SEPTEMBER 2ND, 1991
“There, look."
"Where?"
"Over there! Next to the tall kid with the red hair."
"Wearing the glasses?"
“Of course, do you see anyone else there?”
"Did you see his face?"
"Did you see his scar?"
Harry met up with Ron outside the dormitory the following morning—he felt glad to have someone that wanted to talk to him about anything other than the scar on his head. Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next day. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Harry wished they wouldn't, because he was trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes.
There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. The grandest of course were those that rotated and entirely changed their destination.
Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk.
The ghosts didn't help, either. It was always a nasty shock when one of them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless Nick was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him when you were late for class. He would drop wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!"
Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get on the wrong side of him on their very first morning. Filch found them trying to force their way through a door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He wouldn't believe they were lost, was sure they were trying to break into it on purpose, and was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.
Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamp like eyes just like Filch's. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of the school better than anyone (except perhaps the Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated him.
Harry and Ron finally managed to locate their first classes. Their shared luck persisted as they discovered they would be starting their day together with Herbology, a subject that both intrigued and daunted them. But the challenge wasn't over yet, for Herbology was not held within the castle's walls but out in the vast expanse of the greenhouse gardens.
As they ventured outside, the crisp morning air greeted them, carrying with it the scent of earth and greenery. The Hogwarts greenhouses sprawled before them, a haven of botanical wonders hidden within the castle grounds. However, locating their class within this verdant maze proved to be a daunting task.
Separated by a divider, the greenhouses presented a curious sight. The frontmost room, resembling a traditional classroom albeit nestled amidst a riot of colorful blooms and winding vines, seemed like an oasis of order amidst the lush chaos. Desks were arranged neatly in rows, providing a semblance of normalcy amidst the botanical splendor that surrounded them.
Yet, beyond the divider lay two long tables that extended across the center of the room with stations set up for the individual students to stand and work directly with their materials.
As they settled into their seats, anticipation bubbled within them, mingled with a healthy dose of apprehension.
“Hello, hello,” said the short professor who was waiting for them as soon as they entered. “My name is Professor Sprout—quite fitting for the subject if I do say so myself. My family is dedicated to the study and progress of the study of plants and their many uses, as you may not think it, but a witch or wizard would be nothing without the support of our herbs. Why don’t we all sit down and we can begin with introductions?”
Harry felt that the air in the classroom was thick with the buzzing of insects—which he learned was only but beneficial to the plant life around them. He had learned there was a healthy mix of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in his Herbology class—some familiar faces sat around him such as Justin Finch-Fletchley and Neville Longbottom. They both regarded Harry with a positive smile as they went around the class in their introductions. A few of the other Hufflepuff students he hadn’t met before were also seemed to be nice. Wayne Hopkins had shared that his Aunt Turney had some Newt level experience with Herbology...whatever that had meant.
The sunlight filtered through the glass panes, casting ethereal patterns upon the floor which had made it a bit difficult for Harry to focus on their first lesson—which was on the basic features of plant kind and their more magical properties. Ron had completely zoned out after introductions had been made, but he put in an effort to listen once Professor Sprout had introduced them to the Wiggentree, which had bark that was so infused with restorative properties that creatures stated to have prolonged contact with it offered minor levels of protection against surface damage.
“Professor Snape will certainly discuss the more involved uses of Wiggentree bark in potions, but know that it is the kind of tree you want to be on the lookout for if you’re ever on a field expedition. It’s notable for its discolored spots—not to be confused with the same spots found on Wormwood plants.”
Once class was out, Harry and Ron split as Ron had to head to Professor Sinistra’s class for Astronomy, meanwhile Harry had Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell.
Harry set off on his own towards the D.A.D.A. Classroom. Making it back inside was a nice break from the chilly air. As he made his way through the winding halls of the castle, Harry met up with Asher Rhodes in the halls.
“Hey, Harry!” Asher called from a few stairs below. Harry turned and slowed as he saw them approach.
Asher was small, about as small as Harry was, but their hair was longer—down to their shoulders. He thought they were the smallest girl in their house.
“You headed to Defense Against?” Asher asked.
Harry nodded, “Yeah. Are you as well?”
Asher agreed, and ran up beside Harry.
This gave Harry the chance to ask some of the questions he had the previous night. “Hey, I hope I’m not prying, but I noticed that you weren’t in the dorms last night—is everything okay?”
Asher stared at him with a puzzled look, but then recognition gleamed on their face. “Oh, yes. Everything is fine. They just didn’t have a dorm for me. Percy was helping bring me to the Headmaster to get that issue sorted out.”
