September 1st, 1992, King's Cross Station, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, 10:47 AM
The scarlet Hogwarts Express stood gleaming in the morning sunlight, steam billowing from its chimney in great white clouds that drifted across the crowded platform. Families clustered around trunks and owl cages, saying their goodbyes with varying degrees of emotion—tearful mothers, exasperated fathers, and children eager to return to school or dreading the separation in equal measure.
Harry adjusted his hood reflexively as he navigated through the crowd, his enchanted satchel slung over one shoulder and his trunk levitating obediently behind him courtesy of a casual Locomotor charm. Beside him, Luna walked with her characteristic dreamy serenity, her radish earrings swinging gently and her own trunk floating along as if it had decided of its own accord to follow her.
"I do hope the Nargles haven't infested the train compartments over the summer," Luna remarked, tilting her head to examine the Express with her protuberant grey eyes. "They can be quite troublesome when they nest in upholstery."
Harry smiled despite his nervousness about the crowds. "I'm sure we'll find a Nargle-free compartment."
Ethan had already departed after ensuring their trunks were properly loaded, citing urgent business at Atid Stella that required his immediate attention. But not before pulling Harry aside for a final word.
"Once again must I say," Ethan said quietly with a smile. " Remember your trainings, use Cognition when you feel overwhelmed. Stay aware. And Harry... remember to write to me."
The weight of that instruction settled heavily on Harry's shoulders as he boarded the train, the familiar smell of coal smoke and old leather greeting him. They made their way down the narrow corridor, peering into compartments until Harry spotted a familiar shock of red hair.
"Ron!" Harry called out, relief flooding through him.
Ron Weasley looked up from where he'd been helping Hermione Granger wrestle her trunk onto the overhead rack, his freckled face breaking into a wide grin. "Harry! Luna! Over here—we've got plenty of room."
The compartment already housed Ron, Hermione, and Neville Longbottom, who was clutching Trevor the toad with anxious determination. Hermione's bushy hair was even more impressive than usual, and she'd already spread several books across the seat beside her.
"Of course you've brought half the library," Ron said with good-natured exasperation as Harry and Luna squeezed inside.
"These are essential reading," Hermione replied primly. "Unlike some people, I intend to be prepared for our second year."
"I'm prepared," Ron protested. "I've got my wand, my books are in my trunk somewhere, and I know which classroom is which. What more do I need?"
Harry was opening his mouth to respond when the compartment door slid open again, revealing Draco Malfoy in his usual impeccable grey travelling robes, his platinum blonde hair perfectly styled despite the chaos of the platform.
"Room for one more?" Draco asked, though he was already stepping inside. "The rest of the train seems to be filled with either excitable first-years or Slytherins I'd rather not sit with."
Ron smirked. "What, scared of your housemates, Malfoy?"
"Cautious of their conversational topics," Draco corrected smoothly, settling into the seat across from Ron with aristocratic ease. "Theodore Nott's gang spent the entire summer plotting ways to make Muggle-borns miserable. I'd rather not subject myself to three hours of that drivel."
"How noble of you," Ron said, but there was no real bite to it.
Luna, who'd been gazing out the window with apparent distraction, turned her attention to the group. "I don't believe I've properly introduced myself to everyone. I'm Luna Lovegood. Teacher—Professor Esther's apprentice."
"Oh..." Draco seemed to realized to weight of a 'apprentice'
"We've heard loads about you," Ron said warmly. "Harry talks about you all the time."
Harry felt his face flush. "I d-don't—"
"It's lovely to finally meet you properly," Hermione interrupted, extending her hand with a smile. "I'm Hermione Granger. Harry's mentioned you're studying Divination?"
"Among other things," Luna agreed, shaking Hermione's hand. "Teacher has me exploring various mystical disciplines. Divination, Astrology, Ancient Runes, anything that helps perceive what's hidden."
Neville, who'd been quiet until now, looked up with shy interest. "That sounds fascinating. I'm rubbish at anything theoretical, but plants make sense to me. I'm Neville Longbottom."
Luna's face brightened with genuine warmth. "Oh, plants are wonderful! They have their own form of magic, you know. Much quieter than spell-work, but no less powerful. Do you grow anything in particular?"
And just like that, Neville, who usually struggled with conversation, began talking animatedly about his grandmother's greenhouse and the various magical plants he'd been tending over summer. Luna listened with focused attention, occasionally offering observations about the magical properties of different species that made Neville's eyes light up with recognition.
Harry watched this exchange, and something strange twisted in his chest, an uncomfortable sensation he couldn't quite name. Luna was being friendly, which was good. Neville deserved someone who appreciated his knowledge of Herbology. But seeing Luna's attention so completely focused on someone else felt... unpleasant.
'What's this feeling?' Harry wondered, confused by his own reaction.
