The scarlet steam engine exhaled a great, white plume of mist that swallowed the platform in a damp, magical shroud. The air thrummed with the cacophony of reunions, the screeching of owls, and the frantic goodbyes of Muggle-born parents. For most, it was a day of unadulterated wonder. For Harry Potter, it was a trial to be endured.
He stood slightly apart, a lone figure in overlarge, second-hand clothes. His trunk, shabby and tied with rough twine, was already stowed away by a tight-lipped, stoic wizard from the school. Hagrid, the giant of a man who had pulled him from the wreckage of his old life, had clapped him on the back with force enough to rattle his teeth, handed him a ticket, and vanished on some other headmasterly errand. "Yer'll be fine, Harry! Just find a compartment an' make yerself at home!"
As if it were that simple. Home was a concept as foreign to Harry as the galleons, sickles, and knuts jangling in the leather pouch in his pocket. The Dursleys' house had never been a home; it was a prison. And this train, this gateway to a new world, felt like another kind of prison altogether, just one with softer bars and a more tantalizing view of freedom.
He adjusted the collar of his shirt, a nervous habit. The fabric was coarse and chafed against his neck. Everything about him was a study in deliberate ordinariness, a carefully constructed camouflage. His posture was slightly stooped, his walk a self-conscious shuffle. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, avoiding eye contact. It was a discipline he had cultivated over years, a survival mechanism as instinctive as breathing.
For Harry Potter carried a secret, a burden that had shaped every moment of his existence since he could remember. It was a legacy not of lightning-bolt scars or vanquished dark lords, but of blood and flesh, a curse masquerading as a blessing.
Centuries ago, in the dust and blood-soaked glory of the Roman Empire, a wizard named Ignotus Peverell, a direct ancestor of the Potter line, had come across a legionary centurion preparing to make an example of a young Sabine witch. Her crime was defiance; her punishment was to be a public and brutal violation before being cast into the flames. Ignotus, a man of quiet power and a distaste for such spectacle, intervened. He didn't slay the centurion in a flash of spell-light. Instead, he used a subtle, ancient magic, a twist of fate and flesh. He offered the witch her freedom and in a moment of profound, desperate gratitude, she laid upon him and his male line a blessing of virility, a testament to the life-saving power he represented.
She had intended it as a gift. A symbol of ultimate masculine potency.
The magic, however, was wild, born of trauma and salvation, and it did not understand moderation. It etched itself into the very DNA of the Potter males. From that day forth, every son born of the main Potter line was blessed—or cursed—with an anatomical reality that defied normalcy. No Potter male would ever be born with a phallus smaller than nine inches in length, nor with a girth less than four inches. It was a constant, an immutable law of their biology, as fixed as the colour of their eyes or the shape of their nose.
For Harry, this legacy was a source of profound isolation. As a small child, it had been a confusing and awkward reality. At Stonewall High, during the dreaded communal showers, it had been a nightmare. The stares, the whispers, the cruel laughter, the occasional look of fascinated horror—it had all cemented his status as a freak. The Dursleys, of course, had seized upon it as further proof of his unnaturalness. Vernon Dursley's face would turn a dangerous shade of purple whenever the subject was obliquely referenced, and Petunia would look at him as if he were a slug she'd found in her pristine salad.
So, Harry had learned to hide. He wore loose, baggy trousers. He mastered the art of dressing and undressing with a speed that would impress a stage magician. He never, ever used public urinals. He built walls around himself, high and thick, and he never let anyone get close enough to see the cracks.
He boarded the Hogwarts Express, the scent of coal smoke and old leather filling his nostrils. The corridor was a chaotic river of students, a jostling current of black robes and excited chatter. He needed solitude. A quiet, empty compartment where he could disappear for the journey.
He found one near the end of the train, mercifully vacant. He slid the door shut, the click of the latch a sound of sweet relief. He sank onto the plush seat, leaning his head against the cool window, watching the last of London blur and then vanish, replaced by the green sprawl of the countryside. For the first time all day, he allowed his shoulders to relax. He was alone. He was safe.
The peace lasted for twenty minutes.
It began subtly. A girl with long, plaited hair walked slowly past his compartment, her gaze fixed intently on the window—on his reflection. She lingered for a moment too long before moving on. Then another, a blonde this time, who 'accidentally' slid the door open, blushed a furious crimson, muttered an apology, and fled. A third, a pair of giggling Hufflepuffs, actually stopped and pointed, their whispers audible even through the glass.
A cold dread, familiar and heavy, began to settle in Harry's stomach. It was happening again. The staring. The whispering. But this felt different, more intense, more... targeted. At Stonewall, it had been the cruelty of children. This felt like a hunt.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself smaller, trying to become one with the upholstery. He focused on the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks, a metallic mantra against the rising panic.
The door to his compartment slid open with a sudden, decisive rasp.
A girl stood there. She was his age, with a bushy mane of brown hair and large, front-teeth that were just a touch too prominent. She was already dressed in her black school robes, which looked crisp and new. Her expression was one of intense, almost aggressive curiosity.
"Have you seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one," she said, her voice brisk and matter-of-fact. But her eyes, a bright, intelligent brown, weren't scanning the floor for a missing amphibian. They were locked on him, wide and unblinking, taking in every detail of his face, his clothes, his hunched posture.
Harry shook his head mutely, hoping she would leave.
She didn't. She stepped fully into the compartment, letting the door slide shut behind her. "I'm Hermione Granger," she announced, as if presenting credentials. "And you're Harry Potter."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, laden with a significance he didn't understand.
He nodded again, his throat tight.
"I know all about you, of course," she continued, sitting down on the seat opposite him without an invitation. "I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in *Modern Magical History* and *The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts* and *Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century*."