“Not a dorm? Surely the girl’s dorm has enough beds? There was some leftover in ours.”
The confused look on Asher’s face returned. “Oh, I’m not a girl.”
Harry, embarrassed, but not really understanding, apologized. “Oh, well then, like I said, there’s plenty of beds leftover in the boys’ dorm.”
“I’m not a boy either,” said Asher, meekly.
“I’m sorry, I’m just...not sure there was a third option?” asked Harry.
“I don’t necessarily think that it’s a third,” said Asher. “Moreso...I don’t really feel one or the other.”
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Harry apologized, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't mean to assume. I just thought..."
Asher waved off Harry's apology with a small, understanding smile. "It's quite alright, really. It happens all the time. I'm used to it."
Harry nodded, grateful for Asher's understanding, but still feeling a bit uncertain. "So, um, if you don't mind me asking, where do you, uh, prefer to stay then? Since there isn't a specific dorm for...um..."
Asher's smile widened at Harry's awkward attempt to navigate the conversation. "Well, that's the thing. I don't really feel comfortable in either the boys' or girls' dorms. I'm what some people might call non-binary, which means I don't identify strictly as male or female."
Harry's brows furrowed slightly as he processed this new information. Non-binary? It was a concept he hadn't encountered before, but he tried his best to understand. "Oh, I see. I guess I never really thought about it before."
Asher nodded, appreciating Harry's efforts to comprehend. "It's alright. Not many people do. But I'm just here to learn like everyone else." Harry had known a lot about living in uncomfortable spaces.
Asher flashed a friendly smile, his expression genuinely inviting. "I believe the class is this way. Follow me."
Leading Harry through the corridors, they passed towering suits of armor and enchanted portraits that seemed to follow their progress with curious eyes, though they would shift away if Harry tried to meet their gaze directly. The castle exuded an ancient energy, each stone whispering tales of centuries past.
After navigating a labyrinth of twisting staircases and concealed passages, Asher guided Harry to their destination: a nondescript door tucked into a secluded corner of the castle. Beside the entrance, a weathered plaque bore the words "Defense Against the Dark Arts," marking it as the threshold to knowledge and empowerment in the face of darkness. As they entered Harry saw Professor Quirrell at the front of the room, his back was to the class as he fumbled with a stack of parchment. Harry's gaze lingered on the turban that adorned the professor's head, a curious accessory that seemed out of place amidst the scholarly surroundings.
Harry noticed a few seats in the front and so he slid in. If there was ever a class that absorbed his interest, it would be this one. It sounded so simple, but to be able to face off against dark magic and know what you were doing...that is what he wanted to learn most.
Asher took the seat next to him, offered another smile, and then looked up toward the front.
Unfortunately, most of the lesson was spent with Quirrell trying to amp himself up to speak, but he ended up repeating his introduction—not satisfied with it the first time, until he finally got his bearings fifteen minutes into the class. As Quirrell stumbled through his introduction for the second time, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of frustration creeping in. The minutes ticked by agonizingly slow as the nervous professor struggled to find his footing, his stuttering voice failing to command the attention of his students. Amidst the awkward silence that hung heavy in the air, the pungent scent of garlic grew increasingly overpowering, permeating every corner of the classroom with its unmistakable odor.
It was then that Sophie Roper, a Slytherin student seated towards the back of the room, raised her hand, her curiosity piqued by the unusual aroma. Quirrell's eyes darted nervously towards her, his stutter returning with renewed intensity as he attempted to address her question. "Y-Y-Yes?" he stammered, his voice barely audible over the rustling of papers and the shifting of chairs.
“What’s that nasty smell?” Sophie inquired, her brow furrowed in mild disgust. Quirrell hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering towards the source of the odor before he finally mustered a response. “W-Well, I met a r-rather nasty vampire in Albania that I’d just b-barely gotten away from before term started. I’d hate if it came here and s-s-so I put up the natural d-defenses...” he explained, his words trailing off uncertainly as he fidgeted with the hem of his robes.
"T-t-today," he began, his eyes darting nervously around the classroom, "we delve into the annals of history, exploring the origins and evolution of d-d-dark magic."
With a shaky wave of his wand, the blackboard behind him sprang to life, displaying images of shadowy figures and ominous symbols. "D-d-dark magic," Professor Quirrell continued, his tone wavering, "has plagued the w-wizarding world for centuries, its roots stretching back to the d-d-dawn of magic itself." As he spoke, he recounted tales of ancient sorcerers who delved into forbidden arts, seeking power at any cost.
