Luna, describing the journey, the new faces, and my first impressions. Strange, but without that girl around, it felt like something was missing, like a sense of calm had disappeared, leaving me feeling cold and empty. Being with Luna felt like walking through a quiet park in autumn, leaves crunching underfoot, just the two of you, and none of the hurry or bickering you get around here.
By the time I finished writing, cleaned out the cage, and fed Scabbers, time had flown. I dashed to the showers while they were still empty since the facilities on our floor were shared. At the end of the corridor, there were ten showers and toilet stalls and only six sinks. It was a bit of a free-for-all.
There were more showers by the Herbology classroom on the ground floor and in the Quidditch club as well, and toilets on all floors. But still, it didn’t seem well thought out. For such a massive castle, we’re crammed five to a room.
Later on, Emma Donahue, the other Gryffindor prefect, and Percy gathered all the first-years in the common room and gave us a little speech. It was a bit dry, but you could tell they meant it—pride in Gryffindor, house bravery, sticking up for each other, all that jazz. They advised us to dress warmly. The charm spells keep the dorms, common rooms, and classrooms cozy, but the rest of the castle is a bit drafty, with high ceilings, long corridors, and stone walls everywhere. Sometimes, the wind howls through the galleries, like a strong draught through pipes.
The common room is quite cozy—rug, fireplace, loads of worn-in armchairs. But it’s smallish. The sofas by the fire are charmed to hold up to ten people if you squeeze in, and the fireplace itself expands so we can all toast marshmallows together. I remember we used to toast bread, but here it’s marshmallows—rubbery and not even that sweet, really. More like gelatinous foam. Bit rubbish if you ask me, but to each their own. Still, the older students hog the fireplace, so don’t even try or you’ll end up with pink hair and oinking like a pig for a week.
On the way to the Great Hall, I had a bit of a chat with my neighbors. I was curious about how other wizarding families lived since, besides Luna and my family, I hadn’t really met many wizards.
Fast-forward a bit, and I can say we’ve got a pretty decent group. We all hit it off quickly over shared interests and mutual curiosity about the Muggle world. Funny, though, why was it so different in the books? Harry and Ron mostly kept to themselves, but here we all got along.
Neville kept to himself a bit more, though. He was happy enough to listen to us talk about Muggle stuff, but he didn’t jump in much. I don’t think he minded being on his own. Some people are just natural observers, aren’t they? Like to be around but not necessarily involved.
Seamus was a half-blood and lived in a mixed village, a bit like ours, only in Sussex, near Chichester. Good lad, lively sort. He’s got this wild blend of Muggle and magical knowledge. He feels more like a Muggle than a wizard sometimes, but he absolutely loves magical gadgets, especially flying. Says he spent his whole childhood on a broom and grew up loving both Quidditch and West Ham United.
Football isn’t really my thing, but we had a telly in the workshop, and Gill was a Liverpool fan while Matt rooted for Everton. So I could join in the chat when it came up, same as Harry—his uncle rooted for Manchester United.
Thought I’d be the tallest in our year—Seamus and Neville were a head shorter, and Harry barely reached my ear. But Dean Thomas had me beat by half a head, though I was a bit sturdier. He looked like he’d walked right out of one of those films about inner-city lads, with all his slang and swagger. Stepfather’s in the civil service, three younger sisters, mum stays at home. They live in a big flat on the outskirts of London, in Westminster. From what I recall from Muggle newspapers, Marylebone Street and that area are a bit dodgy. So I wasn’t too surprised when he boasted about forging signatures and picking locks. The guy’s also a dab hand at art, especially graffiti—fascinating bloke.
Dean and I got on well, bonding over a shared love of cars—could chat about them for hours with Seamus listening in. And when he found out I’d worked in a garage fixing cars, he was impressed.
With both Dean and Seamus supporting West Ham, they hit it off pretty quickly and became good mates. Same with me and Harry. He was like a little shadow, especially after I taught him about runes and charmed his notebook so no one but him could open it.