Harry stared at her. Books? He was in books? The concept was absurd. What could they possibly say? 'Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, also has a...'
"Sorry?" he managed to croak. "What are you talking about?"
"You! You're famous!" Hermione said, her voice rising with excitement. "For defeating You-Know-Who! When you were just a baby!" She leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "And for... well, for the other thing."
The cold dread in his stomach turned to ice. "What other thing?" he whispered, though he knew. He knew with a certainty that made him feel faint.
Hermione's confidence seemed to falter for a fraction of a second. A faint pink blush touched her cheeks. "The... the Potter Legacy. The... um... the *Blessing of the Sabine*." She said the last part in a rushed, hushed tone, as if it were a forbidden spell.
Harry felt the world tilt. The Blessing of the Sabine. He had never heard it called that. In the scant, awkward fragments of information he'd pieced together from overheard arguments between his aunt and uncle, it was referred to only as 'that... that *unnatural* business.' To hear it given a formal, historical name, to hear it spoken aloud by a stranger, was terrifying. It meant it was real. It was documented. It was public knowledge.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, the lie weak and transparent. He looked away, out the window, praying she would take the hint.
Hermione Granger was not a girl who took hints. She was a girl who devoured information, who solved problems, and who believed every mystery had a logical explanation waiting to be uncovered. And Harry Potter was the greatest mystery to have ever boarded the Hogwarts Express.
"Of course you do," she said, her tone shifting to one of gentle, condescending reason. "It's a well-documented historical and magical-biological phenomenon. I read about it in *An Examination of Procreative and Virility Magics of the Classical Era* by Bathilda Bagshot. It's a very rare form of permanent, trans-generational anatomical transfiguration. It's quite fascinating, really. The book had a whole chapter on the socio-sexual dynamics of the Potter family in wizarding society. It said that Potter men have always been considered... highly sought after."
Harry closed his eyes. He wanted to vomit. *Socio-sexual dynamics.* *Highly sought after.* The clinical, academic language made it sound so sterile, so... normal. It wasn't normal. It was a grotesque abnormality that had made him a pariah.
"Please go away," he said, his voice barely audible.
"I'm not trying to embarrass you," Hermione said, and she sounded genuinely sincere. "I just... I find it intellectually fascinating. And, well, I wanted to see for myself."
His eyes snapped open. "See what?"
She gestured vaguely towards his lap, her blush deepening. "Well... *it*. The legacy. The proof."
Rage, hot and sudden, flared within him. It was a feeling he rarely allowed himself to feel, but now it burned through the fear and shame. "Get out," he said, his voice low and shaking.
Hermione looked taken aback, but she didn't retreat. Her own stubbornness rose to meet his anger. "There's no need to be rude. I'm just trying to understand. Knowledge is power, you know. Ignoring a fundamental aspect of your own biology is... is illogical."
"It's none of your business," Harry snarled, standing up. He felt trapped, cornered. The compartment was too small. "Get out of here!"
"Or what?" she challenged, standing as well, her hands on her hips. "This is a public train. I have as much right to be here as you do."
The argument was spiraling, drawing attention. A face appeared at the glass of the corridor door—a freckled boy with red hair, looking curious. Harry saw him and felt a fresh wave of humiliation. He had to end this. Now.
He took a step towards her, and for the first time, he didn't try to hide his height, his presence. The carefully constructed meekness fell away, revealing the sharp, angry boy beneath. The change was so sudden and so complete that Hermione took an involuntary step back, her bravado faltering.
"You want to see?" Harry's voice was a venomous whisper. "You want to gawk at the freak? Is that what this is? You read about the famous Harry Potter in your books, and you thought you'd come and see the circus attraction for yourself?"
"N-no! That's not it at all!" Hermione stammered, her eyes wide. She was suddenly, acutely aware that she was alone in a compartment with a very angry boy, and the dynamic had shifted entirely. The intellectual curiosity was being rapidly replaced by a primal, feminine wariness.
"Then what is it?" Harry pressed, advancing another step. The train rattled around them, a frantic soundtrack to the confrontation. "You said it yourself. 'Highly sought after.' Is that what you're doing? Seeking me out? You and every other girl who's walked past this compartment today?"
He was voicing his deepest fear, giving it life and breath in the cramped space between them. The truth of it hung in the air, ugly and undeniable.
Hermione's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. The clinical, academic detachment she had wrapped herself in was gone, shredded by his raw hostility. She was just a scared, eleven-year-old girl who had bitten off far more than she could chew.
"I... I just thought..." she began, her voice trembling.
"You didn't think," Harry cut her off, his green eyes blazing behind his glasses. "You read your books and you decided you were entitled to something. A piece of the famous Harry Potter. A look at the monster."
The word 'monster' seemed to hang in the air. Hermione flinched as if struck. She had never used that word, never thought it, but she could see it reflected in his eyes, the belief that it was what he was.
"I'm not a monster," he whispered, the anger suddenly draining away, leaving only a bottomless well of exhaustion and pain. "I'm just a boy who wants to be left alone."
He turned away from her, leaning his forehead against the cool window. The confrontation was over. He had won, but it felt like another defeat. He had revealed a part of himself, the angry, wounded part, and it had changed nothing.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the train. Then, he heard a soft, shaky breath.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't turn around.
"I... I really am," Hermione said, her voice small. "I didn't mean to... I was just so excited to meet you. To meet someone from the books. I thought... I thought knowing things would make it easier. For me. I see now it wasn't fair to you."
Harry remained silent. An apology couldn't un-ring a bell. It couldn't erase the fact that she knew, that she had looked at him and seen not a person, but a phenomenon.
He heard the soft rustle of her robes as she moved. The compartment door slid open, then shut with a final, quiet click.
He was alone again.
But the solitude was different now. It was tainted. The walls he had built felt thin and fragile. She had breached them not with malice, but with a kind of naive, intellectual avarice, and that was somehow worse. It proved that his secret was not safe. It was a piece of trivia, a footnote in a history book, a topic for gossip and fascination.
He slid down the window onto the seat, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. He felt a profound, aching loneliness. He was heading to a school of magic, a place of wonders, and all he could think was that he was just exchanging one cage for another. The stares here would be more knowledgeable, more intense, more desirous. He was a prize, a trophy, a thing to be obtained.
The landscape rushed by, a blur of green and grey. Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, the heir to the Blessing of the Sabine, closed his eyes and wished, with every fibre of his being, that he was nobody at all.
The rest of the journey passed in a haze of tense isolation. Harry didn't leave the compartment, and when a trolley witch came by offering pumpkin pasties and cauldron cakes, he bought a small stack of everything with his strange money and ate without tasting, his gaze fixed on the world outside.
As the train began to slow, a voice echoed through the corridors: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."
Harry's heart began to hammer against his ribs. The moment of reckoning was approaching. He stood up, his body stiff, and joined the stream of students in the corridor. He kept his head down, a small fish in a river of black robes, trying to be invisible.
He was swept along onto a small, dark platform. The air was cold and damp, and he shivered in his thin clothes. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and he heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?"
Hagrid's beaming face was a small point of comfort in the sea of anonymity. Harry gave him a weak, grateful smile and allowed himself to be herded towards a fleet of small boats that bobbed up and down in the dark waters of the massive lake. As he climbed into one, he saw Hermione Granger getting into another. Their eyes met for a split second. She looked away quickly, a flush creeping up her neck.
The boats moved of their own accord, and then after riding soundlessly over the calm waters of the lake for around a minute it appeared.
Hogwarts.
It was a vast castle with countless turrets and towers, its windows glittering like stars against the velvety blackness of the night sky. It was more beautiful and more terrifying than anything Harry could have imagined. It was a fortress, a palace, a labyrinth. His new home. His new prison.
The boats came to a halt in the shadow of the castle, and the students clambered out, gathering before a massive set of stone stairs that wrapped around the island. Looking up Harry could just about make out two massive wooden doors. Once he and around ahundred other boys and girlsgot to the top a tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes stood there, her expression severe. Professor McGonagall.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, her voice crisp and carrying. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts."
She explained the four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—and the importance of house points. Harry listened with only half an ear. His attention was on the whispers that had started up again around him. They were softer now, more reverent, but they were there. He felt dozens of pairs of eyes on his back, most of them female.
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting," Professor McGonagall said, her eyes lingering for a moment on Harry's messy hair and ill-fitting clothes.
She disappeared inside the castle, leaving the first-years to their nervous anticipation. The whispers grew louder.
"...that's him, I'm sure of it..."
"...Potter..."
"...do you think it's true? The stories?"
"...my older sister told me... she said the witches in her year have a betting pool..."
Harry felt his face grow hot. A betting pool. He was a sporting event.
Suddenly, something shifted in the air around him. The crowd of students seemed to part slightly. He looked up and saw a girl detach herself from a group of Slytherin-looking first-years and walk towards him with a predatory grace that was unsettling in someone so young.
She had long, white-blonde hair that fell like a sheet of silk to her waist, and pale, pointed features. Her eyes were a cool, assessing grey. She was beautiful in a way that was almost unreal, like a porcelain doll.
She stopped directly in front of him, ignoring everyone else completely.
"Harry Potter," she said, her voice clear and bell-like, carrying in the sudden hush that had fallen. It wasn't a question, but a statement of possession.
He said nothing, just looked at her, his guard slamming back into place.
"I'm Daphne Greengrass," she said. She didn't offer her hand. Her gaze was not one of curiosity like Hermione's, nor of nervous excitement. It was one of pure, unadulterated calculation. She looked him up and down, not as a person, but as an asset. A prize.
"I know who you are," Harry said flatly.
A faint, cold smile touched her lips. "Of course you do. I just wanted to be the first to welcome you properly. And to tell you something." She took a half-step closer, and her voice dropped, though it was still perfectly audible to the rapt audience around them. "The silly little girls on this platform, the bookworms, the blood-traitors... they're playing a game. They think this is about romance, or fame, or some childish fantasy."
Her grey eyes held his, and there was no warmth in them, only a sharp, ancient cunning.
"I'm not playing a game, Potter. I am a Greengrass of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I understand legacy. I understand blood. And I understand what you represent. When the time comes, remember that I was the first to see you for what you are truly worth. Not as a saviour. Not as a story. But as the future."
She didn't wait for a reply. She simply turned and walked back to her group, which closed around her like a shield. The message had been delivered.
Harry stood frozen, the ice in his stomach now a glacier. Daphne Greengrass hadn't wanted to see his curse. She hadn't wanted to be his friend. She had laid a claim. She saw him as a component in a dynastic plan, a key to power and legacy. Her approach was colder, more sophisticated, and infinitely more dangerous than Hermione's clumsy intellectualism.
Before he could even process this new threat, the giant oak door swung open, and Professor McGonagall returned. "We're ready for you now. Form a line and follow me."
The first-years shuffled into a rough line. Harry found himself near the back, desperately trying to make himself small again. They walked through the towering entrance hall, past torches burning in brackets on the stone walls, and towards a set of enormous double doors. From behind them, he could hear the murmur of hundreds of voices.
Professor McGonagall led them into the Great Hall.
Harry's breath caught in his throat. It was the most incredible place he had ever seen. Thousands and thousands of candles floated in mid-air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. Their faces were illuminated by the flickering flames and the starry, enchanted ceiling overhead. At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers were seated.
But Harry wasn't looking at the ceiling or the candles. As the first-years lined up in front of the staff table, facing the entire school, he felt the weight of every single gaze in the hall settle upon him. A sea of faces, a cacophony of whispers that rose to a dull roar before being hushed by a sharp look from Professor McGonagall.
She placed a three-legged stool in front of the first-years, and on top of it, an ancient, patched, and filthy wizard's hat.
For one, bizarre moment, Harry thought this was some sort of joke. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat began to sing.
Harry barely heard the song. He was too busy feeling exposed, a specimen pinned to a board. He could feel the intensity of the stares, could pick out the individual expressions. The curious, the awed, the hostile. And the hungry. So many hungry looks from the girls at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, a few from Gryffindor, and a cool, assessing gaze from the Slytherin table where Daphne Greengrass sat, already looking as if she owned the place.
The Sorting began. One by one, students were called forward, the hat was placed on their heads, and it shouted out a house name. "Abbott, Hannah!" became a Hufflepuff. "Bones, Susan" also went to Hufflepuff. "Boot, Terry" became a Ravenclaw.
He saw the bushy-haired girl, Hermione Granger, get called forward. She sat on the stool, back rigid, and the hat was placed on her head. It lingered for almost four minutes before finally shouting, "GRYFFINDOR!"
She scampered off to the cheering table, not looking at him.
"Greengrass, Daphne!" The blonde girl walked forward with an unnerving calm. The hat had barely touched her head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!" She rose gracefully and went to join her table, her gaze sweeping over the hall as if surveying her domain.
Then, "Longbottom, Neville!" The boy who had lost his toad stumbled on his way to the stool, and the hat took a long time with him too, finally sending him, trembling, to Gryffindor.
The list dwindled. There was "Malfoy, Draco," who was sorted into Slytherin so fast it seemed preordained. Then there were no names left except...
"Potter, Harry!"
The whisper started in the Hufflepuff table, swept through Ravenclaw, and became a roar of conversation by the time it reached Gryffindor and Slytherin. *"Potter, did she say?" "The Harry Potter?"*
He felt hundreds of eyes burning into him as he walked forward, his legs feeling like wood. The path to the stool felt a mile long. As he passed the Slytherin table, he saw Malfoy's look of disdain, and Greengrass's look of cool approval. As he passed the Gryffindor table, he saw Hermione watching him, her expression a complex mix of guilt and lingering curiosity.
He sat on the stool, and Professor McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat onto his head. It was so large it slipped down over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.
"Hmm,"* a small voice said in his ear. *"Difficult. Very difficult."*
Harry gripped the edges of the stool, his knuckles white.
"Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes... and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting... So where shall I put you?"*
Anywhere* Harry thought desperately. *Just anywhere I can hide.*
"Hide, you say?"* the hat murmured, its voice thoughtful. *"Ah, but you carry a legacy that makes hiding rather difficult, don't you? The Blessing... a curious thing. It has shaped your life already, has it not? It has made you wary. It has forced you to build walls. That's a Slytherin trait, you know... self-preservation. A desire to control your own destiny."*
No, not Slytherin* Harry thought. *Anything but Slytherin.* He thought of Malfoy's sneer, of Greengrass's cold claim.
"Not Slytherin, eh?"* the hat said. *"Are you sure? You could be great, you know. With that legacy, you could wield a different kind of power. You could have witches and their families eating out of your hand. Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness, there's no doubt about that."*
The idea was repulsive. He didn't want that kind of power. He didn't want to be a pawn in some pure-blood game.
"No? Well, if you're sure... better be... GRYFFINDOR!"*
The last word was shouted to the entire hall. Harry pulled the hat off, his hands trembling with relief. The Gryffindor table exploded into cheers, louder than for any other new student. He saw the Weasley twins yelling, "We got Potter! We got Potter!"
He walked shakily towards the table and sank onto the bench between Hermione Granger and a boy he didn't know. He kept his eyes on the table, on the empty golden plate in front of him.
"I told you I'd see you there," Hermione said quietly, her voice tentative.
Harry didn't respond. He just waited for the feast to begin, for the attention to shift away from him.
The Sorting continued, and finally, "Zabini, Blaise!" was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.
Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.
"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry was stunned. Was the headmaster mad?
Then the food appeared. It was a breathtaking sight. Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire puddings, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.
The chatter in the hall rose to a deafening level as everyone began to eat. Harry, however, had no appetite. He took a single sausage and pushed it around his plate.
He could feel the eyes on him from the other tables. He could feel Hermione's sidelong glances. He could feel the weight of Daphne Greengrass's gaze from across the hall, a silent promise of future conflict.
He was at Hogwarts. He was a Gryffindor. He was surrounded by magic and wonder.
But as he sat there, a boy alone in a crowd, the scar on his forehead hidden by his hair and the greater, more defining legacy hidden by his baggy robes, Harry Potter knew one thing with absolute certainty.
His battle for survival had not ended with Voldemort. It had only just begun. And this war would not be fought with wands and spells, but with whispers, with desire, with cold ambition, and with the inescapable, cursed flesh he had been born into. The hunt was on, and he was the prey.
The cacophony of the Great Hall faded behind the massive oak doors, replaced by the scuffling of hundreds of feet on flagstones and the echoing chatter of sated students. The warmth from the food and the enchanted ceiling had done little to thaw the cold knot of dread in Harry's stomach. The brief respite of the feast was over; the staring had recommenced with renewed vigor now that the formalities were concluded.
"Gryffindors! First-years, with me! Keep up, don't dawdle!" The voice belonged to a tall, handsome sixth-year with a head of perfectly coiffed blond hair and a prefect's badge gleaming on his chest. He introduced himself as Gideon Lockhart, and he swept his gaze over the new students with a practiced, theatrical charm. "Welcome to the house of the brave! Follow closely, and try not to get lost. The castle has a... personality."
He led them out of the entrance hall and up a grand marble staircase. Harry kept to the middle of the pack, using the other Gryffindors—a boisterous gaggle of boys and chattering girls—as a living shield. He kept his head down, his eyes fixed on the back of the red-headed boy, Ron Weasley, who was walking just ahead of him.
They had just reached a wide landing where several corridors branched off in different directions when the staircase beneath their feet gave a sudden, groaning shudder.
"Hold on!" Gideon Lockhart called out, a note of performative excitement in his voice, as if he were a tour guide at a particularly thrilling museum.
With a sound of grinding stone, the entire section of staircase they were on pivoted slowly to the right. It didn't just move; it lurched, swinging out over a dark, terrifying drop before slamming into a new landing with a jarring thud. A girl shrieked, and Ron Weasley stumbled, grabbing the banister to keep from falling.
"Blimey," Ron muttered, his face pale. "They didn't mention this in the family stories."
"What is this?" Harry heard himself ask, his voice tight.
Ron turned, his freckles standing out starkly against his suddenly wan skin. "The stairs. They're mad, the whole lot of them. My mom says they weren't always so tricky to use. Once they were just stairs. Good and proper ones. But somebody done hexed them or something, centuries ago, and now they have a mind of their own. Fred and George think it's brilliant, of course."
A mind of their own.* The phrase sent a fresh chill through Harry. It felt like a metaphor for his entire life. Nothing was stable, nothing was predictable. Even the very ground he walked on was capricious and untrustworthy.
Gideon Lockhart chuckled, clearly enjoying the first-years' terror. "A classic Hogwarts welcome! Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it. Just remember, never trust a landing that looks too inviting. It's probably a trick step that will sink right through." He winked. "Now, this way! Look alive!"
The rest of the journey was a harrowing obstacle course. Staircases shifted when they were only halfway across. A suit of armor suddenly decided to practice its parade march, forcing them to press themselves against the cold stone wall to avoid being knocked over by its pike. A particularly nasty trick step on a spiral staircase did exactly as Gideon had warned, swallowing Neville Longbottom's foot up to the ankle and requiring a collaborative effort to pull him free, his face beet-red with humiliation.
Through it all, Harry felt the eyes. They weren't just from the portraits, who whispered and pointed as he passed. They were from the other students. A group of third-year Hufflepuff girls, giggling amongst themselves, deliberately took a wrong turn to walk parallel with the Gryffindor group for a few corridors, their eyes fixed on him. A tall, severe-looking Ravenclaw prefect, her hair in a tight bun, gave him a long, analytical stare as they passed in a crossway, as if he were a complex arithmancy equation she was trying to solve.
He felt like a piece of meat being paraded through a pack of wolves. The castle itself seemed to be in on the conspiracy, its shifting, unpredictable nature reflecting the turmoil inside him. Every corner held a new threat, every shadow a pair of watching eyes.
By the time Gideon Lockhart stopped before a large portrait of a very fat, pink lady in a silk gown, Harry was exhausted. His nerves were frayed raw, and the simple desire to be invisible, to be alone, was a physical ache in his chest.
"The password is 'Caput Draconis'," Gideon announced, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. "Remember it. The password changes every fortnight, and the bulletin in the common room will have the new one. Ladies first."
The girls clambered through, a few of them casting lingering, hopeful glances back at Harry. He ignored them, waiting until most of the boys had gone through before making his move. He just wanted to get to a bed, to pull the hangings shut, and to pretend the world didn't exist for a few hours.
He stepped through the portrait hole and into the Gryffindor common room.
It was a welcome shock of warmth and colour. A cavernous, circular room, it was full of squashy, mismatched armchairs and sofas, all clustered around a roaring fire in a large marble fireplace. Thick, crimson rugs covered the floor, and the walls were hung with tapestries depicting past Gryffindor glories. It should have felt like a sanctuary. It should have felt like home.
But as he stood there, taking it in, he felt the atmosphere shift. The common room was crowded with returning students eager to welcome the new first-years. The noise level was high, full of laughter and shouts of greeting. But as more and more people noticed the small, black-haired boy standing awkwardly by the entrance, the volume dipped. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.
Whispers slithered through the warm air like snakes.
"...that's him..."*
"...Potter..."*
"...see the scar?"*
"...no, but have you heard... the other thing... the Potter thing..."*
"...my cousin in Slytherin says Daphne Greengrass has already marked him..."*
Harry's heart sank. There was no escape. Not here. Not anywhere.
"First-year boys, dorms are up the stairs to the left!" Gideon Lockhart called out, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Girls to the right! Your trunks are already up there. Get a good night's sleep, your schedules will be handed out at breakfast."
It was a dismissal, a lifeline. Harry didn't need telling twice. He made a beeline for the left-hand staircase, not looking at anyone, his shoulders hunched. Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom, along with two other boys he vaguely recognized as Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, followed close behind.
The boys' dormitory was at the top of a spiral staircase, a round room with five four-poster beds hung with deep red velvet curtains. Their trunks were indeed at the foot of each bed. The room was lit by a single, high window showing a sliver of starry sky.
For the first time since he'd stepped onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Harry felt a flicker of genuine relief. This was a defined space. A male space. There were no girls here. No whispers, for now. Just five tired boys.
"Wow," Dean Thomas said, a London accent in his voice. "This is brilliant."
"Which bed d'you want?" Ron asked, looking at Harry.
Harry didn't care. He pointed to the one nearest the window, as far from the door as possible. "That one's fine."
He went straight to his trunk, but his shabby lock was no match for the magical journey, and it had burst open, spilling his meagre possessions onto the floor. His few pairs of Dudley's old socks, his worn-out trousers, and his books from Diagon Alley lay in a sad little pile. And there, sitting on top of his copy of *A History of Magic, was the heavy, black-furred winter cloak Hagrid had bought for him.
He knelt and started shoving everything back inside, his movements hurried, desperate to get it done before the others noticed the pathetic state of his belongings.
"Blimey, Harry," Ron said, his voice dropping as he came over. "Is that... is that all you've got?"
Harry flinched, his back stiffening. He didn't answer, just kept packing.
"Sorry," Ron mumbled, catching on. "None of my business. It's just... my mum would have a fit. She knits us all jumpers every Christmas. I've got about a dozen." He said it not to boast, but to commiserate, a clumsy attempt at solidarity.
It was then that Harry realized Ron wasn't looking at his clothes with disdain, but with a kind of bewildered pity. He wasn't a threat. He was just... Ron.
"It's fine," Harry muttered, finally latching the trunk and standing up. He needed to change, to get into his pyjamas. This was the moment he always dreaded. The communal changing.
The other boys were already doing it with the unselfconscious ease of children who had been to boarding schools or had brothers. Seamus was pulling his Hogwarts robe over his head. Dean was kicking off his trainers. Neville was struggling with a pair of paisley pyjamas that looked like they belonged to his grandfather.
Ron was already in his pyjamas, which were faded and patched but clean. He looked at Harry, who was still standing frozen by his trunk. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Harry said, his throat dry. "Just... tired."
He had a system. A ritual. He would wait until everyone was either in their beds or looking away. He would turn his back, change with the speed of light, and dive under the covers. It had worked at Stonewall, most of the time.
But Ron was still looking at him, his expression open and friendly. "That was some feast, wasn't it? I've never seen so much food. Fred and George were right about the treacle tart. Brilliant."
Neville, now changed, nodded enthusiastically. "My gran said the house-elves here are the best in Britain."
This was it. He couldn't stand there all night. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Harry turned his back to the room, presenting them with his back. He unbuttoned his shirt with fumbling fingers, his heart hammering. He could feel their eyes on him. Were they watching? Had they heard the stories already? Did they know?
He pulled the shirt off, then quickly unbuckled his belt and shoved his trousers and pants down in one frantic movement. He grabbed his pyjama bottoms from the trunk—a thin, grey pair that were too short for him—and stepped into them, yanking them up to his waist in a single, fluid motion.
He thought he'd been fast. Impossibly fast. But as he turned around, clutching his discarded clothes to his chest like a shield, he saw the looks on their faces.
Seamus Finnigan's mouth was hanging open. Dean Thomas was staring, his eyes wide with a kind of stunned disbelief. Neville Longbottom had gone bright red and was looking determinedly at his own feet.
Ron Weasley was just... staring. His freckles seemed to stand out like ink splatters on parchment. He blinked, then blinked again, as if trying to clear his vision.
The silence in the room was absolute and deafening.
Harry's blood ran cold. They'd seen. In that split second, they'd seen. The baggy pyjamas did little to hide the prominent, undeniable bulge that the thin fabric now tented. The legacy was no longer just a rumour to them. It was a visual, shocking fact.
"Merlin's beard," Seamus whispered, the words escaping him in a rush of air.
Ron finally found his voice, though it came out as a squeak. "Is... is that... I mean... is that... *normal*?"
Harry felt a hot flush of shame and anger burn its way up his neck and into his face. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to hex them all into oblivion. He wanted to scream.
"No," he said, his voice flat and dead. "It's not normal. It's a curse."
He didn't wait for a response. He threw his clothes into the trunk, slammed the lid, and strode to his four-poster bed. He yanked the heavy velvet hangings shut with such force that the brass rings screeched in protest. He climbed into the bed, pulled the covers over his head, and curled into a tight, defensive ball in the absolute darkness.
Outside the curtains, the silence stretched for a long, painful moment. Then, he heard Ron's voice, hushed and awed.
"A curse? Blimey. I thought... I thought the stories were just my brothers taking the mickey."
"That's not a curse, that's a... that's a... I don't know what that is," Dean Thomas said, his voice laced with a mixture of horror and fascination.
"My gran says the Potter men have always been... formidable," Neville's timid voice piped up. "She said my great-auntie was mad for one of them, but he married a Black instead."
Their voices dropped to whispers, but Harry could still hear them, the words slithering through the thick fabric of the hangings.
"...no wonder all the girls were staring..."*
"...how does he even walk?"*
"...D'you think it's true what they say? That it's magic? That it can..."*
Harry pressed his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. He was back in the cupboard under the stairs, listening to Aunt Petunia's shrill voice and Uncle Vernon's booming disapproval. *"Freak! Abnormal! Unnatural!"*
The words were the same. Only the location had changed.
He lay there for what felt like hours, listening to the other boys eventually climb into their own beds, their whispers finally dying down to be replaced by the soft sounds of sleep. Ron's snores soon rumbled through the room.
But Harry didn't sleep. He stared into the absolute blackness inside his hangings, the weight of his legacy feeling heavier than ever. He had hoped, foolishly, that in a world of magic, he might find a place where he was normal. Where the lightning bolt scar was the weirdest thing about him.
He was wrong.
The castle was a maze, the stairs were treacherous, and his own body was a cage. The hunt Daphne Greengrass had spoken of wasn't just external. It was internal. A constant, grinding war against his own biology, against the curiosity and desire and revulsion it provoked in others.
He was Harry Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived. The heir to the Blessing of the Sabine.
And as he lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of his sleeping dorm-mates, he knew one thing for certain. His first day at Hogwarts was over, but his battle for a moment's peace, for a shred of ordinary life, had only just begun. The castle slept around him, but its whispers, and the whispers of the world within it, were just waiting for the dawn.
The dawn did not bring comfort. It arrived as a pale, accusing finger of light through the high window of the dormitory, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, mocking spirits. Harry had slept fitfully, if at all. The heavy velvet hangings of his bed had felt less like a sanctuary and more like a shroud. Every rustle from the other boys, every snort or sigh from Ron, had jolted him awake, his heart hammering, convinced they were whispering about him.
When the others began to stir, yawning and stretching, Harry pretended to be asleep. He listened to them blunder about, discussing their schedules in hushed, excited tones.
"Herbology first with the Hufflepuffs," Dean Thomas said, his voice still thick with sleep. "Hope it's not all dirt and dung."
"Then Transfiguration," Ron groaned. "My dad says McGonagall is terrifying."
Harry waited until the sounds of them pulling on robes and gathering books indicated they were nearly ready to leave before he finally pushed the hangings aside, affecting a groggy expression.
"Alright, Harry?" Ron asked, his eyes flickering towards him for a second before darting away, a faint pink tinge on his cheeks. The memory of last night was a visible, awkward presence in the room.
"Fine," Harry muttered, keeping his back to them as he dug through his trunk for a fresh set of clothes. He could feel their eyes on him, a collective, unspoken question hanging in the air. He dressed with his back turned, the ritual now established, a necessary humiliation.
The Great Hall at breakfast was a gauntlet of its own. The enchanted ceiling was a cheerful, pale blue with scattered white clouds, a cruel contrast to his internal gloom. He loaded his plate with toast, not because he was hungry, but because it gave him an excuse to keep his head down. The whispers were a constant, sibilant undertone beneath the clatter of cutlery and the morning chatter. He felt like a magnet for female eyes. A group of fourth-year girls at the Ravenclaw table were not even being subtle, leaning together and staring openly, one of them sketching something on a piece of parchment that made her friends dissolve into silent, shoulder-shaking giggles.
His schedule, when Professor McGonagall handed them out, felt like a death warrant. Herbology. Transfiguration. Charms. Potions. A full day of being on display.
Herbology with the Hufflepuffs was held in the greenhouses on the grounds. The air was thick, warm, and smelled of damp earth and growing things. Professor Sprout, a squat, cheerful witch with dirt smudged on her robes, had them repotting Mandrakes. The screaming of the infant plants was a welcome distraction; it was so loud and piercing that it drowned out everything else, including the whispers. For forty-five minutes, Harry lost himself in the simple, physical task of ear-muffling and potting.
But when the Mandrakes were settled and the screaming subsided, the silence felt heavier. As they filed out of the greenhouse, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He flinched, turning to see a Hufflepuff girl with honey-blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose.
"Hi," she said, her voice breathy. "You're Harry Potter, right?"
He gave a terse nod, already moving to walk away.
"I'm Eloise Midgen," she continued, matching his pace. "I just... I heard... well, everyone's talking. Is it true? About the... you know." Her gaze dipped downwards, a quick, furtive glance, before snapping back to his face, her cheeks flaming.
Harry didn't answer. He just stared at her, his expression blank, until her smile faltered and she fell back, swallowed by the crowd of students. His stomach churned. This was his life now. A series of identical, humiliating encounters.
Transfiguration was worse. It was in a classroom, confined and structured. Professor McGonagall was indeed terrifying, her gaze sharp enough to pin them to their seats. She demonstrated turning a match into a needle with a precise flick of her wand, and then set them to work.
Harry shared a desk with Ron. He focused intently on his match, trying to channel all his frustration and isolation into the spell. *"Endico!"* Nothing happened. Ron's match had at least gone silvery at the tip.
It was then that the feeling began. The prickling on the back of his neck. He slowly, reluctantly, lifted his gaze from his desk.
Every girl in the classroom was looking at him. Not all at once, not overtly. It was a wave. Parvati Patil would turn from her own match, her dark eyes sliding down his body before she whispered something to Lavender Brown, who would then turn and perform the same ritual. A girl from the other side of the room, a Ravenclaw who must have arrived early, would sneak a glance, her eyes widening before she quickly faced the front again. Then another. And another.
Their looks were a mix of blatant curiosity, giggling embarrassment, and a kind of hungry fascination. They would look, their eyes inevitably dropping to his lap, and then they would blush or giggle or both before turning away, only for another to take their place. He was a specimen under a microscope. He felt his face grow hot, his hands clenching around his wand. He wanted to shout, to smash something, to make them all stop.
He chanced a glance at Hermione, who was two desks over. She was staring at him too, but her gaze was different. It was fixed resolutely on his face, on his chest, on his shoulders—anywhere but *there*. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line. She looked... determined. As if she were fighting a powerful instinct, wrestling her own rampant curiosity into submission through sheer force of will. When she saw him looking back, she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, a gesture that seemed to say, *I'm not like them.*
It was a small thing. A minuscule act of decency in a sea of indignity. But to Harry, drowning in the attention, it was a lifeline.
The pattern repeated itself in Charms. Professor Flitwick, a tiny man who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk, took the roll call, and squeaked with excitement and fell off the stack when he reached Harry's name. The resulting laughter broke the tension for a moment, but it soon returned. The Wingardium Leviosa lesson was accompanied by the same symphony of sideways glances and suppressed giggles. Hermione, he noticed, successfully levitated her feather on the third try, her face set in a mask of intense focus, her eyes carefully averted from his corner of the room.
