"There, look."
"Where?"
"Next to the tall kid with the red hair."
"Wearing the glasses?"
"Did you see his face?"
"Did you see his scar?"
Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next day. People queuing outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Harry wished they wouldn't, because he was trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes, but then, whoosh, everyone had gone silent. Why? Because Elian had suddenly appeared next to Harry out of thin air.
"You have gotten pretty famous, Potter," Elian said. Harry and Ron jolted their heads at Elian and then looked around like headless chickens trying to decipher how the hell he did that.
There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on Fridays; and some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely or tickled them in just the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all but solid walls pretending.
It was hard enough for Harry to remember where anything was, since the place seemed to move constantly—the people in the portraits kept wandering off to visit each other, and Harry was fairly sure the suits of armor could walk. Elian, on the other hand, looked like he was actively trying to provoke Hogwarts itself. Sometimes he would linger at the stairs, waiting for them to change direction even if they were already heading exactly where he needed, calling it a "Hogwarts expedition," yet somehow still arriving before everyone else.
Other times he flirted shamelessly with the portraits and the ghosts, particularly the Fat Lady in the pink dress. Once, Hermione caught him lingering in front of her frame.
"Forgot the password?" she asked, in her best bossy, disappointed tone.
"Of course not, Granger," Elian replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. He gestured toward the Fat Lady. "How could I forget anything about this beautiful lady?"
"What?" Hermione blinked, half-baffled, half-annoyed.
"Socializing, Granger—something you still haven't learned."
Hermione's cheeks flushed. She opened her mouth to argue but, realizing she was already late for the next class, forgot entirely why she'd come to the common room in the first place.
Nearly Headless Nick was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the right direction, but Peeves the poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if you ran into him when you were late for class. He would drop wastepaper baskets on your head, yank rugs from under your feet, pelt you with chalk, or sneak up behind you,completely invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!"
Peeves was an expert nuisance, but the one person he seemed both to love and hate tormenting was Elian. No matter what Peeves tried, Elian somehow turned it around. If Peeves enchanted a staircase to send Elian the wrong way, it somehow took him exactly where he wanted to go. If Peeves locked a door in front of him, the Bloody Baron would appear out of nowhere, glaring until Peeves backed off. Worst of all for Peeves, whenever Elian dodged a prank, he'd vanish for a second and reappear right behind him just to flick him on the ear.
Peeves loathed every time Elian slipped through his fingers, yet he couldn't resist inventing ever more ridiculous ways to get him… none of which ever worked.
Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus Filch. Ron and Harry managed to get on the wrong side of him on their very first morning because Filch found them trying to force their way through a door, which unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor.
Elian, on the other hand, had become Filch's arch-nemesis by the fourth day. Thanks to his so-called "Hogwarts expeditions," he'd already discovered a surprising number of secret passageways. The curfew was ten o'clock, but Filch would often spot Elian five or ten minutes beforehand, loitering suspiciously near the forbidden zones, not in them, near them. And just as the clock ticked toward curfew, Elian would vanish without a trace. By the time Filch tried to drag him before a professor the next morning, Elian would stroll out of the Gryffindor Tower, perfectly innocent, making Filch look like a fool.
Strangely enough, Filch's cat, Mrs Norris,a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging eyes, seemed to like Elian. Instead of stalking him through the corridors, she would trail behind him or settle in his lap. And on the rare occasions she caught him out after hours, she didn't so much as twitch an ear in Filch's direction.
Then there were classes. Harry quickly found out that there was a lot more to magic than waving your wand and saying a few funny words, and Elian found out that he was already far beyond the first-year syllabus thanks to his habit of permanently borrowing books from Albert's private library back at home.
They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different
stars and the movements of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, where they learnt how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi and found out what they were used for.
Easily the most boring lesson was History of Magic, which was the only class taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff-room fire and gotten up the next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on while they scribbled down names and dates and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up. Elian, however, found the class fascinating. He wasn't just interested in the facts, but in why events had happened and how they began. It was the only lesson in which he stayed completely silent, sitting perfectly still as he absorbed every word. Later, in the common room, he would rewrite his notes in neat, organized, detailed manner. Hermione sometimes peeked at his notebook, though she was far too proud to ask him for a copy.
Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first lesson, he took the register; when he reached Harry's name, he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight, but when he reached Elian's name, he was intrigued and a bit too much excited.
"Mr Vale!" He squeaked.