I showed him the basics, and he enchanted his other things with runes on his own, with me keeping an eye. Seamus and Dean wanted to try it too, so I shared my paints. Seamus already had some items with similar enchantments, but it’s more fun to do it yourself, isn’t it?
We offered Hermione a go, but she turned her nose up, saying she didn’t trust self-taught skills, especially without Ministry approval. She reckoned people should buy charmed items from professionals. If everyone did it, it’d be chaos, apparently. She even pointed out that we wouldn’t start runes lessons until third year. Fair enough, at least she didn’t report us.
Her dormmate, Kella, though, was keen and ended up enchanting everything she could. She later teased Hermione for lugging half the library around, while Kella’s enchanted bag held just as many books but felt light as a feather.
Turns out we had a couple more girls in our year besides Parvati, Lavender, and Hermione—two I didn't even remember from the books. One was Fay Dunbar, a pretty brunette with blue eyes who carried that bit of pureblood arrogance, and the other was Kella, a Muggle-born black girl.
Oddly enough, Hermione was turning her nose up at her roommates. No idea what happened between them, but Parvati and Lavender were always sticking together, Fay had a best mate in Hufflepuff, and Hermione could have easily befriended Kella—they were both Muggle-born, after all. But by the looks of it, the two girls had clashed early on. Kella would always scowl at Hermione and mutter "High and Mighty," clicking her tongue in disdain whenever they crossed paths. I couldn’t figure them out, but at least they weren’t throwing punches.
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As we walked to breakfast, chatting and taking in the castle, Dean couldn’t resist scratching at a painting to see if it was really alive, though we tried to stop him. The lady in the painting let out a shriek loud enough to make our ears ring and promptly fainted. We were left scrambling when all the other portraits nearby turned up in a huff and started giving poor Dean a right earful. We had to leg it while they heckled us from the walls. Dean didn’t live it down for days, and we took every chance to tease him, saying he’d fondled a lady’s bottom.
What got to me, though, were the crowds of students following Harry around, whispering, staring. They kept their distance since we were always in a group, but it still made him nervous. Harry kept losing track of the way, which was tricky enough already. Lucky for him, we all stuck together for lessons at first, each of us remembering different bits, so we learned our way around soon enough. And being in a group made it easier to fend off Peeves, which kept him at bay. Plus, Percy had already told me where most classrooms were, though getting there was a different matter. Still, together we figured it out.
Now, I didn’t find the shifting staircases or moving classrooms nearly as confusing as the others did. I’d seen plenty of strange things at Luna’s house, so they didn’t bother me. But the others were driven mad by the lack of any fixed landmarks in the castle, especially since none of them could “read the path” and thought the castle was toying with them. They’d see a suit of armor by the Charms classroom one day, and next time, it’d be gone, so they’d end up running across the whole castle just to get to class.
See, some of us learned to follow the “path” that Hogwarts itself seemed to offer up. You could fight against it—like most Muggle-born and half-blood students did—insisting on getting places in a straight line, opening every door, getting lost on the staircases, battling Peeves, and dashing into class at the last minute. Or, you could play along with the path, which felt like the castle was teaching you to feel it. You could wander around for what felt like hours on strange floors, only to emerge right by your next class with ten minutes to spare.
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It’s interesting, though—some magical folks didn’t get it either. The twins, for instance, definitely understood it, but Percy didn’t. The Neville in the book eventually got the hang of it too; he found the Room of Requirement, after all, understanding the “Path.” Most people knew about it, but only a few could actually find it.
Then there was old Filch, who knew the Path inside out, could get from one end of the castle to the other in no time at all, no magic needed. And his cat definitely saw it too, as did most magical creatures, I reckon.
Once I explained it to the lads, we started exploring Hogwarts, finding hidden tunnels and long-forgotten rooms. And Filch never caught us—not once. The castle protects its own “travelers.” It became our little secret, one we’d never share.
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Soon enough, we realized that magic was about more than waving a wand and saying “abracadabra”—it was something much deeper.