The students listened intently as Professor Quirrell wove a narrative of darkness and intrigue, his stutter lending an air of vulnerability to his words. From the dark reign of Grindelwald to the tyranny of Voldemort, each name carried with it a legacy of fear and destruction, a reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. It was on the subject of Voldemort however that Professor Quirrell seemed to struggle the most, as saying his name seemed to take all of his available energy.
"Understanding the history of d-d-dark magic is crucial," Professor Quirrell explained, his voice trembling. "It provides us with insight into the minds of those who would seek to do us harm, allowing us to anticipate their m-motives and strategies. As we delve deeper into the history of d-d-dark magic," Professor Quirrell continued, his voice gaining a measure of confidence as he spoke, "we cannot overlook the malevolent figure of Herpo the Foul, whose deeds remain etched in the darkest corners of wizarding lore."
Harry stared with a sense of fascination—it was a weird feeling to hear of dark magic and not have it cast to Voldemort at this point based on all he had heard.
"Herpo the Foul," he began, his eyes gleaming with an eerie intensity, "was a wizard of unparalleled cruelty and ambition, who thrived during the darkest periods of wizarding history. Born centuries ago," Professor Quirrell elaborated, his voice tinged with a note of reverence, "Herpo lived during a time of chaos and strife, when the boundaries between light and darkness were blurred. Little is known about his early life, but his legacy is marred by a series of dark and forbidden deeds that have left a stain on the pages of history. I cannot describe to you the depths of which his depravity went—as he truly went where no wizard at the time went, but he studied magic most dangerous and his experiments had p-p-pushed the boundaries of magic to their limits."
"It is said," Professor Quirrell continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that Herpo delved into the most forbidden of magics, seeking to unlock the secrets of immortality, but we know now that of course, his ultimate goal was not completed."
A shiver ran down Harry’s as he thought on the nature of immortality. Living forever? Could such a thing be possible…?
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Professor Quirrell pressed on, his eyes burning with intensity. "But Herpo's depravity did not end there," he continued, his voice low and ominous. "He was also responsible for the creation of the Basilisk, a monstrous serpent with the power to petrify or kill with a single glance. It is clear that the most dangerous witches and wizards across history did not limit their methods for causing harm and destruction, so for the remainder of our t-t-term we shall aim to learn to best p-p-protect ourselves. Herpo the Foul," Professor Quirrell concluded, his voice tinged with a note of warning, "serves as a stark reminder of the dangers of delving too deeply into the dark arts. His legacy serves as a cautionary tale for us all, a reminder that even the most gifted among us can succumb to the lure of power and darkness if we are not careful."
The only other thing of note came from Quirrell’s story of his turban. It seemed like talking about his exploits helped calm his nerves and return the tempo of the lesson to a more normal pace. His turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but Harry of course wasn’t too sure he believed this story.
For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban. When later prompted about this story, the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went.
After Defense Against the Dark arts Harry met up split with Asher who had to travel back out to their Herbology class, but Harry met up with Neville who was headed to Wandlore with him.
“I think it’s over here,” said Neville, who had incorrectly guessed the turn wrong four times previous, but a stroke of luck led them to Professor Pavilar’s classroom on the fifth floor.
“Did you look into any of the reading?” Harry had asked. “This is the one textbook I think sounded easiest to grasp.”
“Oh, I think I misplaced it…” Neville said, looking around the stack of books in his hands and realizing it was not with him. “Oh...no, I’ll have to swing back to the dorm...uh, do you remember the password, Harry?”
“Caput Draconis,” Harry repeated, then looked after the boy as he ran from the room in a hurry.
Harry sat down in the rather small classroom, the air heavy with anticipation as he took in his surroundings. The room was dimly lit, the walls lined with shelves filled to the brim with jars of assorted magical ingredients and peculiar artifacts. The atmosphere crackled with an undercurrent of mystique.
As Harry entered the Wandlore classroom, he scanned the sea of students and spotted familiar faces among the Gryffindors. Dean Thomas sat with an easy confidence, his posture relaxed as he chatted with Seamus Finnegan, their laughter filling the air with camaraderie. Nearby, Johan Thalan, a quiet but determined Gryffindor, sat with a focused expression, his attention already fixed on the front of the room.
Among the Slytherins and Ravenclaws, Harry noticed Sophie Roper, her sharp gaze betraying her Slytherin cunning as she observed her surroundings with keen interest. Draco Malfoy, a prominent figure in the room, exuded an air of arrogance as he settled into his seat, his eyes cold and calculating.