"Professor Flitwick!" Elian mimicked Professor Flitwick with the same enthusiasm and a touch of his usual sarcasm. Everyone laughed. Then as the laughter slowed down. Professor Flitwick asked, "Is it true, Mr. Vale, that the Ollivanders registered you with four wands?" The whole class went silent, exactly like the hall went silent on the day Elian was sorted into all four houses. Everyone stared at Elian like they were questioning his existence. Hermione scratched her head, muttering, "Impossible... impossible... impossible." Ron and Harry wide-eyed, looked at each other and then at Elian at the same time.
Elian let out a long, theatrical sigh, as if this was the last thing he wanted to discuss. Then, without a word, he reached into his robes, drew out four wands, and laid them neatly on the desk in front of him.
For the rest of the lesson, while Professor Flitwick was teaching wand movements, Elian was moving all four of his wands casually, ignoring all the stares, like nothing had happened. As soon as the lesson ended, Elian, however, was the first one to leave. Hermione tried to catch up with thousands of questions in her head with Ron and Harry trailing behind, but as soon as they left the class, Elian was gone.Not walking away. Not hiding. Just… gone.
Professor McGonagall was, again, entirely different. Harry had been right to think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and sharp, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
Then, with a flick of her wand, her desk transformed into a pig and back again. The class gasped in awe, everyone except Elian, whose hand shot up, that familiar smirk already on his face.
"Yes, Mr. Vale," Professor McGonagall said, her tone edged with warning.
"Pardon me, Professor, but could you clarify the term 'messing around'? For instance, would this count?" He drew his pinewood wand and, with a casual flick, transfigured her desk's legs into those of a dog—only to change them back a moment later.
"How did he—?" Ron muttered, while Harry just stared, wide-eyed, wondering what other madness he'd see from Elian.
"That's not even in our syllabus!" Hermione hissed, glaring at him.
"Oh, Granger," Elian replied, half-mocking, half-playful. "Surely you're eager to learn beyond the syllabus?"
Professor McGonagall's lips thinned, though her eyes betrayed the slightest flicker of intrigue. "Impressive, Mr. Vale. But also a violation of classroom rules. Two points from each house. And you and I will be having a conversation in my office after class regarding the use of advanced magic beyond your level."
"My pleasure, Professor," Elian said with a bow that was just shy of cheeky.
The students then set to work, each with a matchstick, attempting to turn it into a needle. Elian, however, was banned from using his wand in Transfiguration for a week. Apart from Hermione, no one managed more than a feeble change, but when McGonagall showed how Hermione's match had turned silver and pointy, she awarded her a rare smile.
Hermione, though, glanced instinctively at Elian. He caught her eye, winked, and gave her a thumbs-up. Hermione quickly hid her face behind her book, though not quickly enough to conceal the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defence Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to get him one of these days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they weren't sure they believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went. Harry found the lessons dull. Elian, however, found them distracting for another reason entirely. Elian wasn't able to focus most of the time in Professor Quirrell's class because, for some reason, the beaded bracelet on Elian's wrist always tightened itself as soon as Quirrell turned towards the blackboard to write something, leaving Elian uneasy for the rest of the class.
Elian spent most of his free time in the Hogwarts library, the only place where he could find a measure of peace without constant stares questioning his existence. He devoured books on the history of Hogwarts, magical beasts, and even texts that explored why the Dark Arts had been created in the first place. But even his quiet refuge didn't last for long. Hermione had a habit of catching him now and then, buried in volumes far beyond first-year level.
It was during a free period on Thursday that she found him again, seated alone with a thick tome etched in strange, ancient runes. Without asking, she dropped a pile of books onto the table opposite him and sat down.
"What are you reading?" she demanded, as though the answer were her right.
"Oh, Granger. Meddling, as always." Elian didn't even glance up, his voice half-playful, half-mocking.
"You—"
"Relax," he cut in smoothly, "I'm just calming down my inner curiosity. Like you."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You'll cost us house points if you keep sneaking into the restricted section like that," she hissed.
Elian finally looked up, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. "I'm sorted into all four houses, remember? If I'm caught alone, every house loses points. But if I'm caught with a student from one specific house…" He let the thought hang. "Only that house suffers. I trust you're clever enough to do the math."
Hermione opened her mouth, ready to argue, but closed it again with a sharp roll of her eyes. Instead, she sat down in silence, burying herself in her books. Elian returned to his, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he'd won a quiet victory.
Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. For the first time, they managed to make it down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost. They slid into seats beside Elian, who was casually pouring honey over a pancake with one hand while holding a book in the other.
"What have we got today?" Harry asked Ron, spooning sugar into his porridge.
"Double Potions with the Slytherins," Ron groaned. "Snape's their Head of House. They say he always favors them—we'll see if it's true."
"Wish McGonagall favored us," Harry muttered. Professor McGonagall might have been Gryffindor's Head of House, but it hadn't stopped her from assigning them a mountain of homework the day before.
Elian finally looked up from his book, smirking. "Wishing for McGonagall to play favorites is like wishing Ron wouldn't snore like a pig every night."
"Oi!" Ron spluttered, porridge spraying as his ears went red. Harry chuckled into his bowl.
Just then, the post arrived. About a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners and dropping letters and packages onto their laps. Elian didn't get anything from Marco except a letter from Albert on the very first day that reads:
Elian,
I don't want to hear any complaints from Hogwarts about your behavior, and I haven't forgotten your silent departure, but we will talk about that once you come back over summer.
Albert Vale
That's it; there was nothing else to that letter, nor any other letter since then that at least asked how he was...but no.
Elian never replied to that letter; instead, he burnt it the very moment, just after reading it. Harry and Ron never asked Elian about what was in the letter because they still remembered the reaction Elian gave on the train when Hermione said a little too much about his family.
Hedwig also hadn't bought Harry anything so far. This morning, however, she fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note on Harry's plate. Harry tore it open at once. Ron and Elian also read the letter with him that reads:
Dear Harry, (it said, in a very untidy scrawl)
I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three? I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.
Hagrid
Harry borrowed Ron's quill, quickly scribbled "Yes, please. See you later" on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig winging off again.
When Potions finally rolled around, it turned out to be the worst for Harry, and somehow the most frustrating for Professor Snape. Snape hated Harry from the depths of his core. Elian, however, found Snape endlessly entertaining to mess with, and what was supposed to be a simple class quickly devolved into the most exasperating Potions lesson Snape had ever endured in all his years of teaching.
Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than the main castle, and creepy enough even without the pickled animals floating in glass jars along the walls.
Like Flitwick, Snape began the class by taking the register. And, like Flitwick, he paused when he reached Harry's name.
"Ah, yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new celebrity."
Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were as black as Hagrid's, but without a trace of warmth. They were cold, hollow, and made you think of dark tunnels.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, yet every word carried across the dungeon. Like McGonagall, Snape had the gift of commanding silence without effort.
"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes—the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
"If none of his students have ever been good enough in Potions," Elian whispered to Ron, "then maybe the dunderhead isn't the students."
Ron snorted into his sleeve, but Snape's eyes flicked toward them instantly.
"One point from Gryffindor," Snape snapped.
"Pardon me, professor," Elian said smoothly. "That was my fault—I was the one who interrupted Ron."
"Did I ask for your insight, Vale?" Snape's voice was laced with venom.
"Oh, no, professor," Elian replied, smirking. "I just thought it was called basic logic."
The class gasped. Hermione elbowed Elian sharply, hissing for him to stop, but his eyes never left Snape's.
"Don't push your luck, Vale," Snape warned in a low, dangerous voice.
"Why not deduct points from my house then?" Elian shot back, his tone mockingly casual. "Or are you too scared to touch your precious Slytherin?"
Snape's jaw clenched so hard the whole class seemed to hold its breath.
"Detention, Vale," he hissed. "And… one point from Ravenclaw. One point from Hufflepuff. And—" his mouth twitched in fury. "one point from Slytherin as well."
Silence lingered after the exchange between Professor Snape and Elian. Then—
"Potter!" Snape barked. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry glanced helplessly at Ron, who looked just as blank. He turned to Elian, who only gave him a cheeky thumbs-up, which was absolutely no help. Hermione's hand, meanwhile, shot into the air so fast it was a wonder her shoulder didn't snap.
"I don't know, sir," said Harry.
Snape's lips curled into a sneer.
"Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything."
"But bias surely is something," Elian muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be heard.
Snape ignored him and Hermione both. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Hermione was nearly standing on her chair now, hand straining as though she could will Snape to call on her. But Harry didn't have the faintest clue what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with silent laughter.
"I don't know, sir," Harry admitted.
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Snape said silkily.
"Thought you might actually teach something, professor," Elian cut in, voice sharp, "instead of quizzing students who didn't even know magic existed until a month ago."
The dungeon froze. Snape's eyes snapped to Elian, who sat smirking coolly, meeting his stare head-on.
A slow, nasty grin spread across Snape's face.
"Are you that desperate for attention, Vale?" he asked softly. "Or did your father, the great Albert Vale, simply fail to teach you manners?"
Elian's smirk faltered; just for the briefest second.