Hermione, whose observational skills missed very little, noticed the slight frown on Harry's face, the way his hand tightened fractionally on his satchel strap. Her brown eyes gleamed with understanding and no small amount of amusement as she glanced between Harry and Luna's animated conversation with Neville.
'Oh my,' Hermione thought, suppressing a smile. 'How absolutely adorable!'
Draco, equally perceptive in his own way, caught Hermione's expression and followed her gaze. His grey eyes widened fractionally with recognition before his mouth curved into the slightest smirk. He met Hermione's eyes across the compartment, and a moment of perfect understanding passed between them.
'This,' Draco's expression seemed to say, 'is going to be entertaining to watch.'
Hermione's answering look agreed wholeheartedly, and her mind was already spinning pleasant scenarios. It was like something from the romance novels she'd never admit to reading.
The train lurched into motion with a great whistle, and the platform began sliding away. Parents waved frantically, students leaned out windows to shout final goodbyes, and the Hogwarts Express began its familiar journey north.
"So," Ron said, once they'd settled into the rhythm of travel, "what do we reckon about this new Defence professor? Gilderoy Lockhart?"
"He's brilliant!" Hermione said immediately, her earlier amusement forgotten in favour of academic enthusiasm. "He's defeated countless Dark creatures, written seven books about his experiences, and he's an Order of Merlin, Third Class. We're incredibly lucky to have him."
Ron shrugged. "Dad says he's a bit of a prat, but probably competent enough."
Neville nodded vaguely. "Gran bought all his books. They seem very... colourful."
"Fraudulent," Draco said flatly. "The man's a charlatan trading on stolen stories. I'd stake my family's reputation on it."
"You would say that," Hermione retorted. "Just because he's accomplished things your family never could—"
"It has nothing to do with accomplishment," Draco interrupted coolly. "It has to do with the statistical improbability of one wizard mastering such diverse challenges. Each of his supposed victories requires entirely different skill sets. It's simply not credible."
'Wow, so Draco also came to a conclusion like Dad' Harry, who'd been listening quietly, spoke up. "Dad thinks he's a fraud too. Said something about memory charm residue."
Luna hummed thoughtfully. "The Blibbering Humdingers were swarming around him at the book signing. They always cluster around dishonesty."
"You're all just being sceptical for the sake of it," Hermione said, though her conviction seemed slightly shaken. "We should at least give him a chance before judging."
"Fair enough," Ron agreed amiably. "Though I'm betting fifty Knuts he turns out to be useless."
"I'll take that bet," Hermione said immediately. "You'll owe me fifty Knuts when he proves to be an excellent teacher."
The conversation drifted through various topics as the hours passed. Quidditch prospects for the year, speculation about what Snape would torment them with in Potions, whether the house-elves' cooking had improved over summer. Eventually, the excitement of reunion gave way to drowsiness, and one by one, the occupants of the compartment began to doze.
Ron's head lolled back against the seat, his mouth slightly open as soft snores emerged. Hermione had fallen asleep with a book still open in her lap—"Intermediate Transfiguration Theory"—her bushy hair creating a sort of nest around her face. Neville clutched Trevor even in sleep, the toad's bulging eyes the only alert presence besides Harry and Luna.
Draco had stretched out across his seat with aristocratic grace, one arm draped over his eyes, breathing deep and even.
Luna caught Harry's eye and gestured toward the corridor with a subtle tilt of her head. Harry nodded, and they slipped out quietly, closing the compartment door behind them with care.
The corridor was mostly empty at this hour, just an older student hurrying past toward the toilet and the occasional rustle of movement from other compartments. Harry and Luna made their way to a spot near the window, where the Scottish countryside rolled past in shades of green and grey.
"Excited for Hogwarts?" Harry asked quietly, though he could see the answer in Luna's bright eyes.
"Terribly," Luna admitted, her voice losing some of its usual dreamy quality. "I've wanted to go for so long. All those books Teacher's shown me, the theories we've discussed—finally getting to put them into practice properly, learning alongside others..." She trailed off, her expression shifting to something more vulnerable. "Though I'm frightened too."
Harry's protective instincts flared immediately. "Of w-what?"
Luna turned to look at him directly, her grey eyes unusually focused. "I know I'm different, Harry. I see things others don't, I believe in creatures people mock, I process the world in ways that seem strange to most. That doesn't bother me, I rather like being myself. But..."
"But?" Harry prompted gently.
"But I'm afraid of how others might use that difference," Luna continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Mock me, certainly, I can handle that. But what if they try to take advantage? Trick me because they think I'm gullible? Hurt me because they think I won't understand enough to defend myself?"
Harry's hand found Luna's almost instinctively, squeezing with quiet reassurance. "You're not gullible. You're perceptive. You see things others miss, and that makes you clever, not vulnerable."
