Charity Burbage stood at Quirinius Quirrell's funeral, watching his coffin pass. She respected Quirrell as a senior professor, often seeking his advice. Dumbledore's claim—that Quirrell sought the Stone and endangered students—felt unreal. A tear fell for him.
Among the attending staff—Flitwick and Trelawney of Ravenclaw, McGonagall who'd favored Quirrell as a student—Severus Snape stood out.
Why is he here? Burbage thought, stunned. Snape's rivalry with Quirrell over the Defense post was no secret.
Snape's scowl was unchanged. Burbage assumed duty, not sentiment, brought him.
Though she held no fondness for Snape, curiosity drove her to ask after the service. "Severus, you and Quirrell clashed. Why come?"
Snape paused, then said, "Quirrell was too foolish and greedy for the Dark Arts. His death was the inevitable end of one who misjudged his limits. I came to etch a loser's fate into my mind—a warning."
Burbage, wanting to retort, found no words. Quirrell had indeed crossed forbidden lines. Snape's words were a chilling reminder: one misstep into the Dark Arts could turn anyone into the cold figure before her.
"You still love the Dark Arts, don't you?" she asked.
Dumbledore had told the staff Snape monitored Quirrell. During the Halloween incident, many, including Burbage, suspected Snape's involvement. They'd begun to respect his efforts to protect Hogwarts, but his character seemed lacking.
He's a teacher, not a Death Eater, yet…
Snape grew slightly verbose about the Dark Arts. "They're profound, a path to magic's truth. I seek that truth. Quirrell, ignorant of their depth, meddled and paid the price. I merely judged him accurately."
Burbage feared Snape, sensing he saw something in the Dark Arts she couldn't. She wished he could be a normal colleague, despite his past.
Peace returned to Hogwarts, and Harry's days sped by. He enjoyed the calm but craved more.
I want to fly. With Draco.
Playing Quidditch with Ron or Farkas was fun, but only Farkas matched him. Ron's overthinking ruined key moments. Harry needed a rival who pushed him to the limit—Draco.
"Fancy Quidditch practice this weekend?" Harry asked boldly.
Slytherins saw Harry as an oddity, but he didn't care. Compared to Quirrell, nothing scared him.
"I'm busy studying, Potter," Draco sneered. "Father expects top marks. Oh, right—you wouldn't understand, no father and all. My bad."
Draco's jab stung, but Harry had Sirius now. He fired back, "Shame. Last chance to fly before exams. I thought I could beat you."
Harry trusted Draco's competitive streak and love for flying. A challenge would hook him.
Draco's pride flared. "Think you can win? Insulting. Goyle, Crabbe, you're coming!"
They battled until sunset, tossing and stealing the Quaffle. Only Azrael's lost ball ended it in a draw, or they'd have flown till dawn.
Harry didn't know Draco had written to Lucius about the Stone, confessing he'd seen a monster in the forest and feared Harry had thwarted the Dark Lord's return. Draco dreaded Lucius ordering him to end their friendship, fearing Harry was the Dark Lord's enemy.
He'd become Harry's friend, against his original intent. Failing Lucius's order to sway Harry to pure-blood ideals terrified him.
Lucius's reply shocked him:
Befriending Potter is splendid. You're my pride, Draco. Narcissa was right to send you to Hogwarts. Dumbledore's rumor about Potter guarding the Stone is nonsense. He wants to puppeteer Potter.
Draco didn't care about Dumbledore, only seeing him as Lucius's foe. If the Dark Lord returned, only Dumbledore could oppose him. Harry shouldn't have needed to resist.
Father's right. Dumbledore's wrong. Draco clung to Lucius's words, trusting his revered father.
A first-year guarding the Stone? Dumbledore's inflating Potter's deeds to mislead him. Only you can save him, Draco. Protect him from Dumbledore and guide him to our side. I expect great things.
Lucius dismissed the Dark Lord's return and Harry's role. Draco's forest-born fear faded, dismissing the centaur's prophecy as beastly lies. He continued befriending Harry, hoping the Dark Lord stayed gone.
Exams loomed, and Slytherin first-years sought past papers from seniors. Harry got his from fifth-year Garfiel, Zabini from a second-year girl, Azrael from a third-year girl, and Farkas from a fourth-year mentoring Marthenas and Caro.
