A/N: Absorbed Cards: Ezio Auditore – Assassin's Creed, Shadow Clone Jutsu – Naruto, Force Push – Star Wars, Zuko (Book 3) – Avatar: TLA, Blink-Dishonored, Spirit Armor-Elder Scrolls, Infinite Vault of Holding,
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Luckily, Daphne had come through and found Hermione before anything worse happened. Tracey bolted to check on her without hesitation.
Sometimes, the best solutions are the simplest.
Now, we sit gathered around our usual spot at the Slytherin table, feasting under floating jack-o'-lanterns and flittering paper bats. The Great Hall glows orange and gold in the spirit of Halloween. There's a buzz in the air; part celebration, part tension.
I take a bite of Shepherd's pie, savoring the spices. Eyes keep flicking toward our group, some curious, others cautious.
Daphne dabs her mouth with a napkin, composed as ever. "Don't let the stares bother you. Even the narrow-minded can appreciate the value of extending a hand to certain Gryffindors."
I glance toward the red and gold table. Hermione sits beside Harry, quiet but no longer withdrawn. She's recovering. That's enough for now.
"I only asked Harry to look after her because Tracey was ready to hex Weasley into next week," I say.
"I was not worried," I add with a lazy grin.
Blaise reaches across the table for a piece of roasted chicken. "Not everyone shares your optimism. Especially the ones whose families flew the Dark Mark." He nods subtly in Malfoy's direction.
I follow his gaze.
Draco is surrounded by a few older purists, posturing like he belongs at the head of the table. He sneers the moment our eyes meet.
I sigh with mock drama. "It's always sad when a lesson doesn't stick the first time."
Tracey smirks. "Let me know next time you're teaching. I want front row seats."
She's back to her usual self now that Hermione's safe. The playful spark in her voice returns just as—
The Great Hall doors slam open.
Professor Quirrell stumbles in, panting and pale. "Troll, in the dungeons!"
Cue the chaos. Screams. Gasps. Flitwick nearly drops his wand.
And then Dumbledore, brilliant, beloved, and clearly sleep-deprived, orders us Slytherins to return to the dungeons.
Where the troll was found.
Fantastic.
We're herded down without issue. Most keep quiet, exchanging worried looks or whispering theories. But peace never lasts.
Especially not with Draco Malfoy in the room.
"I hope the troll kills a few Mudbloods," he says loudly, with the pomp of a spoiled prince issuing a royal decree.
Heads turn. My friends freeze. Even a few of his usual supporters shift uncomfortably.
"Mudbloods and blood-traitors are corrupting wizardkind," he continues, lounging like a discount Joffrey Baratheon. "My father says it's our duty. Purebloods are meant to lead, not mix with those beneath us."
Then he turns to me.
"And what do you think, Rosier?" he drawls. "Your father, your cousin, they understood the truth. Maybe you need a reminder of where your loyalties lie."
I tilt my head slightly. "Loyalties?" I echo, as if tasting the word.
"What does the Malfoy name know of loyalty?"
His face hardens.
I rise slowly, each motion deliberate. "Where were Lucius Malfoy's loyalties when he gave up his fellow Death Eaters for a shorter sentence? Was that before or after he claimed he was Imperiused?"
He bristles. His shadows, Crabbe and Goyle, start to rise.
But so do my friends.
Daphne, serene and unblinking.
Tracey, hand already inside her robe.
Blaise, calm and quietly amused.
I keep my gaze fixed on Malfoy. "Let's be clear, Draco. I don't bow. I don't follow."
I pause.
"I set the tone."
I scan the room slowly, letting the silence expand.
"To those of you who've forgotten our last conversation, I'm still available if anyone needs a reminder."
No one moves.
The tension breaks without a word. Malfoy sits back down, saying nothing.
To some, it might have looked like I was posturing. But anyone paying attention knew better.
They had all heard about what happened to Flint.
News like that doesn't stay quiet long.
I am not just a first-year anymore. I am a problem. A complication. A threat.
<><><><><><><>
The next few days pass without major incident. On the surface.
"Relax, mate. They don't bite," I say as Harry walks beside me through the corridor. He looks like he's preparing for an ambush.
"I'm not nervous," he mutters, clearly lying. "Just… not used to this."
"I know. But these are my friends. Like you are. You'll be fine." I nudge him lightly with my shoulder. "They're good people. Even Blaise, once you get past the whole 'raised by a Black Widow' thing."
We reach the door, and I push it open with a bit of flair.
"Welcome to paradise."
Harry steps in and actually stops. The room is cozy, scattered with mismatched armchairs, warm lighting, and walls charmed with drifting stardust. The stage is small, but the magic around it gives it weight. Charm. Personality.
That's when he notices Hermione.
She's sitting with Tracey and Daphne, visibly stiff. Daphne is mid-sentence, her expression politely unreadable. Tracey looks like she's trying to ease the pressure without actually interrupting.
Poor girl. Daphne can be… intense.
Across the room, Blaise throws darts with casual precision beside the floating pool table. He doesn't look over, but I know he clocked us the second we walked in.
I clap my hands to break the moment. "All right, everyone. Let's give a warm welcome to our newest guests."
