Nobody besides our lot seemed to notice that Harry and I didn’t arrive at Hogwarts on the train. The boys were dead jealous, though, when they found out we’d already been to Hogsmeade—especially since they’d have to wait another year. They crowded around us, hanging on our every word about the shops, happily stuffing themselves with sweets, and dreaming of the day they’d get to see the place for themselves. In the meantime, they were already flicking through the catalogue and placing orders for snacks to jazz up our evening hangouts.

The catalogue, courtesy of the owner of Honeydukes, was a right game changer. All you had to do was tap a picture with your wand, choose the amount, and by morning, an owl would deliver it. Back in the day, first-years like us had to beg favours off older students, which was always more trouble than it was worth. They’d charge you in chocolate frogs, butterbeer, or Merlin knows what else—hardly affordable on a first-year’s allowance—or, worse, demand favours: running errands around the castle. No one fancied that, so most kids just went without.

Ginny’s puffskein, Arnold, caused a proper stir at school. The girls were swooning over him, and some of the lads were already planning to buy one as a gift for their girlfriends. Ginny became a bit of a celebrity among the first-years and didn’t have time for Harry or his fan club. She wasn’t blushing at the sight of him anymore, at least, though I caught her sneaking the occasional dreamy look in his direction.

On every break or in the Great Hall, people kept asking Ginny where they could get a puffskein like Arnold. She sent them straight to Fred and George. The twins made a killing, pocketing nearly 150 Galleons in two months. Even at four Galleons a pop, complete with a fancy carrying bag, there weren’t enough puffskeins to meet demand. They were a smashing deal, though—they didn’t age for ten years, ate rubbish (literally anything from scraps of parchment to broken quills), didn’t shed, and purred like cats. Best of all, their fur changed colour depending on their owner’s mood. They even came with a catalogue to explain the colours.

The twins, of course, had worked some magic—quite literally—to ensure that charmed puffskeins couldn’t breed, keeping the market wide open for years to come. Brilliant, that. I had to hand it to them; they were sharper than I ever gave them credit for. They gave me 15 Galleons as thanks and Ginny 30, so we were pleased with the arrangement.

I even gave Hermione one for her birthday—a red puffskein with gold tips. She blushed, properly touched, and said she’d always wanted a pet, but her parents wouldn’t allow it. Harry toyed with the idea of getting one but decided against it—he reckoned he’d have no time between Quidditch practices and didn’t want to worry about keeping it safe at the Dursleys’. Still, he’d occasionally borrow Hermione’s puffskein for a quick cuddle.

Flitwick set me a massive summer project for Charms—no books to guide me, just 122 questions I had to answer with my reasoning written out in detail. It took me ages, but it must’ve impressed him because, by the end of the first week, he started piling me with extra reading and weekly tests. Nothing promised, of course, but it was my chance to prove myself. I spent most of my free time in the library, often with Hermione. McGonagall had taken her under her wing too, so she was buried in extra coursework just like me.

Harry wasn’t thrilled with all the studying, but it rubbed off on him a bit. Between Quidditch practice three times a week and hanging out with us, he didn’t have much choice. He’d bolt off to the pitch looking like he’d escaped Azkaban. He was never one for sitting still, especially not with a book in front of him.

The weekends, at least, were ours. We explored the castle, roamed the grounds, and visited Hagrid. Harry joked one day that it was such a dull year he wouldn’t mind running into Fluffy again just to spice things up. Honestly, it was shaping up to be a quiet term.

Lockhart, though—what a disaster. Every bloke in the school loathed him, especially the older ones. I got it—he had half the girls swooning over him, including Hermione. They’d huddle in groups, whispering and giggling, while the lads ground their teeth, dreaming up ways to take him down a peg. Some even talked about giving him a "helping hand" with the cursed DADA position.

I’ll admit, he did look the part—if you like your blokes all polished and preening. Back in my old neighbourhood, he wouldn’t have made it to the corner shop without getting a smack. Still, he had charm, I’ll give him that, and could talk the hind legs off a Hippogriff. He reminded me of Prince Charming from Shrek.

His books, though—surprisingly decent. More like adventure novels than textbooks, really, but good fun. Still, they were more for a female audience, with endless descriptions of clothes and emotions. You couldn’t learn a thing from them, but they made for a laugh:

"That balmy summer evening, with a flutter in my chest, I prepared to face the Yorkshire Yeti. This unthinkable creature had plagued the good folk of the village where I had sought refuge during my perilous journey to the Northern Forests. There, I was destined to confront sinister trolls (see ‘Trekking with Trolls’). But how could I turn a deaf ear to the tearful pleas of these desperate villagers?”

Utter drivel, but I couldn’t stop reading.

The danger was immense, so I decided to don my favourite lilac satin robes for the duel—the very ones I had worn only a few months ago when I triumphed over a ghoul (see "Gallivanting with Ghouls").

A treasured pin, gifted to me for luck by my dear mother, took pride of place on my silk cravat, tied in an impeccable Plastron knot. A couple of dabs of cologne—to counter the stench of the filthy creature—and there I was, tossing my hair lightly and calling the heavens as my witness, ready to meet my fate.

I do not know if I shall survive this encounter, but if I am to perish, I shall do so with dignity and flair.”

In the end, the beast, overwhelmed by such beauty and bravery, surrendered and reformed itself. Particularly after Lockhart taught it to read and write (copies of the creature’s letters and photos of the hero in various poses were, naturally, included). The rest of his writing followed the same pattern. The battles were vividly described, thrilling even, but it all reeked of “The New Adventures of Hercules”—as told by a man clearly in love with himself.

Thus, we mastered Defence Against the Dark Arts on our own, relying on Miranda Goshawk’s "The Standard Book of Spells, Year 2.” Lockhart’s lessons, after his spectacular failure with the Cornish pixies, were more like amateur theatre performances. Honestly, it was brilliant—like Quirrell’s fairy tales, but acted out and with flair.

Harry got particularly roped in, often cast as some monster or another. He wasn’t too pleased about it, but Lockhart was relentless. Still, no one earned Gryffindor as many points in this subject as Harry did—except, of course, Hermione, who had memorised all of Lockhart’s books cover to cover.

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed to have gone off the deep end this year, constantly watching us and picking fights. We managed to dodge any proper scuffles—for now. I reckoned he was shocked that Harry had even made it to school. I, on the other hand, was curious about who had sent Dobby—Draco or his smug, blond father. Either way, our first clash with him wasn’t far off.

It happened near the castle during a walk, when some new Gryffindor, a kid named Colin, started pestering our trio for magical photos. He was so enthusiastic about Harry that a group of onlookers began gathering.

“Oh, handing out autographs already, Potter?” came Malfoy’s slow, sneering voice from behind us. “Hoping for another headline?”

Malfoy stood there with his usual pair of goons, openly smirking.

“Oi, everyone, queue up!” he suddenly shouted, sniggering. “Potter’s giving out autographs to all his adoring fans!”

“I’m not giving out anything, Malfoy,” Harry hissed, his face red as he clenched his fists. “And leave me alone, Colin. I told you, I’m not signing anything.”

“Don’t let him get to you, Harry,” chirped Colin, still grinning. “He’s just jealous of your fame.”

“What was that, you little runt?” Malfoy snapped, stepping forward with a menacing squint. “Who’s jealous, eh?”

I had to step in front of the kid with a grin, but before things could escalate—

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“What’s this I hear?” came Lockhart’s overly cheery voice. “Harry, you rascal, giving out autographs without me? Tut-tut, you should’ve waited! Mr Creevey, was it? A double portrait, perhaps? Shall I sign too?”

The awestruck crowd instantly closed in on Harry, who was trapped, struggling to escape Lockhart’s grip. The camera flashes went off, accompanied by gasps and squeals from the girls.

“And what about you, Weasley?” Malfoy drawled, turning his attention to me with a smirk. “Not first in line? Fancy a photo for yourself? Bet it’d be worth more than that shack you call a house.”

“Maybe so, Malfoy,” I replied, smiling sweetly as I turned to face him, “but it’s not exactly smart to make bets when you’re always losing. None of your warnings about Potter have come true, have they? You’re no Trelawney, that’s for sure. Still, if you fancy a wager, I’m game—maybe I’ll get lucky again. Easy money, eh?”

“Not bloody likely,” Malfoy spat, storming off towards the castle. And rightly so—what’s the point of starting a row when everyone’s distracted by your rival?

“Oi, Malfoy,” I called after him, “if I were you, I’d snap a photo with Potter—just in case. Who knows? Someday it might be worth more than your house too.”