Once a week, from midnight to one a.m., we’d be up in the Astronomy Tower studying the stars, and on Thursday mornings, we’d map out constellations, take notes, and make calculations. It reminded me of when we’d map out weather patterns in primary school, just like that—only here, it was all tied to the stars. Nothing too hard so far.
Then there were three double periods of Herbology each week. We’d start with an hour of theory, then move into the greenhouses to dig in the dirt, prune plants, or add fertilizer. Every now and then, we’d learn a spell related to the lesson.
For instance, we practiced “Incendio,” the fire spell, on a Prickly Shrub. The fire makes it wilt, and it also drives away gnomes and doxy fairies. For those of us like Harry and me, or some other Muggle-borns, it was a bit of a shock setting fire to a living creature. But gnomes and doxies are considered pests, and wizards aren’t sentimental when it comes to pests. No one’s going to wait around while they chew through a few thousand Galleons’ worth of plants—this isn’t the carrot patch at home.
“History of Magic” turned out to be dead boring. Binns droned on in a monotone without pausing, and everyone but Hermione would doze off. Our group ended up doing our homework right there in class. George gave us some old notes to copy, covering the topics that apparently hadn’t changed in years. The exam questions hadn’t either, so thankfully, we didn’t have to memorize the entire textbook, which was massive. So far, school wasn’t as hard as I’d expected—at least not yet.
Hermione would look over disapprovingly now and then and had tried once or twice to appeal to our better nature, but it didn’t work. At Hogwarts, everyone bent the rules a little to make time for more interesting things than schoolwork. I think Hermione would’ve ratted us out if not for her sense of house loyalty—she wasn’t daft, after all. So instead, she’d just roll her eyes and give us a good telling-off, though we’d all just ignore her.
My instincts weren’t wrong. Transfiguration turned out to be right difficult, and McGonagall’s explanations weren’t much different from the books. I learned all of Gamp's Laws and exceptions easily enough, but some of the text on Transfiguration was just a slog. I’d copy out whole paragraphs without really taking in the meaning, and my essays were nearly as long as Hermione’s. McGonagall gave it a fair go trying to straighten me out, but eventually she just let it be. My “O” for practical work made up for my “D” in theory, and I ended up with an “A” overall—which suited me just fine.
Harry and Dean had the opposite experience, though. They didn’t know any more than me, but they had ridiculous luck—writing answers straight out of the book, and it somehow always landed them an “A,” even getting “O”s as their final marks. Meanwhile, Neville was absolutely smashing it in Herbology.
Charms was my time to shine, as it was for Seamus. We were naturals at it—no bother at all.
And then there was Hermione, top of the class in everything. She was either reading or practicing spells morning to night, and her essays were easily twice as long as everyone else’s. But there was one thing about her that really got under my skin.
She’d beg for marks.
I remember we had a girl like that in our old class back home. Arina Artemyeva, top of the class. Always alone, always with her books, always trying to boss people around and make them like studying. She wasn’t a bad person, to be fair, and she was nice-looking too. But she was forever tattling on people to the teachers, all with the best intentions, of course. She was so clever there was hardly anything to talk about with her—open her mouth, and out came a lecture. Anyway, everyone respected her academic achievements, but she’d mess up now and again. But instead of just moving on and learning from it, she’d go running to the teachers, practically in tears. She needed that perfect score for her report. She’d badger them until they just gave in and let her have it, especially since the teachers always had a soft spot for her.
Well, Hermione did the same thing for a while—always running to the professors to ask why something was marked one way when the book said otherwise. That just meant more questions, more discussion, and more time wasted, which didn’t exactly endear her to the teachers. But you get the idea…
Quirrell’s lessons, though, were a bit of a laugh. His stuttering and way of talking made every lesson into a comedy act. Oddly enough, we all rather liked him—at least us first-years did. We thought of him as a friendly clown, and his Defense classes were basically a treat.
He’d stammer through tales of encounters with vampires, a zombie he’d supposedly defeated, an Eastern prince he’d helped get rid of a werewolf. Six hours of magical tall tales every week.