At the front of the classroom, Hermione Granger sat next to Terry Boot, their heads bent together in earnest discussion, no doubt already deep in conversation about the subject matter at hand. She looked up and a look of recognition passed on her face as he chose for a seat, but her focus returned to the front of the class almost immediately.
Harry wished that the Hufflepuffs could have had this class instead of the Slytherins so Ron could be here, but he figured the seat in the middle would have to do. There was an open seat next to him for Neville to sit in when he got back.
At the front of the room stood Professor Lazarus Pavilar, a figure of commanding presence and enigmatic allure. Tall and slender, he exuded an aura of quiet authority, his piercing gaze sweeping over the assembled students with an intensity that left no room for doubt. Clad in robes of midnight blue, adorned with intricate runes and symbols embroidered in shimmering silver thread, he seemed to embody the very essence of magic itself.
Professor Pavilar's features were sharp and angular, his face framed by a cascade of dark hair that fell in waves around his shoulders. His eyes, a piercing shade of sapphire blue, seemed to hold the secrets of the universe within their depths, their gaze unwavering and penetrating. A thin scar, barely visible against the pallor of his skin, traced its way across his cheek,.
“Hello, fine students,” he started. His voice was a low, melodic rumble that seemed to resonate with the very walls of the classroom, commanding attention and respect in equal measure. “Today begins your education in the very instrument you each carry with you—the wands that choose you are perhaps one of the most important tools that you have available. Today will be simple. You will each get the chance to learn what makes your wand so special, and what kinds of magic you may be better at performing.”
Harry did remember that Ollivander had mentioned his wand had a phoenix feather inside it, a fact that unsettled him due to the fact of its twin belonging to Voldemort, but he did read in Wands, Wizards, and the Magical Connection that the Phoenix Feather was one of the rarer cores out there.
“You shall open your textbooks to page—”
A sound burst in from the back of the classroom as Harry saw Neville stumble into the classroom with his book in tow. He was out of breath and gasping for air—this elicited laughs from Malfoy and the other Slytherin boy next to him—the one the sorting hat had called Blaise Zabini.
“Ever think he’s run that fast before?” said Zabini in-between chuckles.
Harry felt a prick of irritation at them, but before he could say anything, Professor Pavilar interrupted.
“You’ll find you won’t need to rush if you come prepared the first time. What is your name?”
“Neville Longbottom,” said Neville in between breaths. He bent over and then righted himself up.
“Well, Mr. Longbottom. I think there’s a free chair there,” he pointed to the seat beside Harry. “I would exercise prudence in the future.”
“Yessir,” Neville said, and made his way to the seat, the laughter from the back of the room continued.
“Yes, now as I was saying,” Professor Pavilar continued. “You all will open your textbooks to Chapter One. Here, you will write a short description about your wand using the attributes Ollivander had told you when you first received it. If you received your wand elsewhere or do not remember the specifics, let me know and I will go around the room to examine them myself. You may learn more than you expect!”
Thankfully, Harry remembered that his wand was made of Holly. He didn’t quite remember the length as it had been over a month ago, but his book covered the information he was looking for.
Wands made of holly excel at protective and healing magic, drawing upon the wood's symbolic association with resilience and defense. They are adept at casting spells such as shielding charms, protective enchantments, and healing magic, providing support and safeguarding against malevolent forces. Conversely, wands with phoenix feather cores offer exceptional versatility and power, harnessing the unique properties of the rare and mystical core. These wands are sought after for their ability to channel magic with precision and intensity, making them well-suited for a wide range of spellcasting, including advanced transfiguration, powerful charms, and defensive magic. The combination of holly wood and phoenix feather core creates a harmonious partnership that enhances both protective and versatile magic, offering a balanced approach to spellcasting that combines resilience with precision and power.
Once he had gotten his passage inked down he thought on it. Was it a coincidence that Defense Against the Dark Arts was the class that most interested him, and his wand happened to be best suited for defense? He wondered if his interest was swayed by reading such in his bedroom at the Dursley’s, but figured he wouldn’t cleanly find the answer by just thinking about it.
Professor Pavilar had gone around to the students who needed help identifying their wand wood or core—Neville had needed help identifying both—but when the work was done, he returned to the front of the class.
“All right, now, who wants to demonstrate what they’ve learned? Anyone want to share their findings about their wand?”