"Obviously, sir, if a child isn't allowed to seek attention, then who is?" Elian's tone dripped venom now. "And as for manners… forgive me, but I didn't realize that expecting a boy, who knew nothing of magic before stepping into this castle, to recite One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi from memory was what you considered 'mature.'"
The air in the dungeon seemed to thicken, every student holding their breath as Snape's face darkened, his nostrils flaring.
"Out, now, Vale!" Snape barked, his patience snapping. "And detention after class for the next week!"
Elian gathered his things with deliberate slowness, every movement dripping with defiance. Just before stepping out, he looked over his shoulder and said with a sly grin,
"I hope your personal grudges didn't interrupt your 'beautiful' art of potion-making, professor."
And with that parting jab, he strolled out of the classroom as if it were his stage, leaving Snape seething in silence.
Things didn't improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticising almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to melt Seamus's cauldron into a twisted blob and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds, the whole class were standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.
"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?" Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.
"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Seamus. Then he rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.
"You—Potter—why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."
This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron kicked him behind their cauldron.
"Don't push it," he muttered. "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty."
As they climbed the steps of the dungeon an hour later, they found Elian waiting for them at the entrance, rotating the bracelet on his wrist.
"Blimey!" Ron said as they approached Elian. "That was mad but even brilliant, Elian. You literally shut Snape up!"
"And that cost me a week's worth of detention." Elian said with a deadpan face. Ron chuckled; Harry didn't, as Harry's mind was racing and his spirits were low. He's lost two points for Gryffindor in his very first week—why did Snape hate him so much?
"Cheer up," said Ron. "Snape's always taking points off Fred and George, and look at Elian. He's still cracking jokes even after a week's worth of detention and a point from every house."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Elian replied with a crooked grin.
"Anyway, can I come and meet Hagrid with you?" Ron asked, shrugging off Elian.
"Of course," said Harry.
"Well, you two go enjoy Hagrid's company," Elian said, stretching as though unconcerned. "I'll stay behind and handle Snape's drooling."
Harry and Ron both laughed, and together they left Elian behind.
Elian strolled back into the dungeon. Snape was seated at his desk, the rustle of the Daily Prophet the only sound in the room. As Elian stepped in, Snape lowered the paper with deliberate slowness, his black eyes narrowing into slits.
"Well, well," Snape drawled, his voice dripping with venom. "Here comes Elian Vale—son of Albert Vale, one of the Ministry's most lauded Aurors. An anomaly who somehow managed to be sorted into all four Houses, and with four registered wands, no less."
Elian gave a deep, exaggerated bow, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.
"Oh, professor, you flatter me. I already know how remarkable I am, but hearing it from you feels like winning another award."
Snape's lips thinned. Without another word, he tossed a rugged cloth toward Elian.
"Clean these cauldrons. The Gryffindors have left a disaster in here. And—" his voice sharpened into a snarl, "—no magic."
Elian caught the cloth with a single hand, twirling it like a ribbon before draping it lazily over his shoulder.
"Of course, professor," he said smoothly. Then, with mock innocence, he added, "But does that mean I should exclude the cauldrons of your cherished Slytherins? Since, unlike most cauldrons in the world, theirs seem to miraculously resist stains?"
"Another word, Vale, and you'll have detention every single day until the end of the year."
Elian pressed a finger to his lips in mock silence, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
As he bent down to scrub the soot from the cauldrons, Snape's eyes bore into him like twin daggers, as if trying to pierce through that smirk and into his very soul. The tense silence broke with the hurried clatter of footsteps. Argus Filch burst into the dungeon, breathless. His eyes flicked briefly to Elian, who winked at him as if this was all a game, before rushing to Snape's side and whispering urgently in his ear.
Snape stiffened, his expression tightening for the briefest instant before he drew his robes around him. "Leave when every single cauldron gleams," he ordered, his voice like ice snapping, before striding out with Filch in tow.
After cleaning all the cauldrons, Elian looked around for a while. As he was looking around, his eyes landed on a particular piece of news from the Daily Prophet:
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of unknown dark wizards or witches.
Gringotts' goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
'But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you,' said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.
Elian remembered when he was reading his book on the train, Ron was telling Harry that someone tried to rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn't mentioned the date.
Elian absently rotated the ring on his finger, thoughts circling back. The same day he saw Potter for the first time, Gringotts was broken into... Coincidence, perhaps, but then again, the year Harry came to Hogwarts just happened to be the year someone tried to rob the safest bank in the wizarding world. And, according to Percy, Dumbledore always had a reason behind his every move. Yet this year, for the first time, the headmaster forbade access to the third-floor corridor on the right.
"Mhm... interesting," Elian murmured under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching as he slipped out of the dungeon.