He glared, clearly wanting to retort, but before he could, Snape emerged from the castle. Malfoy threw me a look of pure frustration before quickly turning, nodding solemnly at his Head of House, and retreating with his cronies. Snape’s mere presence swiftly dispersed the crowd of gawkers. The man himself shot me a sharp glance before heading towards the greenhouses, trailed by Lockhart, who was babbling incessantly. Here’s hoping Snape had the good sense to bury him under a carnivorous shrub.

Our second run-in with Malfoy happened at the Quidditch pitch. One Saturday morning, I woke up to find a note: “Come to the pitch with Hermione when you can. First training session—need support. Harry.”

Oliver Wood, of course, was a complete Quidditch maniac and had dragged his team out at the crack of dawn. I was glad not to be on the team, though I’d brought my broom just for a bit of fun. But while Wood was captain, there was no chance I’d get a spot as Keeper.

Hermione and I arrived just in time to see a confrontation brewing. Flint, the smug Slytherin captain, was showing off his new Seeker and their shiny new brooms.

“The latest model—Nimbus 2001,” Flint sneered. “Much better than the Nimbus 2000. And as for those Cleansweeps…” He shot a derisive glance at Fred and George’s battered old brooms, “they’re not even worth mentioning.”

“What d’you think of our new brooms, Weasley?” Malfoy jeered, smirking at me. “Jealous?”

“Why would I be?” I shrugged, feigning indifference as I admired the brooms. “Let’s see you catch the Snitch first, Malfoy. Otherwise, your lot’ll string you up for cocking it all up. No excuses, eh? The broom’s top-notch, after all. Who’d they boot off the team to put you on? Hasper? Saw his face earlier—not jealous of you there. Slip up, and you’re done for. Let’s see if you’re as brilliant as you think. But if it’s a bet you want, I’ll put my Galleons on Potter—best Seeker there is. Don’t even need fancy brooms to thrash you lot.”

“Get stuffed, Weasel,” snapped Malfoy, looking visibly rattled. “Jealous much? One Seeker doesn’t decide a match, and we’ve got better brooms. Maybe if your fans chipped in, you could afford some as well. Or better yet, auction off your Cleansweep Fives. Museums would be tripping over themselves to get them.” He smirked as his team chuckled, but our lot brightened noticeably, remembering we had Harry on our side. What followed was more of a back-and-forth of harmless jibes and disdainful looks than anything serious, and the tension eased—at least until Hermione decided to get involved.

“At least none of our players had to buy their way onto the team,” she said sharply, narrowing her eyes in disdain. “Everyone earned their spot through talent.”

“No one asked you, you filthy Mudblood!” Malfoy spat, his face twisting in fury.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

Flint and Wood threw their brooms down and went at each other like wild animals. I shoved Hermione back towards the Gryffindor girls and joined the fray with the twins and Harry, aiming for Malfoy. Of course, the git hid behind Bletchley, their hulking Keeper. It turned into an all-out brawl—a proper one at that—but somehow Malfoy managed to escape unscathed. Not that it spared him entirely; later on, one of our girls hit him with a belching and hiccuping-hex from behind.

We’d have been in for an even worse beating if Madam Hooch hadn’t shown up, followed by an absolutely livid Snape. Between the two of them, Gryffindor lost another thirty points on top of the twenty Madam Hooch docked us. Snape dragged his lot off—probably to chew them out or patch them up in the Hospital Wing. At least he didn’t assign us detentions, so I’ll take the small victories where I can.

Naturally, any hopes of a proper Quidditch practice were out the window after that. Everyone scattered. Wood and the twins headed off to the Hospital Wing—they’d taken the worst of it—while Hermione and I decided to visit Hagrid. On the way there, we nearly ran into Lockhart, but luckily we managed to skirt around to the back of the hut before he could corner us. Hagrid’s dog started barking, and the git changed his mind about coming inside. Good riddance.

“Imagine that—telling me how to clean a well of algae,” Hagrid grumbled as we sat at the table. He brushed a pile of rooster feathers onto the floor, clearing space for the kettle and clattering some poor mugs in the process. “As if I’ve been livin’ all these years and don’t know how to do that meself. Then he starts prattlin’ on about his so-called adventures. Load of codswallop, if you ask me. I’ll eat this kettle if he ain’t makin’ half of it up.”