Hermione’s hand was the first one to shoot into the air. He nodded, ‘Yes, Ms. Granger, was it? Feel free to speak up so the class can hear you.”
Behind him, Harry could hear some whispers coming from Malfoy’s table, but then Sophie shushed him.
"Professor Pavilar, my wand is made of vine wood, which I find so exciting because it symbolizes adaptability and growth! It's like it matches perfectly with how I love to learn, always ready to try new things and grow stronger. And guess what? It's got a core of dragon heartstring, which is so powerful and versatile! I can't wait to see all the magic I'll be able to do with it. With my wand, I feel like I can tackle any challenge and learn all sorts of amazing spells!"
“That is an astute observation. One point to Ravenclaw for taking the first plunge.”
Once Wandlore was through, Harry had Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall with the Ravenclaws. He saw Hermione and Terry there, but Asher had rejoined alongside Pavarti Patil and Alice Runcorn. A boy named Stephen Cornfoot and Anthony Goldstein had introduced themselves to Harry upon seeing him in their class, a measure that Hermione hadn’t let go unnoticed.
Professor McGonagall stood before the class, her demeanor as stern and commanding as ever. Her sharp, emerald eyes scanned the room with a keen intelligence, missing nothing as she assessed each student before her. Tall and imposing, she exuded an air of authority that demanded respect, her posture rigid and poised.
Her dark robes billowed around her, adding to her formidable presence, while her expression remained impassive, betraying no hint of emotion. A single strand of her tightly pulled-back hair escaped its confines, framing her face with a strictness that matched her reputation.
As the students settled into their seats, Professor McGonagall wasted no time in asserting her authority. Her voice, though calm, carried a steely edge as she delivered a sharp reprimand, setting the tone for her class with a no-nonsense approach. It was clear to Harry that she was not a teacher to be trifled with, her strictness matched only by her unwavering commitment to excellence.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
With a wave of her wand, Professor McGonagall transformed her desk into a sleek, oinking pig before their astonished eyes, then back again to its original form. The students erupted into murmurs of amazement, their excitement palpable as they eagerly awaited their chance to try their hand at transfiguration magic. However, their enthusiasm quickly waned when they realized that transforming furniture into animals would have to wait for another day.
Undeterred, Harry attempted to diligently take notes as Professor McGonagall demonstrated the complexities of transfiguration, her instructions precise and her expectations high. Each student was then handed a match and tasked with the formidable challenge of transfiguring it into a needle.
Amidst a flurry of concentration and whispered incantations, Hermione Granger emerged as the standout, her match undergoing a miraculous transformation into a shimmering silver needle. Professor McGonagall's stern countenance softened into a rare smile of approval as she showcased Hermione's accomplishment to the class, acknowledging her exceptional talent with a nod of appreciation.
Asher, beside Harry, had almost gotten it to work, but instead of a needle she turned it pink. It was a hair more than anybody else had made progress of, but still nowhere near the score.
After their Transfiguration class, Harry and Asher hurriedly made their way to the Great Hall. Harry was eager to catch up with Ron over lunch. The vast hall echoed with the chatter of students as they settled into their respective tables. Spotting Ron amidst the bustling crowd, Harry waved excitedly, his steps quickening as he weaved through the sea of tables until he reached his friend's side.
"Ron! Hey!" Harry greeted, relief washing over him as he finally joined Ron at their usual spot. "Guess what? I met someone new in class today. This is Asher," he introduced, gesturing to the unfamiliar face seated beside him.
Ron offered a friendly nod to Asher before turning his attention back to Harry. "Nice to meet you, Asher," he said with a smile.
“We met in Defense Against,” Asher explained. “Helped having another Gryffindor with all those Slytherins in there,” they joked.
“That’s the same thing I felt in Astronomy!” Ron exclaimed. “That Malfoy mainly. Can’t get a word in without him giving some backhanded remark.”
“Oh, I think I saw that in Wandlore,” Harry said. “I don’t know what his problem is.”
“Dad’s got too much money and too little time teaching him to not be a git,” Ron remarked dryly.
This caused all three of them to laugh.
“Speaking of Wandlore,” said Ron, sharply. “Can you believe what my wand revealed about me?”
“You mean what you read about your wand?” Asher asked.
Ron nodded, realizing his mix-up. “Yeah, so I learned it’s Ash with Unicorn hair inside. Turns out it’s the most loyal of all the wand types. Ain’t that special?”
“Loyal?” asked Harry.
“Well, I guess loyal to the original owner,” Ron said, a little dejected. “My brother Charlie gave me this one, remember?” He glanced at Harry for confirmation.
