September 1st—about ten days after the brawl at Flourish and Blotts. Packed into a Slytherin compartment with my housemates, I turned over what kind of incident might be waiting for us this year.
Harry still looked far younger than the version I'd seen in that "blown-out BB source" clip; maybe the day he stands face-to-face with the blue-white bald one—the Dark Lord—wasn't so near after all. But there were too many unknowns. I couldn't even say if that would be their first real clash, or when the Dark Lord would return. I wanted to trust that Harry had what it would take to get through that scene—but with me, an anomaly, in the mix, it was dangerous to lean too hard on any presumed plot.
In the end, with fog on all sides, the only option is to stay on guard—track the Dark Lord's movements in the real world, and keep building the knowledge and experience to handle power when it shows up. Not knowing what's coming, that's about all I can do.
There is something besides grinding my skills, though. Drawing on the "knowledge" only I have, I can at least sketch the currents that flow from a "multi-volume novel." If whatever happens this year once again converges at the end of term, then together with last year it lends real weight to the "one volume per school year" hypothesis.
I can't rely on conjecture alone, of course, but if I can guess when the climax lands—the stretch when the protagonist is at the greatest risk—that's a gift. If I don't misjudge the danger the rest of the time, I can avoid a repeat of last year's Forbidden Forest fiasco.
Those were my complacent thoughts—right up until Hermione walked into our compartment and dumped a bucket of cold water over my head: apparently, neither Ron Weasley nor Harry was on the Hogwarts Express.
Too soon. Way too soon. The term hadn't even started.
The blood drained from my face, but I clung to the hope that they'd just gotten separated. Pansy grumbled about why we should bother, but I apologized and we split up to search the carriages. We combed the whole train.
Nothing.
While I sat in the corner trying to process that, the others kept chatting.
"Weasley's scatterbrained. He probably remembered he forgot something right before boarding," Goyle offered, trying to soothe my oddly intense worry for them. "Those two are joined at the hip, so Potter went with him."
For an ordinary student, that guess would be right nine times out of ten. But when it's Harry Potter, it's hard to imagine this turning out to be a slice of normal life.
"If they only missed the train, it's no big deal," someone else said. "Unless his family can't Apparate, they can still get to Hogsmeade."
"Even without Apparition it's fine. Forty minutes' walk from King's Cross and you're at the Leaky Cauldron. They can Flop to Hogsmeade from there," Pansy added.
True enough… and with Ron—a pure-blood wizard—along, there were plenty of options, even if Harry was still new to Floo Powder.
If they still didn't show up at school, I'd have to hope the story's stage was set outside the castle to begin with.
"I can picture them getting there first and standing like idiots in the Entrance Hall—might as well wear a sign that says 'We're late!' to the whole school."
"If the term had already begun, they'd definitely get docked points!"
"Even if not, Professor McGonagall will have sharp words about tardiness…"
I muttered that last bit without much conviction. The Hogwarts Express reached Hogsmeade Station with no sign of Harry or Ron.
In the end, my worry was largely misplaced. What reached our ears on arrival: eyewitnesses said a flying car had crashed into the school grounds—and rumor had it that Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, who'd been in it, were being expelled.
…What were they thinking? By what chain of decisions do you choose the worst possible means of travel for stealth or speed? And twelve-year-olds drove a car from London to the Highlands? There were so many points to dispute my brain just stalled.
Everyone buzzed with disbelief. No one thought Dumbledore's favored boys would actually be expelled, but the story was sensational.
In any case, it was breathtakingly thoughtless. Among us Slytherin second-years, the consensus formed fast: when Hermione Granger isn't with them, they are, quite literally, a brain down.
I saw them with my own eyes at breakfast the next morning. They were seated with a very tight-lipped Hermione, eating quietly. They had a scattering of small cuts that made me wonder, but they looked mostly intact. My less-than-angelic classmates made a beeline to poke the Gryffindor table.
Pansy, on track to be this year's reigning champion of snide, sang out, "Riddle me this: egg or chicken? In other words—were your heads already empty so you stuck to Granger, or did sticking to Granger mean you stopped thinking and now your heads are empty?"
Weasley flushed scarlet, anger flaring, but Harry—surprisingly—looked more mortified than anything. Hermione treated Pansy's jab as a response.
"Pansy, weren't you disappointed they didn't get docked points because term hadn't started?" Goyle said, watering down the moment, deliberately or not.
Weasley looked a touch smug; Harry hunched farther down.