"Some won't see it that way," Luna said sadly.
"Then they're fools," Harry said firmly, his stammer diminishing as protective fierceness overrode his usual anxiety. "And Luna, if anyone—anyone—tries to hurt you or take advantage, you tell me. Or Ron, or Hermione, or Draco. We'll make sure they regret it."
Luna's smile was radiant, chasing away the shadows of fear. "Thank you, Harry."
They stood together in comfortable silence, watching the landscape blur past, their hands still linked. Harry felt that strange warmth in his chest again, different from the uncomfortable twist when Luna had been talking to Neville, this was pleasant, settling, right.
September 1st, 1992, Hogsmeade Station, 6:47 PM
The Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station with a final triumphant whistle, steam billowing dramatically across the platform. Students poured from the train in chattering masses, first-years looking overwhelmed and excited in equal measure, older students greeting friends with enthusiastic hugs and cheerful insults.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" Hagrid's booming voice carried clearly over the din. His massive form stood near the edge of the platform, waving a lamp the size of a dustbin. "Four to a boat! Mind yer heads!"
Harry caught sight of Luna being swept toward the boats with the other first-years, her blonde hair visible in the growing twilight. She turned back to wave, and Harry waved back, trying to project confidence he didn't quite feel.
'She'll be fine,' he told himself firmly. 'She's clever and capable, and she's got Dad's teachings.'
"Come on, mate," Ron said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Carriages are this way."
They made their way through the crowd toward where the carriages waited. It was then that Harry saw them—and his breath caught in his throat.
The Thestrals.
Skeletal horses with leathery black wings stood patiently in their traces, their white eyes unseeing yet somehow knowing. Harry had seen them when he first travel with Dad, understood what they were from Ethan's teachings about death and the creatures only visible to those who'd witnessed it. But seeing them again, stark and corporeal whilst everyone else saw nothing, drove home the weight of what he'd done.
Quirrell's face, crumbling under his touch. The man's last, gurgling breath. Death at Harry's hands, however justified.
"Harry? You alright?" Hermione's concerned voice pulled him from the dark memory.
Harry blinked, realising he'd frozen, staring at the Thestral hitched to their carriage. Ron and Draco were looking at him with matching expressions of concern.
"Y-yeah, sorry. Just... spacing out." Harry climbed into the carriage, which appeared to his friends to be moving by magic alone.
"These things are brilliant," Ron said, settling onto the worn seat. "Self-propelled carriages. Wonder how they manage it?"
"Probably complex levitation charms combined with direction-finding enchantments," Hermione theorised. "The magic must be woven into the carriage structure itself."
'Or skeletal winged horses that only some of us can see,' Harry thought, but he nodded along with Hermione's explanation. Some truths were better left unspoken.
Meanwhile, in one of the small boats crossing the Black Lake, Luna Lovegood sat with three other first-years, watching Hogwarts Castle emerge from the darkness like something from a fairy tale. Its windows glowed with warm light, turrets and towers reaching toward the star-scattered sky, the whole edifice reflected in the lake's still surface.
"It's beautiful," breathed a small boy with sandy hair.
"It's enormous," a dark-skinned girl added nervously. "I'll get lost every day."
The third occupant of their boat had been silent until now, sitting with rigid posture and an expression of careful neutrality. She was a delicate-looking girl with dark hair and sharp features, dressed in expensive robes that suggested old money and high expectations.
"The castle uses magic to guide students," the girl said, her voice clipped and slightly sharp. "The staircases shift, but they follow patterns. You won't get lost if you pay attention and stop gawking like tourists."
The sandy-haired boy flinched at her tone, and Luna tilted her head, studying the girl with open curiosity.
Luna observed mildly. "The sharp words, the cold demeanour. It's armour, isn't it?"
The girl's carefully controlled expression cracked for just a moment, surprise flashing in her eyes before she schooled her features back into aristocratic disdain. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do," Luna said with her characteristic dreaminess. "You're like a rose with thorns, beautiful underneath, but showing only the sharp bits to keep people away. It's quite clever, actually. Though rather lonely, I'd imagine."
The girl stared at Luna as if she'd grown a second head. "You're very strange."
"I've been told," Luna agreed pleasantly. "I'm Luna Lovegood. What's your name?"
There was a long pause, and Luna could see the internal struggle playing out behind those sharp eyes, the instinct to maintain distance warring with something softer, something that yearned for genuine connection.
"Astoria," the girl finally said, her voice losing some of its sharp edge. "Astoria Greengrass."
"It's lovely to meet you, Astoria," Luna said warmly. "I think we're going to be friends."
Astoria's laugh was short and slightly bitter. "You don't even know me."