Mind you, his lessons so far were on simple stuff like Will-o'-the-Wisps, and over the year we’d only learned seven spells:
* Mucus Ad Nauseam (causes sneezing and a runny nose)
* Verdimillious Charm (green sparks to show where you are)
* Repelling Hex (pushes enemies back and stuns them)
* Vermillious Charm (red sparks to signal for those in need of help)
* Fumous (creates a smoke screen)
* Nox (extinguishes light)
* Lumos (light spell)
The spells weren’t difficult, and everyone picked them up quickly, along with half a dozen related charms—Lumos Maxima and so on. Spellwork was fun, but I didn’t really see what made it “an art.”
As for Potions, that was a real mental workout. Snape filled the room with gloom and immediately tore into Harry, just like in the books. It was strange, though—he looked full of venom, practically breathing malice, but I didn’t get a sense of real hatred from him. It was more like he was just naturally nasty, always had been, and didn’t make exceptions for anyone, age included.
And a Legilimens couldn’t act all impulsive like that, even if he tried—they’re usually as icy as you like—just a habit.
He actually reminded me of this actress back home—Ranevskaya, absolutely biting, saying whatever she pleased, and humiliating anyone without a second thought so they wouldn’t get too high on themselves.
But the moment Hermione started tearing up over the points she’d lost, I wanted to give that sadist a punch. Kids aren’t supposed to understand the psychology of grown men or justify their words and actions. Snape was a right piece of work, even if he was technically on the “good” side.
At least Neville didn’t blow up his cauldron, though he did botch the potion. He was so terrified of Snape he’d practically freeze up. Thankfully, Seamus gave him a few hints—they were sitting right next to each other.
But we got back at that prat for making a girl cry.
I talked Harry into a scheme. After all, Snape never let a class go by without winding him up.
“Neville, Harry, what’s got you so scared of the guy?” I asked. “He’s just a teacher, and he can’t even hit you. Sure, he’ll take points, but he’d find a reason for that anyway, detention too. Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“So, what then? Sabotage the lesson or just wind him up?” Dean asked, sizing up the options.
“Nah, that won’t bother him,” I replied. “We’ll just get ourselves into trouble that way, end up in detention every day.”
So we came up with a plan, and off we went.
We decided to be overly polite to Snape, all smiles and thank-yous. Eventually, the other Gryffindors joined in. He wanted to be famous? He could have it.
At first, he didn’t notice. He kept up with his nasty comments, and Harry would just look back pleasantly, even when points got taken. He’d nod without snapping back, even when Snape insulted him or mentioned his “no-good father.” And whenever Snape started on Harry or Neville, the other Gryffindors would smile at him like he was their hero. Imagine it—ten smiling Gryffindors, and he had no clue if they were taking the mickey out of him or what. That dungeon had never seen so many smiles in its life. And Snape couldn’t take points for being polite, or put everyone in detention.
Snape had loads of hang-ups, too. He was more comfortable with hate, honestly, than with any hint of mockery, especially from a bunch of kids. And he clearly didn’t like all the attention—he’s not Lockhart. But in the Great Hall, when all the Gryffindors were grinning at him more than at their own Head of House…
The other teachers must’ve noticed all the attention Snape was getting, too, and probably had a laugh about it during their staff meetings—judging by the knowing grin Dumbledore would give him. He even raised his goblet to us once at dinner, giving a little wink and hiding a mischievous smile in his beard.
After about a month, Snape finally left our lot alone and made a point of ignoring us—at least until all seven years of Gryffindors started smiling at him. Points were still docked for sloppy work, but the insults stopped. And if a few snide comments did slip out, we’d just smile right back, giving him a look that said, “Good job, Teach, go ahead and go off ‘our new celebrity.’ We still love you, don’t worry.”
Harry, by the way, turned out not to be such a goody-two-shoes after all. He’s a good kid, friendly enough, but if you wind him up…
At first, he was a bit skeptical of our plan and just about managed to hold his temper. But once he saw it working, he couldn’t help but grin—he drove our enemy mad with zero remorse. And to say Gryffindors lack cunning? Yeah, right! So that’s how we survived in the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry.