Chapter 2 – Settling In
(Block 2)
The first day of lessons was enough to send the castle into a frenzy. Students dashed between staircases that refused to cooperate, clutching timetables and muttering about lost ink pots. The walls seemed to watch with amusement as eleven-year-olds and even older students scrambled to make sense of the labyrinth that was Hogwarts.
Harry stuck close to Ron, who was hopeless at directions but at least loud about his complaints. Hermione, of course, led the way with her timetable clutched like a compass.
But even among the confusion, there were three students who never seemed lost.
Percy, Artemis, and Athena.
They walked the shifting staircases as if they had been built for them. When a staircase suddenly groaned and swung in another direction, Percy tugged his companions lightly, guiding them without pause. Artemis moved with the quiet grace of a cat, never stumbling, her eyes glinting when students tripped around her. Athena muttered something under her breath in Greek—no one understood the words, but the banister seemed to steady at her touch.
Harry caught sight of them once as they climbed toward the third floor. Percy winked at him before vanishing around the corner, leaving Harry both unsettled and reassured at once.
Transfiguration
Professor McGonagall's classroom smelled faintly of chalk and old wood. Rows of students filed in, clutching their first transfiguration textbooks. On each desk lay a simple wooden matchstick.
"This," Professor McGonagall said crisply, "is one of the most complex branches of magic you will ever attempt. Anyone who thinks it will be simple is gravely mistaken. We will begin today with changing this matchstick into a needle."
Harry swallowed. He gripped his wand so tightly his knuckles whitened. Ron looked equally nervous. Hermione, of course, was already practicing the incantation under her breath.
"One, two, three—flick, not jab!" McGonagall barked, demonstrating with a sharp movement. Her matchstick shimmered into a gleaming silver needle.
Students set to work. Hermione's matchstick quivered, sprouting the faintest metallic sheen before snapping back. Ron's smoked alarmingly. Harry's gave a faint twitch but otherwise remained stubbornly wooden.
A hush spread across the classroom when Percy lifted his wand lazily, almost as if flicking away an insect. The matchstick rippled, lengthening into a perfect ivory quill, the feather gleaming as though bathed in moonlight.
Artemis followed with precise elegance. Her matchstick blossomed into a silver fox figurine, so lifelike it seemed ready to leap off the desk. Its tiny eyes glittered before it froze again in place.
Athena's wand traced a delicate arc. The matchstick elongated, reshaping into a glass owl no bigger than a thumb. It blinked twice, its wings twitching as though preparing for flight.
Gasps rippled through the room.
Hermione's hand froze mid-incantation. Ron's jaw dropped. Seamus swore under his breath. Even Malfoy, normally quick with an insult, had no words.
Professor McGonagall's lips tightened. "Competent," she said finally, though her eyes lingered longer than usual on the trio. She moved briskly on, but the muttering continued for the rest of the lesson.
Charms
After a dizzying trek through staircases and corridors, the first-years found themselves in Charms. Professor Flitwick stood atop a stack of books, his squeaky voice enthusiastic as he explained the levitation charm.
"Swish and flick! Remember, pronunciation is key: Wingardium Leviosa!"
He demonstrated on a feather, which rose gracefully into the air before settling back onto the desk.
Harry tried. His feather twitched. Ron mangled the pronunciation and sent his feather rolling. Hermione, after a sharp correction of Ron's "LeviosAH", managed to lift hers several inches, her face shining with triumph.
Then Percy twirled his wand with a casual flourish. His feather didn't just rise—it spun in a graceful spiral, weaving patterns in the air like a dancer.
Artemis's feather drifted upward and circled her head in slow arcs, glowing faintly silver in the torchlight.
Athena muttered the incantation with crisp precision. Her feather formed letters in the air—V I C T O R Y—before drifting back onto the desk.
Professor Flitwick nearly toppled from his books. "Outstanding! Outstanding!" he squeaked, clapping.
The Gryffindors muttered.
"Show-offs."
"Bet they practiced before coming here."
"No one's that good on their first try."
Hermione's triumph dimmed, though she stubbornly lifted her chin and tried again.
Harry, watching from the corner of his eye, couldn't shake the thought: they weren't just talented. They were something else entirely.
Potions
The dungeon was cool and damp, smelling faintly of herbs and something acrid. Harry sat beside Ron as Snape swept into the room, his robes billowing like storm clouds.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," he intoned. "I expect precision. I expect results."
He began his usual interrogation, ignoring raised hands in favor of catching Harry off guard. Harry stumbled through the answers, earning snickers from Malfoy and a withering glare from Snape.
But when Snape turned his sharp questions on Percy—
"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Percy raised a brow, his voice relaxed. "They're the same plant. Aconite. Depends what you're using it for."
Snape blinked once. "Correct." His mouth twisted.
Athena, unprompted, added, "And if you crush the seeds improperly, they lose potency. Which is why your classroom smells faintly of wasted aconite, Professor."
A ripple of laughter spread before Snape snapped, "Silence!" His eyes narrowed at her, but she only met his gaze coolly.
Artemis brewed her potion with elegant movements, precise as clockwork. Percy tossed in ingredients without looking, yet his cauldron bubbled to perfect color. Athena's simmered exactly at the required temperature, steam curling into neat spirals.
Harry and Ron's potion curdled into something resembling swamp muck. Hermione's foamed over. Neville's melted his cauldron.
By the end of the lesson, Snape's glare could have curdled milk. He stalked toward the trio's cauldrons, scowling at their flawless work. "Beginner's luck," he sneered, though his voice lacked conviction.
The jealous mutters followed the trio out of the dungeon like a cloud.
The Underlying Current
By the time classes ended, Harry was exhausted. His head spun with incantations and wand movements, and his fingers still smelled faintly of failed potion. Yet all through the day, he couldn't stop noticing the trio. The way Percy seemed to know where to stand, as if predicting mishaps before they happened. The way Artemis's silver eyes softened only when looking at Percy. The way Athena's hand lingered on his arm even while answering professors with unnerving confidence.
It wasn't just talent. It wasn't just closeness. It was something… other.
And Harry couldn't help but feel it mattered to him somehow.