Gryffindors rarely sought past papers, Hufflepuffs studied independently, and Ravenclaws might peek into minds. For Slytherins, having past papers meant a slight edge. Harry, aiming to one day rival Dumbledore, targeted prefect Garfiel Gafgarion.
"Why me, Harry? Plenty of Slytherins to ask. A prefect favoring you could cause trouble," Garfiel grumbled.
"You're the smartest, coolest senior I know," Harry said earnestly.
Garfiel eyed him. "Everyone says that before exams. Ever feel used when friends only want your notes then?"
"I share my notes with Slytherins struggling in Potions or Charms. They show me theirs in return. I've got no favors to offer you now, though…"
Garfiel snorted, handing over a stack of past papers. "Use 'em well. Return them clean—that's your favor."
"Thanks!" Harry said, puzzled by the ease.
Most Slytherin first-years were thrilled with their past papers, but Harry confided in Azrael. "If past papers guaranteed scores, everyone'd get Outstanding or Exceeds Expectations. But they don't. Something's off, right?"
"Yeah," Azrael agreed. "I got mine too easily. Had a trade ready, but they didn't want it."
Harry studied Garfiel's Charms papers. The questions, based on class quizzes, were manageable—too manageable. Azrael's were similar, nearly identical in difficulty and content. Snape's Potions paper was suspiciously easy, with too few questions. Snape would've tested broader knowledge, not left excess time.
"Azrael, did you copy your papers?" Harry asked.
"Perfectly."
Harry pointed his wand at Garfiel's Potions paper, acting on a hunch. "Specialis Revelio!"
The questions shifted—varied difficulty, from simple to tricky potion effects and a descriptive Giant's Draught question. No answers, just Garfiel's scrawl: Study.
"Classic prefect," Harry chuckled. "Nothing to say to that."
"Too good to be true," Azrael sighed.
Their papers, and those of Zabini and Farkas, were all enchanted to conceal real questions.
"No way to know if these are real," Harry said. "They're past papers. It's a test to see if we notice the trick or blindly trust them."
"We solve them but prioritize understanding," Azrael agreed.
"Will others catch on?" Farkas wondered, admitting he'd planned to slack off.
"Loners or friendless kids might not," Zabini said. "But if you study, papers don't matter."
"Let's keep quiet," Harry said. "Seniors don't want this spread."
They buried themselves in the library. Harry helped Hermione, buried in books, with a levitation spell. She was tackling second-year material, stopped by Ron's panic. Overstudying frazzled them as exams arrived.
No losing now.
Exam day brought a pure contest with Hermione and Draco. Harry's year of study would shine. First: Potions and Transfiguration.
Most Slytherins had past papers. From the back, Harry saw who relied on them. Pansy Parkinson and Goyle, confident at first, froze mid-test, pens stilled.
Those fooled by the fake papers or who didn't study struggled with the real questions, unlike the past papers in format and scoring. Tests mixed high-value essays, basic skill checks, and class-based questions. Harry, Draco, Nott, and Azrael breezed through. Zabini later confessed, "I'm listening to professors from now on."
"Good questions, right? Especially Snape's," Harry said.
Snape's fast-paced, detailed lectures included one question only class attention would catch. Harry was confident he'd aced it, though it wasn't heavily weighted.
"Let's move on," Farkas groaned, burnt out. "More exams to go. I'm bad at theory, so you guys better score in practicals."
Transfiguration's practical was easy for Harry's group, honed by dueling games. Their only worry was short spell durations risking deductions.
Exams done, the sky was brilliantly clear. Walking the grounds with Zabini and others, Harry caught Snape watching.
"Fine day, lads," Snape said, smiling—a rare, genuine smile. "Perfect for the grounds, don't you think?"
Stunned, Harry and friends gaped. "Absolutely! Let's go!" Harry said, wary of a catch, and raced off with Zabini.
On the grounds, Ron and Hermione, regretting overstudying, joined their playful roughhousing. Harry didn't notice Snape watching from the shadows, the Potions professor quietly guarding their sunlit moment.
Harry passes Slytherin's trials!
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