"If the term had started, you'd have been a shoo-in for the very first 'exempt from headmaster's adjustment' case," Crabbe said coolly. "A pity."
Everyone seemed to think Gryffindor as a whole meant to celebrate this escapade, and the looks aimed at us were not friendly. With attention gathering fast, I reeled my housemates back to the Slytherin table.
Pansy wolfed down breakfast and was gearing up for another jaunt to Gryffindor when Ron's Howler exploded in his hands, stealing the moment. No one can talk over a mother broadcasting her fury to the rafters. The content supplied Pansy with fresh ammunition anyway.
Honestly, there isn't much defense for choosing a flying car—but I found myself a little worried about Harry. He's Gryffindor—he could have chalked it up as an adventure—but the Howler seems to have dumped an extra load of shame and guilt on him.
One good sign: by lunchtime, Hermione had apparently decided they'd suffered enough and was chatting with them as usual. Unfortunately, the coat button she'd Transfigured that morning and was proudly showing off set their nerves on edge again.
I watched the three of them head out to the courtyard after they finished eating. Curiosity finally won. I told my friends I'd catch up and followed them out.
"Quite the spectacle this morning," I said.
"Your lot were part of the spectacle," Ron shot back. "Get a better grip on Pansy's leash."
He still scowled, but it wasn't last year's brick wall. Better than being ignored or shut down flat.
"They won't stop because I tell them to," I said. "If there were a World Championship for scathing remarks, those two would enter without blinking. …Harry? You okay?"
He'd looked a bit better at lunch, but the funeral-procession air had settled over him again.
"I… really didn't think," he said, head down. "I knew you're not supposed to use magic in front of Muggles, but I panicked, and I forgot about the owl and everything…"
Excuses tumbled out, small and miserable. He looked genuinely stricken. What they'd done was serious, but it was the first time I'd seen him this remorseful.
I fumbled for words. He glanced up. "You're not angry?"
"When I first heard what you'd done, I was mostly exasperated," I admitted. "But I was worried, too."
"I thought you'd tear into me."
Apparently I'd become a very strict prefect in his head. I gave a small, helpless laugh and shook my head.
"I'm not piling on when you already look like that. So—why do it at all?"
A little light crept back into his face, and he told us what happened at King's Cross.
"You couldn't get onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters? Why? The enchantments at King's Cross are robust and complicated specifically so Muggles won't get suspicious. Students can't lock people out as a prank," I said.
We picked over possibilities together (Hermione was very diligently reading Holidays with Hags, of all things—how much could that possibly teach her?), when Harry suddenly looked up. Following his gaze, I saw a small boy with sandy hair clutching a camera and staring at us. The instant Harry looked his way, the boy flushed.
"H-Harry! Hi! I—I'm Colin Creevey," he stammered, shuffling a step closer, completely oblivious to me and Ron.
Words began to pour out in a fever: he was a die-hard fan. He wanted a photo with Harry—could he have an autograph on it, too? Harry looked utterly unhappy but couldn't bring himself to snub a first-year, and floundered.
I was just about to invent an excuse and drag Harry toward the library when a man emerged from the castle wearing robes bright enough to shame a South American moth: Professor Lockhart. …A bad feeling pricked up its ears.
He spotted Harry, strode over, and—with perfect instinct for what Colin wanted—clamped a hand on Harry's shoulder to pose him for a shot. Shameless. Did he pull this at Flourish and Blotts, too? Harry's face had moved past discomfort into naked humiliation.
I decided to intervene. I plucked a sprig of grass, Transfigured it into a fluorescent caterpillar (Transfiguration is my greatest hobby at Hogwarts), and brushed it against Lockhart's shoulder where he was gripping Harry. Pitching my voice just right, I called, "Professor, you have a poisonous insect on your shoulder."
He sprang back as if shocked, flapping his turquoise robes to dislodge the garish bug. The bell rang for the next class. Leaving Hermione—who remained by Lockhart's side—we sprinted up the steps and into the corridor.
Only when the courtyard was out of sight did we stop.
"Was it okay to leave Hermione there?" I asked.
"She's mad for him," Ron groaned. "She drew hearts around all his classes on her timetable!"
"Thanks for that," Harry added between breaths. "But I've got to defend him next. This is going to be awful."
We split in the corridor—different classrooms. I'd already guessed it, but Harry and Ron's opinion of Lockhart had bottomed out.
I didn't know there was still room to go lower.
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