“Oh, so that must be pretty difficult then,” said Asher, their expression thoughtful.
Harry looked to Asher, confused.
“Wand loyalty is really important I hear,” they said. “That’s why wands pick who they work under, kind of like what Professor Pavilar mentioned. So if Ron’s wand is a hand-me-down, then it didn’t necessarily pick him.”
“And I got the most loyal of the bunch,” Ron said, looking at his wand with a spout of irritation.
As they chatted, Harry noticed Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, and Lee Jordan sitting nearby, their voices blending with the lively chatter of the Great Hall. Lee, the third-year student that Harry recognized as the one showing off his ferret at King's Cross Station, made Harry laugh at the memory. The trio seemed engrossed in a conversation of their own, punctuated by bursts of laughter and animated gestures.
Amidst the warmth of friendship and the buzz of conversation, Harry couldn't help but feel grateful for moments like these.
After lunch was over, Harry, Ron, and Asher all moved to Charms Class with Professor Flitwick. Harry saw that there was a healthy mix of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw students already seated. Asher sat next to Harry while Ron grunted as he sat next to Hermione in the last available seat.
Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a diminutive wizard with a boundless enthusiasm that belied his small stature. Perched atop a precarious stack of books behind his desk, he peered over the edge with twinkling eyes, his voice carrying a cheerful lilt as he began the roll call for their first class of the year.
As he worked his way down the list of names, the anticipation in the air was palpable. When he reached Harry's name, however, something extraordinary happened. With a sudden burst of excitement, Professor Flitwick emitted a high-pitched squeak, his grip on the books slipping as he toppled backward out of sight, disappearing behind his desk in a flurry of robes and parchment.
Not much happened in their introductory lesson, of which Harry was thankful for. It was getting late in the day and Harry still had two classes left before it was over—Astronomy and History of Magic.
Astronomy was quite the distance away from the other classes as Harry found himself navigating the winding path to the Astronomy Tower for his first class with Professor Sinistra. The tower loomed overhead, its silhouette against the star-studded heavens adding an air of mystique to the occasion. As he ascended the stone steps, Harry noticed a mix of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw students gathering under the watchful gaze of the towering telescopes.
Among the students were Henry Orville, his Ravenclaw classmate known for his keen interest in celestial phenomena, and Hermione Granger, her bushy hair catching the faint moonlight as she exchanged excited whispers with her friends. Nearby, Amanda Brocklehurst and Sue Li chatted animatedly, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of their wands.
Morag MacDougal and Neville Longbottom arrived, their expressions a mix of anticipation and nervousness, while Robert Neilson and Dean Thomas exchanged knowing nods as they joined the group. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil giggled nearby, their excitement contagious as they eagerly awaited the start of class.
As Professor Sinistra emerged, her silvery robes shimmering in the moonlight, Harry felt a sense of awe wash over him. With her vast knowledge of the cosmos and her gentle demeanor, she guided the students through their first lesson, encouraging them to explore the wonders of the night sky together.
Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, a subject taught by Professor Binns. The professor had been ancient even when he was alive, and now, in his ghostly form, he continued his monotonous lectures from beyond the grave. With a voice that seemed to echo from another realm, Binns droned on endlessly about the countless names, dates, and events of magical history, his words lulling students into a near trance-like state.
Seated in the dimly lit classroom, students scribbled furiously in their parchment, attempting to keep up with the torrent of information. But despite their efforts, the lectures often blurred together, with Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball becoming indistinguishable in a haze of centuries-old anecdotes and trivia. Binns' ghostly presence floated through the room, oblivious to the stifled yawns and drooping eyelids of his captive audience, lost in a timeless loop of historical recitation.
As Harry settled into his new life at Hogwarts, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. Contrary to his initial fears, he discovered that he wasn't hopelessly behind his peers. In fact, he was far from alone in his journey of magical discovery. Many of his fellow students, hailing from Muggle families like himself, shared similar experiences of awakening to their magical heritage.
Surrounded by classmates who had also been thrust into the enchanting world of wizardry with little prior knowledge, Harry found solace in the camaraderie of shared bewilderment and excitement.
Even someone like Ron, who came from a wizarding family, didn't possess an overwhelming advantage. With the vastness of magical knowledge awaiting them, they were all on equal footing, eagerly soaking up every lesson and revelation with wide-eyed wonder. And as they navigated the intricacies of their newfound abilities together, Harry realized that the journey of discovery was just as magical as the destination.