By the time Potions rolled around in the afternoon, Harry was a raw nerve. The dungeon classroom was cold and dark, smelling of preserved things and bitter chemicals. The Slytherins were already there, and their stares were of a different quality altogether. They were colder, more calculating. Draco Malfoy sneered openly. Pansy Parkinson looked him up and down with a dismissive smirk. And Daphne Greengrass... she simply watched him, her grey eyes calm and observant, like a hawk watching a mouse in a field. There was no giggling, no blushing. Just an unnerving, patient assessment.
Then Snape swept in, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of a great bat. His gaze swept over the class, lingering for a hate-filled second on Harry, before he began his roll call with a silken, menacing voice.
"Ah, yes," he said softly when he reached Harry's name. "Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity."
The lesson was a torment. Snape's biased, cruel questioning, the humiliation of not knowing the answers, the deduction of points from Gryffindor before they'd even begun—it was all a fresh layer of misery on top of the existing one. And throughout it all, the female gaze was a constant, oppressive weight. Even in the face of Snape's malice, the girls couldn't seem to help themselves. The legend of the Boy-Who-Lived was apparently no match for the allure of the Potter Legacy.
They were tasked with brewing a simple Cure for Boils. Harry was paired with Ron, and their potion immediately went wrong, turning a nasty shade of orange and emitting globs of thick, dark smoke. As they frantically tried to correct it, Harry felt a presence at his shoulder.
It was Hermione. She had finished her own potion, which was a perfect, shimmering turquoise, and had come over under the pretext of helping.
"You're crushing the snake fangs, you need to slice them thinly," she said to Ron, her voice brisk. Then, her voice dropped, and she spoke directly to Harry, her eyes fixed firmly on the cauldron. "I'm sorry. About today. About... all the staring."
Harry, stirring the foul-smelling concoction, didn't look at her. "Why? It's not your fault."
"I know. But I contributed to it yesterday. I was... thoughtless." She shifted her weight, and he could feel her internal struggle. She wanted to look at him, to study him, to understand. He could feel the pull of her curiosity like a physical force. But she kept her gaze locked on the bubbling liquid. "I treated you like a subject instead of a person. It was wrong."
Her apology was formal, a little stiff, like something she'd rehearsed. But it was genuine. He could hear the sincerity in her voice, the remorse. She truly didn't mean to make him feel like a monster. She had just been careless. Reckless with her intellectual hunger.
In the grand scheme of the day's humiliations, her initial transgression now seemed almost quaint. She hadn't giggled. She hadn't blushed and run away. She had confronted him with words, however clumsy. Compared to the silent, objectifying stares of dozens of other girls, her blunt, academic approach felt almost... respectful.
He gave a short, jerky nod. "It's fine."
It wasn't fine, not really. But her effort, her conscious decision to keep her eyes level, to apologize for her part in his misery, meant something. It was a point in her defense. A small, flickering candle in the overwhelming darkness.
"Your potion is going to explode if you don't take it off the heat," she added, her tone returning to its normal, instructive cadence before she hurried back to her own station.
As predicted, their cauldron melted into a twisted blob seconds later, earning them a scathing remark from Snape and a detention for Harry, who Snape decided was solely to blame.
The final bell was a reprieve. Harry fled the dungeons, Ron trailing behind him, muttering apologies and curses against Snape. They trudged up the moving staircases, which seemed particularly malicious that afternoon, leading them on a frustrating detour past the hospital wing before finally depositing them on the corridor that led to the Gryffindor common room.
The Fat Lady swung forward after Ron gave the password ("Fortuna Major"), and Harry practically fell through the portrait hole into the common room. It was quieter now, with most students still at dinner or in the library. He collapsed into a worn armchair by the dying fire, closing his eyes, physically and emotionally drained.
He heard the portrait hole open and close again, and the sound of hesitant footsteps approaching.
He opened one eye. It was Hermione. She was holding a book—*A History of Magic*—and she looked uncertain.
"Can I sit here?" she asked, gesturing to the adjacent armchair.
Harry shrugged, too tired to protest.
She sat, placing the book on her lap but not opening it. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the crackling of the embers in the grate.
"It must be awful," she said finally, her voice soft. "Everyone staring like that."
Harry let out a short, bitter laugh that had no humor in it. "You have no idea."
"I think I'm starting to," she replied. "I saw them today. In every class. It's... it's dehumanizing."
He looked at her, surprised by her choice of word. It was exactly the right word. That's what it felt like. They weren't seeing *him*. They were seeing the myth, the legacy, the thing between his legs.
"Why are you being nice to me?" he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion and suspicion. "Is this another research project?"
Hermione flinched, and for a moment she looked hurt. Then she straightened her shoulders, her pride reasserting itself. "No. It's not. I told you, I was wrong. And I don't like seeing anyone being treated unfairly. Even if... even if they are famous for something they didn't choose."
She met his gaze, and her brown eyes were earnest. "What happened with You-Know-Who, and... and this other thing... you didn't choose either of them. They were just... done to you. It's not fair that you have to bear the burden of everyone's reactions."
In that moment, Hermione Granger saw him more clearly than anyone else ever had. She had cut through the legend, the scar, the legacy, and seen the core of the issue: his utter lack of agency. He was a pawn in a story written long before he was born.
He didn't thank her. He couldn't find the words. But the rigid set of his shoulders relaxed just a fraction. The fortress around his heart had a new, small gate, and she had just been granted tentative entry.
"No," he agreed quietly, staring into the dying fire. "It's not fair."
They sat together in a silence that was, for the first time, not entirely uncomfortable. It was a fragile truce, born from a shared understanding of injustice. Outside, the castle was dark and full of whispers, and the hunt would resume tomorrow. But for now, in the warm, dim glow of the common room, Harry Potter had found something he hadn't known he needed: not a solution, but a single, steadfast ally who, for all her faults, was trying to see the boy behind the legend. It wasn't much, but in the treacherous landscape of Hogwarts, it was a start.