It wasn’t like Hagrid to speak so disrespectfully about Hogwarts professors—not even Snape. Clearly, the poor bloke had had it up to here.

Harry and I exchanged a look but said nothing. Hermione, on the other hand, scowled.

“I think you’re being unfair, Hagrid,” she began in that prim-and-proper tone of hers, ready to defend Lockhart, but Hagrid cut her off as he caught sight of us.

“Blimey… What ‘appened to the pair of you? You’ve been fightin’, haven’t you?” he said, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, we had a scrap with Malfoy,” muttered Harry, poking at the cut on his lip.

“Don’t pick at it with dirty hands,” Hagrid barked, swatting Harry’s hand away so hard it nearly took his arm off. Then he dug through a box of potions and handed us a couple of vials.

“The whole team got dragged into it,” Harry explained, wincing as he applied the salve. “Malfoy called Hermione a name, and everyone lost it.”

“He called me a Mudblood,” Hermione interjected, her voice small as she stared at the floor. “I think it’s a really bad word.”

“Bad? Worse than bad,” Hagrid growled, slamming his massive hand on the table so hard the mugs jumped. “The little toerag!”

What followed was an impassioned lecture from Hagrid about blood purity and its utter nonsense, peppered with some rather flattering praise for Hermione. It seemed to work—by the time we left his hut, she was smiling again, her spirits much improved. I couldn’t help wondering, though. Hagrid, being a half-giant, must’ve heard far worse in his lifetime. For the first time, I found myself wondering where all these magical half-bloods came from if even Muggle-borns were treated like dirt by the so-called pure-bloods.

On the way back to the castle, Hermione finally broke her silence. She’d spent the walk fuming, but now that her bruises had mostly faded, she decided it was the perfect time to lecture us.

“You know, you were both completely in the wrong,” she said, her tone lofty and disapproving. “I appreciate you standing up for me, but resorting to violence? It’s barbaric.”

“What exactly are you saying was wrong?” I stopped walking and frowned at her.

“Civilised people can express themselves without resorting to fists,” she snapped. “You didn’t have to stoop to their level.”

“It’s how lads settle things, love,” I said with a smirk. “Not counting Lockhart, of course, but he’s barely a man anyway. If we’re being honest, though, the whole mess started because of you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!” she shot back, clearly offended.

“Not what I meant,” I replied. “I’m talking about what you said. Why’d you jump into a row between lads? We’d already traded insults, and that would’ve been the end of it if not for your Gryffindor sense of righteousness.”

“Are you blaming me because I’m a girl?” Hermione gasped, utterly scandalised.

“Yes,” I said bluntly, ignoring the disapproving look Harry shot me. He clearly agreed with me but wasn’t daft enough to say it out loud. I figured it was best to address it now, or we’d end up in another scrap because of Hermione before the week was out. “Look, never butt into a fight between blokes when they’re sorting it out.”

“That’s sexist!” she shrieked, face red with fury.

“It’s not,” I countered. “I don’t interfere in your girl stuff, do I? So don’t interfere in ours.”

“You think women aren’t equal to men?” she demanded, glaring daggers at me.

“We’ve already established you’re smarter than the lot of us put together, but when it comes to a punch-up, lads have the upper hand,” I insisted.

“You’re a chauvinist, Ron Weasley!” she yelled before storming off towards the castle as though a pack of wolves was on her heels.

“Feminist,” I called after her, sighing. Honestly, it seemed we couldn’t go a day without some kind of argument.

“Did you have to say it like that, Ron?” Harry chided me as we strolled along the path.

“To teach her to hold her tongue,” I replied plainly. “We’re not always going to be around. One day, she’ll run into a lot like Malfoy’s crew and say something she shouldn’t. Blokes like him don’t even notice Muggle-born girls unless they go out of their way to insult them or shove the truth in their faces. And Hermione, clever as she is, is a proper Gryffindor—can’t keep quiet to save her life. Better I say it now than let her get scared out of her wits later and leave us to deal with the fallout.”

Hermione sulked for a couple of days after that. Then she asked me to pass her a dictionary in the library, got caught up in a debate about something or other, and by the time she remembered she was supposed to be upset, it was too late. She had to pretend the row had never happened. Not that she could stay mad for long anyway—she’d flare up like a firework and burn out just as quick. Typical Gryffindor.