Fred and George heard Harry out but didn't believe him.
Snape was, by nature, despicable and sly, his words venomous. He loathed students with prestige and popularity. A Slytherin by birth, he was at odds with Gryffindor from the start.
In his ten years as Potions Master, what Gryffindor student hadn't suffered his insults and scolding?
Now that the famous Harry Potter had enrolled—and landed in Gryffindor to boot—who knew what low tricks Snape would play to humiliate him? If it didn't kill him, it would at least peel off a layer of skin.
The twins wanted to warn Harry again, but seeing him drinking merrily, they swallowed their words.
As the ancients said: "Without going through a thing, you won't gain the wisdom." Once he sat Potions, he'd know what a villain Snape truly was.
That night Harry had a dozen cups of sweet juice sloshing in his belly like waves. After dessert he downed two crème caramels that flipped in his stomach, and only kept drinking and feasting with the lads.
After an hour or two Dumbledore waved his hand; the banquet vanished of itself. He offered some golden nuggets of advice, and only then did Harry follow the prefects to the Gryffindor common room.
He spoke the password "dragon dregs" to the portrait of the plump lady; the door opened. Harry climbed into bed; the moment his head touched the pillow he went to seek Duke Zhou in dreams.
He wandered long in that dreamland yet never saw Duke Zhou. Darkness lacquer-black; he couldn't see around him. A shrill laugh circled; a woman's sobs. Green light flashed where souls are startled; lightning-scar on his brow throbbed with pain, and the scarred lad jolted awake.
"Kill!"
The shout startled his roommates half awake; they muttered in their sleep.
Harry panted a few breaths; looking out the window he saw the sky pale like a fish's belly—already a quarter past the Rabbit hour.
Sleep left him. Rubbing his scar and pondering the dream, he felt it odd.
In past nightmares there was only the flashing green light—nothing else. But now, at Hogwarts, he heard a woman's weeping, a raucous cackle.
And the scar—over ten years it hadn't ached; now it flared fiercely.
As the saying goes: "When a mountain rain is about to fall, the whole building fills with wind." An ill wind was rising today; Hogwarts was no place of calm.
He listened to Ron and the others snore like thunder, yet his heart was unsteady.
He threw on his robe, took his wand, tucked the watermelon knife at his waist, and went straight to the castle yard to practice forms.
Indeed:
Nightmare-startled, heart alarmed;
Hogwarts hides its lurking harm.
Sweat like rain in fists and feet;
Seek strength if you would keep the peace.
After an hour's drills Harry exhaled, wiped his sweat, and thought:
Though I've decent fists and feet, this body's far too slight; my strength is lacking. I need a handy weapon to match me.
He searched around the castle but found no smithy. Spotting a passing ghost, Harry asked; the ghost laughed: "Mr. Potter, there aren't many blacksmiths in all the wizarding world, let alone Hogwarts.
"And by the way, I died in 1945—anything after '45 I'm not too clear on."
Hearing this, Harry sighed and returned to the Gryffindor common room.
Before he could give the Fat Lady the password, the door opened by itself—Ron and Hermione were coming out to go to class.
"Good morning, Harry," Hermione greeted. "Where've you been?"
Harry bowed. "Greetings, Big Sister and Brother. I meant to forge a handy weapon, but it seems the wizarding world has no smiths. Truly: coin in hand and nowhere to spend it."
Ron didn't get it. "Weapon? Isn't the wand a weapon?"
Harry smiled. "And if someone gets in close? With a good weapon—wand in my left, blade in my right—I can strike far and near. Wouldn't that be fine?"
Though Mr. Weasley worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office and Ron had seen Muggle contraptions, he was still a pure-blood wizard; such "Muggle theory" sounded like scripture in a foreign tongue. He scratched his head, at a loss.
Hermione, being Muggle-born, understood Harry but still shook her head. "Harry, give up on that. Only goblins can forge weapons."
Harry blinked. "Ah! I thought goblins were only brokers. So there are master smiths among them too."
Hermione rolled her eyes. If you learn proper magic, what use are knives and swords? Harry's thinking was five centuries out of date. She said no more and pulled Harry and Ron off to class.
First period was History of Magic. Professor Binns was a ghost, claimed he'd lived a hundred years, knew matters ancient and modern—an animated fossil.
He droned like chanting scripture, and half the class fell asleep in no time.
Harry listened a while but heard nothing he cared for. Itching, he stood and called, "Good professor, why not speak to us of You-Know-Who! Teach us how to guard against him!"
At once desks and chairs clattered; drowsy students started in terror, and Binns himself froze, his spirit seeming to thin.
A sharp-eyed student cried, "Bad! Professor Binns looks like he's about to ascend—go fetch Professor McGonagall!"
Within a stick of incense McGonagall stormed in, soothed Binns for a good while, firmed his soul, docked Gryffindor one point, and charged Harry with frightening a professor.
"Harry, how could you say the Dark Lord's name?" At lunch Hermione nagged, "And we were covering Urik the Oddball and Emeric the Evil—You-Know-Who is sixth-year coursework!
"You lost Gryffindor's very first point—in your first class!"
Harry didn't care. "Don't fret, Big Sister. What use are these blasted points? Will they keep our Gryffindor brothers and sisters from drinking and making merry?"
With his mouth full of bacon, Ron chimed in, "Don't worry, Hermione. Fred and George always lose points and everyone still likes them, right?"
Hermione's eyes rounded, chest heaving; she didn't know what to say.
In the afternoon Professor Sprout taught Herbology. The plump, kind woman showed many strange plants—moving, laughing, screaming—opening eyes all around.
Later back in the common room, Harry was satisfied with the day. Yet without a weapon at his side, he never slept easy at night.
At dawn he trained, then went with Ron and Hermione to Charms.
The professor was Filius Flitwick, a short man with wild hair and whiskers, bald on top, who had to stack several feet of books to reach the lectern.
Harry whispered, "Why is this professor so small? Born a dwarf?"
Hermione was still fuming about the lost point, but his question tugged at her. "Professor Flitwick has goblin blood."
Harry's heart leapt. At last—my weapon has a lead!
After class the students ran to Transfiguration, but Harry came to the lectern and dropped to his knees. "Student Harry Potter greets the professor."
Flitwick already admired the famous Boy-Who-Lived; seeing such a courteous young wizard, he liked him all the more. "Oh, no need to bow, Harry. Did you not understand something in class? Don't worry, I'll help."
Harry rose, eyes bright. "Forgive me, professor—it's not about Charms. I heard you have goblin blood. Is that true?"
The room chilled; Flitwick's smile froze. "Mr. Potter, what do you mean by that?"
"The student wishes to forge a handy blade. I've heard goblins are masters of the forge, but I've no way to approach them. I beg your introduction, and I'll not stint on gold or silver in thanks."
Understanding, warmth returned. Flitwick smiled. "Oh, so that's it."
Harry, sensing hidden meaning, asked, "If not that, then what did you think?"
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