"I know you're fierce," Luna said simply, watching the stars. "And upright, and kind underneath all those thorns. I know someone taught you the world is dangerous, and showing weakness invites cruelty. I know you're clever and probably very brave, to keep that armour on even when it must be exhausting."
Astoria's breath had caught, her careful composure crumbling like sand castles before the tide. "How do you...?"
"I see things," Luna explained. "Not with eyes, exactly. With... knowing. And I know you could be a wonderful friend if you let yourself."
For the first time, Astoria's expression shifted into something genuine—surprise mixed with cautious hope and the barest hint of vulnerability. "I... you're very strange," she repeated, but this time it sounded almost fond.
"That seems to be the consensus," Luna agreed with a smile.
The boats reached the shore, and as they climbed out, Astoria hesitated before speaking again. "Luna? Thank you. For seeing. Most people don't bother."
"Their loss," Luna said simply, and meant it.
The Sorting Ceremony proceeded with familiar pageantry. The first-years filed into the Great Hall beneath the enchanted ceiling—currently displaying a perfect replica of the night sky—whilst the older students watched with varying degrees of interest.
Harry spotted Luna in the queue, her blonde hair unmistakable even from a distance. His hands twisted nervously under the table.
"She'll be fine," Hermione whispered, noticing his anxiety. "Luna's clever. The Hat will see that."
"GREENGRASS, ASTORIA!"
The sharp-featured girl Harry had noticed near Luna approached the stool with regal bearing. The Sorting Hat had barely touched her head before calling out: "SLYTHERIN!"
Astoria moved toward the Slytherin table with her chin held high, where she was immediately greeted by an older girl who Harry recognised as Daphne Greengrass, Draco had mentioned her.
Draco offered Astoria a nod of welcome, his faction accepting her readily.
Across the table, Theodore Nott watched with visible displeasure, his gang muttering amongst themselves.
Several more names were called before the moment Harry had been waiting for.
"LOVEGOOD, LUNA!"
Luna walked to the stool with her characteristic dreamy grace, settling onto it as Professor McGonagall lowered the Hat onto her head. The Hall fell silent, waiting.
And waiting.
The Hat deliberated for nearly three minutes—long enough to be considered a Hatstall. Harry's leg bounced anxiously under the table, drawing an amused glance from Ron.
Finally: "RAVENCLAW!"
Relief flooded through Harry so intensely his knees felt weak. Ravenclaw. Luna would be with the scholars, the curious minds, people who valued intelligence and creativity. She'd fit perfectly there.
Though there was a small part of him did wish for her to be in Gryffindor.
Luna walked to the Ravenclaw table looking pleased, and Harry caught her eye across the Hall. He waved, trying to look brave and confident, and Luna beamed back at him, her smile radiant even at this distance.
The rest of the Sorting passed in a blur until finally McGonagall rolled up the parchment and Dumbledore stood to give his usual brief welcome.
"Tuck in!" the Headmaster announced, and the feast appeared.
"Finally," Ron groaned, immediately loading his plate with roast chicken, potatoes, and what appeared to be half a loaf of bread. "I'm starving."
"You're always starving," Hermione observed dryly, though she was serving herself a respectable portion as well. "I don't know where you put it all."
"Growing boy," Ron said through a mouthful of chicken. "Need my strength."
Neville giggled at Ron's enthusiastic eating, and Harry found himself smiling despite his worries about Luna.
Across the Hall at the Slytherin table, Astoria was being integrated into Draco's faction with smooth efficiency. Daphne made introductions—Tracey Davis, and several others who'd aligned themselves with Draco's more progressive stance rather than Theodore Nott's pure-blood supremacy gang.
Theodore, seated further down the table, glared at this defection with barely concealed displeasure. His cronies Crabbe and Goyle looked confused, as usual, but Theodore's sharp eyes tracked every friendly gesture between Astoria and Draco's group with obvious calculation.
Harry tried to focus on his food, on the cheerful conversation happening around him, but his gaze kept drifting to the Ravenclaw table where Luna sat speaking animatedly with her new housemates. He wanted to go over there, to make sure she was settling in properly, to—
"Harry Potter?"
A small, mousy-haired first-year had materialised beside Harry with the sudden enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy spotting a beloved owner. His eyes were huge behind thick glasses, and he clutched a camera to his chest like a lifeline.
"I'm Colin Creevey!" the boy said, practically vibrating with excitement. "I'm in Gryffindor too! Can you believe it? I mean, you're Harry Potter! The Harry Potter! And we're in the same house! This is amazing! Can I take a photograph? Please? I promise I'll be quick, I've got this brilliant new camera, it's from Atid Stella, takes moving pictures and everything—"
Harry felt his mind go blank, overwhelmed by the sheer force of Colin's enthusiasm. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, no words emerging, panic beginning to claw at his chest.
"Alright there, Colin," Ron intervened smoothly, recognising Harry's deer-in-wand-light expression. "Why don't you calm down a bit, yeah? Harry's not going anywhere. Maybe just one photo, and then you can let him eat his dinner?"
Colin nodded so enthusiastically Harry worried his head might fall off. "Yes! Yes, absolutely! Just one photo! This is so brilliant!"
He held up his camera—indeed an Atid Stella model, Harry noticed with a sort of detached horror—and gestured for Harry to smile.
Harry managed something that probably looked more like a grimace, and Colin's camera flashed with a soft golden light.
"Perfect! Thank you so much, Harry Potter! This is the best day of my life!" Colin bounded back to his seat further down the table, clutching his camera and babbling excitedly to anyone who would listen.
"Merlin's beard," Harry breathed, slumping in his seat.
"You've made a fan," Draco observed with amusement from across the table.
"An understatement," Hermione added, though her eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter.
...
Over the following weeks, Harry discovered that Colin Creevey was, in fact, his personal nightmare made manifest.
The boy appeared everywhere. In corridors, at meals, during Ron's Quidditch practice, always with that camera ready, always desperate for "just one more photo" of his idol. Colin's intentions were entirely pure; he was simply a Muggle-born first-year overwhelmed by the magical world and fixated on its most famous figure. But for Harry, whose introversion and social anxiety made crowds exhausting and attention painful, Colin's relentless enthusiasm was torture.
Harry began taking calculating measures to avoid detection. He learned Colin's schedule, planned routes through the castle that minimised encounter probability, and developed an almost supernatural awareness of camera clicks.
His friends, however, found this hilarious.
"Harry's dodging Colin again," Ron would announce cheerfully whenever Harry took an unnecessarily complicated path to class.
"It's like watching a game of cat and mouse," Hermione agreed, "except the mouse is terrified of being photographed."
Draco simply smirked, occasionally providing intelligence about Colin's location in exchange for Harry's notes from Charms class.
Only Luna refrained from teasing. When they met by the Great Lake during their free periods, a particular tree with a wide canopy had become their unofficial spot, she would pat Harry's head sympathetically whilst he recounted his latest narrow escape.
"He means well," Luna would say gently.
"I know," Harry would groan. "That's what makes it worse. I can't even be properly annoyed with him."
"You could ask him to give you some space," Luna suggested.
"That would require talking to him," Harry pointed out. "Which would involve him taking more pictures whilst I try to explain. It's a trap."
Luna's laugh was like wind chimes, and despite his Colin-induced stress, Harry always felt better after their conversations.
September 3rd, 1992, Hogwarts, Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom, 2:15 PM
Their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson with Gilderoy Lockhart dawned with considerably less enthusiasm than Hermione had hoped and considerably more trepidation than the rest of the class felt prepared for.
The classroom had been transformed into what could only be described as a shrine to Lockhart himself.
Enormous portraits of the wizard adorned every wall—each one showing Lockhart in various heroic poses, winking and flashing brilliant white smiles at the students. His books were displayed prominently on shelves, their covers gleaming with his face. Even the curtains seemed to have been charmed to flutter dramatically whenever he moved, as if responding to his mere presence.
Harry slid into a seat between Ron and Hermione, his hood pulled slightly forward in an unconscious gesture of protection against the overwhelming narcissism radiating from the décor.
"Blimey," Ron muttered, staring around the room. "It's like being inside his head. Terrifying."
Hermione was clutching her copy of Gadding with Ghouls with white-knuckled determination, though even she looked slightly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of Lockhart imagery.
The man himself swept into the room with a flourish of turquoise robes that matched his eyes perfectly, his teeth gleaming as he beamed at the assembled second-years.
"Good afternoon, class!" Lockhart announced, his voice magically amplified to ensure everyone heard every syllable. "I am Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award, though I don't like to talk about that. Didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"
He laughed at his own joke whilst several students exchanged uncertain glances.
"Now then!" Lockhart clapped his hands together. "Pop quiz to start us off! I want to see how well you've prepared by reading my assigned texts. Don't worry! It's just a simple test of your... dedication."
He waved his wand, and parchment appeared on each desk along with a quill. Harry looked down at the questions with growing incredulity:
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?4. How many times has Gilderoy Lockhart won Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award?5. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's ideal birthday gift?
On and on it went—fifty-four questions in total, each one focused entirely on trivial personal details from Lockhart's autobiographical works rather than anything resembling actual Defence Against the Dark Arts knowledge.
'This is absurd,' Harry thought, staring at the parchment.
However, years of Ethan's training kicked in automatically. Mind Palace—the advanced memory technique his father had taught him, far beyond the simple Muggle memory palace concept. This was active mental architecture, rooms within rooms, information stored with perfect clarity and instant recall.
Harry closed his eyes briefly, entering that crystalline mental space. Ethan's voice echoed in his memory: "Information, once properly stored, never fades. Build your palace room by room, and you'll never forget anything you choose to remember."
He'd read Lockhart's books—skimmed them, really, finding them tedious—but Mind Palace retained everything. Every detail, however pointless, was there in pristine mental filing cabinets.
He began writing, pulling answers from memory with mechanical efficiency.
Around him, students struggled. Ron was chewing his quill with a desperate expression, having clearly not read past the first chapter of any of Lockhart's books. Neville looked close to tears. Even Draco, seated across the room, was staring at his parchment with barely concealed contempt.
Only Hermione was writing with the same fluid confidence as Harry, her quill flying across parchment as she recalled every minute detail with the perfect recall of someone who'd memorised the books enthusiastically.
Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the quizzes with another theatrical flourish.
"Tut, tut," he said, flipping through them with decreasing enthusiasm. "Hardly anyone remembered that my favourite colour is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to readWanderings with Werewolves more carefully, for I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magical and non-magical peoples, though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old—"
He stopped, his eyes widening as he reached two particular parchments.
"Well! It seems we have two students who actually paid attention! Full marks to Miss Hermione Granger!" He beamed at Hermione, who flushed with pleasure despite her friends' earlier scepticism. "And—" his smile faltered almost imperceptibly, "—Mr Harry Potter. Excellent work, both of you. Ten points to Gryffindor!"
Harry kept his expression neutral, though he felt Ron's elbow nudge him with amused exasperation.
'Of course you got them all right,' Ron's look seemed to say. 'Show-off.'
Lockhart set the papers aside and moved to the front of the classroom with renewed theatrical energy. "Now, onto practical matters! Today, we'll be dealing with something truly vile, truly dangerous...creatures... so feared that merely speaking their name sends shivers down the spines of experienced wizards!"
He paused dramatically, allowing tension to build.
Several students leaned forward with interest. Perhaps this wouldn't be completely useless after all?
"I speak, of course," Lockhart announced with grave solemnity, "of Cornish pixies!"
There was a moment of profound silence.
Then Seamus Finnigan snorted with laughter, quickly disguised as a cough.
Lockhart's smile tightened fractionally. "I can see you find this amusing, Mr Finnigan. But I assure you, these creatures are no laughing matter. Their mischief-making capabilities are legendary. They've been known to terrorise entire villages!"
He gestured dramatically toward a large covered cage at the front of the room. "I've managed to capture a whole group of them. Observe how carefully I've secured them, one wrong move and they could wreak absolute havoc!"
With a flourish worthy of a stage magician, Lockhart whipped the cover off the cage.
Inside, about dozens of electric-blue pixies buzzed and chattered, their tiny faces screwed up in malicious glee. They were perhaps eight inches tall with pointed faces and voices so shrill they hurt the ears.
"Now watch," Lockhart said confidently, "as I demonstrate the proper defensive technique for—"
He opened the cage door.
What followed could only be described as controlled chaos rapidly descending into uncontrolled pandemonium.
The pixies shot out of the cage like tiny blue bullets, their wings creating a high-pitched whine that set everyone's teeth on edge. They immediately began wreaking havoc with gleeful maliciousness—snatching wands from desks and throwing them out windows, ripping pages from books and making them into confetti, pulling hair, pinching ears, and generally causing mayhem.
"Come on now, round them up!" Lockhart shouted, grabbing his wand. "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"
Nothing happened. The pixies, if anything, seemed encouraged by this display of incompetence.
One grabbed Lockhart's wand right out of his hand and threw it out the window.
Another group descended on Neville, who'd been trying to hide under his desk. They grabbed him by the ears—those poor, prominent ears—and with surprising strength for such small creatures, lifted him up and deposited him hanging from the chandelier.
"Help!" Neville wailed, his feet dangling a good six feet off the ground. "Someone get me down!"
"Peskipiksi Pesternomi!" Lockhart tried again, wandless, his composure cracking. "It's just a simple—they should be—perhaps if I—"
A pixie dive-bombed his perfectly coiffed hair, tangling itself in the golden locks and pulling hard enough to make Lockhart yelp.
Harry and Hermione exchanged a single glance, it was instant communication.
"Immobulus!" they cast simultaneously, their wands moving in perfect synchronization.
The freezing charm spread through the room like frost, catching pixie after pixie mid-flight. Within seconds, all of them hung suspended in mid-air, frozen in various positions of mischief-making, their expressions locked in malicious glee.
Silence fell, broken only by Neville's whimpering from the chandelier and Lockhart's heavy breathing.
"Ah," Lockhart said, smoothing his disheveled hair with shaking hands. "Yes. Well. You see how dangerous they can be. Excellent work, Miss Granger, Mr Potter. Ten more points to Gryffindor. Now, as a learning exercise..." He backed toward the door, his smile looking distinctly forced. "I'll leave you to round them up properly. Good experience for you. Class dismissed!"
And with that, he fled, leaving behind a classroom full of incredulous students, eight frozen pixies, and Neville still hanging from the chandelier.
"Did he just—" Ron started.
"Yes," Draco confirmed from across the room, his voice dripping with disdain. "He just ran away from pixies. Pixies!"
"Get me down!" Neville pleaded.
It took another ten minutes to properly secure the pixies back in their cage, repair the damage they'd caused, and levitate Neville safely back to the floor. Throughout it all, Harry, Ron, and Hermione worked with the dark efficiency of people who'd just had their worst suspicions confirmed.
September 3rd, 1992, Hogwarts Grounds, Great Lake, 4:47 PM
The tree by the Great Lake had become their unofficial meeting spot—far enough from the castle for privacy, comfortable enough for long conversations. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, and Luna had claimed it as their own, often gathering there between classes to decompress from the day's absurdities.
Today, they were recounting the disaster that had been Defence Against the Dark Arts.
"And then he just left," Ron was saying, his voice rising with incredulous laughter. "Ran right out of the classroom! Left us to deal with the mess! Neville was still hanging from the chandelier!"
Draco, seated with his back against the tree trunk in aristocratic repose, shook his head with visible disgust. "A charlatan of the highest order. Bet the man couldn't defend himself against a Puffskein, let alone anything actually dangerous."
Luna, who was weaving a chain of daisies with dreamy concentration, hummed thoughtfully. "All those questions about himself, it's like he's trying to convince himself he's accomplished something."
"But the books," Hermione said, and her voice cracked slightly. "All those incredible achievements. Defeating the Bandon Banshee, curing that village of zombies, the Wagga Wagga Werewolf—they can't all be lies. They can't be."
Harry, seated beside her, noticed the way her hands twisted in her lap, the slight tremor in her voice. Hermione had built her entire academic identity on trusting authoritative sources, on the assumption that published works—especially those by award-winning authors—were fundamentally truthful.
Having that foundation crumble was clearly devastating.
"Hermione," Harry said gently, using the soft tone usually reserved for Luna when she was upset. "Dad warned us. He said Lockhart was t-trading on stolen stories. That he'd used memory charms to take credit for other people's achievements."
"But I thought—" Hermione's voice broke entirely, and to everyone's shock, tears began rolling down her cheeks. "I thought he was brilliant. I studied all his books. I defended him to all of you. And he's just... he's a fraud."
Ron looked profoundly uncomfortable with crying, as most twelve-year-old boys were. He patted Hermione's shoulder awkwardly. "There, there. Could be worse. Could've... uh..."
"Could've actually taught us something useful?" Draco supplied dryly under Ron's shooting glare.
Luna set aside her daisy chain and moved to Hermione's other side, her grey eyes unusually focused. "You trusted what you read. That's not a character flaw, Hermione. That's called being a good student. The flaw lies with Lockhart for exploiting that trust."
"Luna's right," Harry agreed. "You're not stupid for believing published work... You're human. And now you kknow better. That's what matters."
Hermione scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, her bushy hair even more chaotic than usual. "I just feel so... foolish. You all warned me, and I didn't listen."
"Ah," Ron said, his expression shifting to something approaching sympathy mixed with mischief. "About that. You do remember our bet, yeah?"
Hermione's eyes widened with fresh horror. "No. No, absolutely not. You are not—"
"Fifty Knuts, Hermione," Ron said, though his voice was gentle. "Fair's fair. You bet he'd be an excellent teacher. I bet he'd be useless. And I was right."
For a moment, Hermione looked ready to argue. Then her shoulders slumped in defeat. She reached into her school bag, pulled out her money pouch, and counted out fifty Knuts with the resigned air of someone paying a deeply uncomfortable debt.
"Here," she said, pressing the coins into Ron's hand. "Take your blood money. I hope it buys you something appropriately mediocre."
Ron pocketed the Knuts with a grin, but then his expression softened. "Hermione, for what it's worth—you weren't wrong to give him a chance. That's what good people do. They trust first and verify later. Lockhart's just a git who abused that kindness."
"Wisdom from Ronald Weasley," Draco observed. "Truly, we live in strange times."
"Shut it, Malfoy."
"Enlighten me then Mr Weasley~"
But there was no heat to the exchange, just the comfortable sniping of friends who'd learned to weaponise sarcasm affectionately.
Hermione managed a watery laugh, wiping the last of her tears away. "I suppose this is a valuable lesson. Always verify sources. Always question authority. And never, ever trust a wizard who asks fifty-four questions about himself."
"There's the Hermione we know," Harry said, squeezing her shoulder gently. "Using devastating emotional experiences as opportunities for intellectual growth."
"It's what I do best," Hermione agreed, though her voice still wavered slightly.
Luna pressed her completed daisy chain into Hermione's hands. "For you. Daisies represent innocence and new beginnings. You trusted innocently, and now you get a new beginning with more wisdom."
Hermione stared at the delicate chain of flowers, and fresh tears threatened to spill. "Thank you, Luna. All of you. I'm sorry I was so stubborn about this."
"We're your friends," Harry said simply. "That's what we're here for. Supporting you through the good and the terrible."
"Even when the terrible involves fraudulent Defence professors." Ron added.
It was, as she'd said, a valuable lesson.
Just a terribly painful way to learn it.
October 31st, 1992, Hogwarts Dungeons, 8:34 PM
The Deathday Party was in full swing, which is to say, it was deeply depressing.
Nearly Headless Nick had asked them to attend as a favour, and Harry, feeling guilty about all the times he'd hurried past without stopping to chat, had agreed. Ron and Hermione had come along for moral support, though all three were beginning to regret that decision.
The dungeon was freezing, decorated with black candles that emitted blue flames providing no warmth whatsoever. Ghosts drifted through the space, their translucent forms occasionally passing directly through living students with a horrible, clammy sensation. The food was all rotted—presumably so ghosts could taste the smell—and a musical performance by a ghostly orchestra was making everyone's teeth ache.
"This is grim," Ron muttered, hugging himself for warmth. "Really, properly grim."
"We stayed for an hour," Hermione said, checking her watch. "That's respectful enough, surely? We should head back to the feast."
"Nick'll understand," Harry agreed, already moving toward the exit. "We tried."
They slipped out of the dungeon and began climbing back toward the main floors. The castle was eerily quiet, most students still at the Halloween feast. Their footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, and Harry found himself thinking about treacle tart and pumpkin juice and warmth...
Then he heard it.
A voice. Cold, slithering, full of malice.
"...rip... tear... kill..."
Harry froze mid-step, his hand flying to his wand. The voice seemed to be coming from inside the walls, moving, hunting.
"Harry?" Hermione asked, noticing his sudden stillness. "What's wrong?"
"...so hungry... so long since I've killed..."
"You didn't hear that?" Harry whispered, his green eyes wide.
Ron and Hermione exchanged confused glances. "Hear what, mate?"
"...smell blood... KILL..."
"That!" Harry hissed. "That voice! Something about killing and blood and—"
But the voice had moved on, slithering away through the castle walls, fading into distance.
Harry stood there, breathing hard, his mind racing. Only he had heard it. A voice in the walls, speaking about murder.
November 1st, 1992, Hogwarts Grounds, Great Lake, 3:15 PM
The tree by the Great Lake had become sacred ground for Harry and Luna's friendship. Its wide canopy provided shade in summer and shelter from light rain, and its position away from the main castle paths meant relative privacy.
Luna sat cross-legged on the grass, her Ravenclaw robes spread around her, whilst Harry paced anxiously.
"It was definitely a voice," Harry insisted. "Not in my head, in the walls. Moving. Hunting."
Luna's grey eyes had gone very still, very focused, the look she got when processing something important. "Harry, describe exactly what you heard. Every word."
Harry recounted it carefully, and he watched Luna's expression shift from thoughtful to concerned.
"That's Parseltongue," Luna said quietly.
"I know," Harry replied. "Like at the zoo, with the snake. But Luna, this wasn't a snake talking to me. This was... different. Dangerous. It was talking about killing."
"A snake in the castle," Luna murmured. "A very large one, I'd wager, to have a voice that carries through stone. And if it's speaking Parseltongue..."
"It's connected to Slytherin," Harry finished. "Or to... to Voldemort." Apparently the first year did engrave a paranoia to the boy.
They both fell silent, the weight of that realisation settling over them like a shroud.
"We need to tell Teacher," Luna said finally.
Harry nodded, already pulling parchment from his satchel. "We'll send Hedwig. She's faster than the school owls."
They composed the letter together, keeping it brief but precise:
Dad,
Something strange is happening at Hogwarts. Last night I heard a voice—speaking Parseltongue—moving through the castle walls. It was talking about killing and blood. No one else could hear it.
Luna says it's definitely Parseltongue, and we both think it might be a snake. A large one, possibly connected to Slytherin or worse.
Everything else is fine. Classes are going well, and I'm being careful. But I thought you should know.
Love,Harry
P.S. from Luna: The Wrackspurts are very agitated lately. Something dark is stirring.
They sent Hedwig off from the Owlery that evening, watching her white form disappear into the twilight sky.
As they walked back to the castle, Harry couldn't shake the memory of that cold, hunting voice.
Something was slithering through Hogwarts' walls.
And whatever it was, Harry suspected the danger Dobby had warned about was finally beginning.