A few glances, a couple of waves.
"This is Harry Potter. And I believe you've all met Hermione Granger."
Harry nods awkwardly. Hermione offers a tight smile.
I guide them to the couch area while Tracey shifts the energy with practiced ease, handing Hermione a drink and pulling her into conversation.
Soon enough, the stiffness fades. The air grows lighter. The edges soften.
The boys start a round of poker. The girls talk near the stage. Laughter slips through the cracks of the past few days.
Midway through the game, Blaise sets down his cards with a lazy drawl. "Malfoy was bragging again. Said he finally mastered the perfect Slytherin spell."
"Oh, I know exactly which one he means," I say with a grin. "He's predictable."
Harry glances up. "What spell?"
The others drift over, sensing something entertaining is about to happen.
I pull out my wand, flick it once to cast a silent Illusona Aria loop in the background, just enough to record.
"Let me demonstrate."
"Serpensortia."
A black cobra erupts from the tip of my wand, coiling on the floor with a hiss. Its scales glisten, tongue flicking with practiced menace.
Tracey yelps and stumbles back. Hermione jumps behind her. Daphne takes a step back, but her eyes are sharp with interest.
The cobra raises its head.
Harry stares.
Then hisses.
Actual hissing.
We all freeze.
The snake tilts its head and hisses back, clearly responding.
Harry blinks. "What? What is it?"
Hermione edges forward. "Did you just… talk to it?"
"I was calming it down. Didn't you hear it?" Harry asks, clearly confused.
"No," Blaise says flatly. "We heard you speak fluent snake."
"Try something," I say, wand still steady. "Tell it to open its mouth."
Harry frowns, then hisses again.
The cobra opens its mouth wide.
Tracey gasps. Hermione mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like "incredible."
I flick my wand and banish the serpent. It dissolves into smoke and disappears.
Harry jolts like someone broke a spell on him.
"Mate," I say, "pretty sure you're a Parselmouth."
"A what?"
Hermione's eyes sparkle. "It means you can speak Parseltongue. The language of snakes. It's extremely rare."
Tracey stares at Harry, wide-eyed. "You do know who the last Parselmouth at Hogwarts was, right?"
That lands like a dropped stone.
Harry freezes.
His eyes dart between us, searching for judgment. For fear.
Instead, he finds curiosity. A touch of awe.
That unsettles him even more.
I speak before the silence can swell. "It's a skill, not a sentence. In some places, like India, Parselmouths are healers. It's only dark if you let it be."
Harry doesn't reply, but the tension eases.
Daphne crosses her arms and raises a brow at Hermione. "Granger. Ready to lose your top spot this year?"
Hermione's head whips around, eyes narrow. "You wish."
Tracey groans dramatically. "You broke it. Now she's in study mode again."
And just like that, the mood lifts.
We spend the rest of the evening being something Hogwarts rarely allows us to be.
Just kids.
<><><><><><><>
Dear Felix,
I hope this letter finds you well, and preferably not singed, clawed, or half-buried in dragon nesting grounds. I imagine your current assignment is keeping you on your toes, as usual.
Hogwarts is curious. Magical in all the ways one expects, and surprising in all the ways one does not.
My routine has settled into something solid. Early mornings are for review and practice. Yes, I am actually waking up early now. I can already picture your smug smile. Classes are mostly a breeze. I try not to correct the professors unless it is necessary. Afternoons are divided between tutoring friends and my own private research. I have even carved out a few secret spots around the castle. Some things are better kept out of sight.
I have made a few unexpected connections. Harry Potter, and yes I do mean that Harry, is actually good company. We bonded over music, of all things. His taste is not terrible. I have been helping him grow more comfortable in his own skin. He has potential, and I intend to help shape it. Hermione Granger has also joined the fold. She is brilliant, a little too intense at times, but her heart is in the right place. Tracey is warming up to her, which you will know says a lot.
The inner circle remains strong. Daphne has been turning her talents toward diplomacy, smoothing tension between year groups with a level of poise that would put some adults to shame. Blaise remains sharp and silent, but I catch the hints of amusement behind his eyes more often now. We are becoming something of a unit, and I have been teaching them and Harry a few spells that are not in the standard curriculum. They are quick studies.
As for Malfoy, let's just say he no longer speaks with quite the same confidence when I walk into a room. I may have delivered a few reminders about the limits of legacy and the cost of arrogance. He knows better than to push again. The story has traveled, even among the upper years. The Rosier name now stands on its own terms, not under anyone's shadow.
I had a fortunate run-in with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott near the greenhouses. Completely by chance. They were kind, open, and disarming in the best way. Susan has her aunt's spine, but much softer edges. I would not mind seeing more of them in the future.
I write to Mother every week. She misses us, and she claims the house is too quiet without all our plotting and schemes. I suspect she is only half joking. Maybe she found that chessboard you hid in the attic.
All in all, I am settling in. Things are moving in the direction I want. You would approve, I think.
Give your owl my thanks for braving the trek here again. I know it prefers the warmth of your tents to castle chill.
Stay safe. And maybe this time, do not challenge the next nesting mother to a staring contest.
Yours in shadow and song,
Timothy