Chapter 3 – Whispers and Shadows
(Block 1)
The first week had only just ended, and Hogwarts was already humming with speculation. Corridors were alive with whispers, staircases creaked under the weight of gossip, and portraits leaned closer to eavesdrop on students who muttered about the same subject again and again.
The mysterious transfer students.
"Fourth years, just showing up out of nowhere?" one Ravenclaw whispered over breakfast. "It's unheard of. Dumbledore never allows it."
"They don't act like fourth years," a Hufflepuff countered, spoon poised halfway to his mouth. "More like professors playing at being students."
"They're too perfect," Malfoy declared loudly enough for the entire Slytherin table to hear. "Arrogant, smug—probably frauds."
But his sneer rang hollow. For every insult, there was an undercurrent of awe, even envy.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, his porridge forgotten as he tried to listen without appearing to. It was impossible not to notice them—Percy, Artemis, and Athena—seated a little apart, as though even at meals the rest of the school couldn't draw close enough.
Percy leaned lazily against the bench, silver-eyed Artemis on one side and sharp-eyed Athena on the other. His hands moved easily between them, fingers brushing Artemis's wrist when she passed him bread, settling briefly over Athena's when she corrected the reading list for the day. They laughed quietly at something Harry couldn't hear, their closeness so natural it looked like the world itself bent to accommodate it.
The effect was maddening to others. Harry heard Seamus mutter, "It's like they don't even notice anyone else exists." Dean shot back, "Would you, if you had that?"
Even Hermione, who normally ignored gossip, huffed and tapped her spoon irritably. "It's distracting," she said. "They're too… conspicuous."
Ron snorted. "More like disgusting. Who wants to sit there draped over each other all day?" But the sour note in his voice betrayed more jealousy than disgust.
Harry didn't answer. For all their strangeness, he couldn't stop watching them either.
Defense Against the Dark Arts
Later that morning, the Gryffindors and Slytherins trudged into Professor Quirrell's classroom. The man stammered as he greeted them, his turban askew, his eyes darting as though someone might leap from the shadows at any moment.
Harry tried to listen, he truly did, but Quirrell's trembling voice barely carried across the room. He rambled about basic counter-curses while students snickered behind their hands. Even Hermione's quill slowed in frustration.
It was Percy who broke the monotony.
When Quirrell demonstrated a simple defensive ward—his trembling wand producing little more than a faint shimmer—Percy leaned back, unimpressed. Artemis's lips curved faintly, and Athena's eyebrow arched like she was marking errors in an essay.
"Perhaps," Percy said suddenly, his voice cutting clean through the classroom, "it would help if you stabilized your stance."
The room froze. Students gawked. Quirrell nearly dropped his wand. "W–w–what was that, Mr… Jackson?"
Percy rose smoothly, setting his wand against his palm. He stepped to the front with the calm of someone who had done this a hundred times before. "You're leaning too heavily to the left. It throws off the balance of the spell. Like so—"
With a flick, he repeated the ward. But instead of a shimmer, a dome of golden light unfurled across the room, strong enough that even Malfoy fell silent.
A ripple of awe passed through the students. Artemis clapped softly, her eyes shining, while Athena murmured something approving in Greek.
Quirrell's face blanched, his lips stammering for words. "Y–y–yes, well… excellent demonstration, five points to Gryffindor…"
But he didn't take back control of the lesson. Percy had stolen it, and everyone knew it.
Harry leaned forward in his chair, heart racing. That was no ordinary ward. It felt… safe. For a brief moment, sitting under the glow, he'd felt as though nothing in the world could touch him.
And across the room, Draco Malfoy seethed.
History of Magic
The next class was drier than dust. Professor Binns droned in his airy monotone, his ghostly body hovering a few inches above the lectern. His lecture on goblin rebellions blurred into an endless stream of names and dates that seemed to float in the air and dissolve before they reached the students' ears.
Heads lolled. Quills scraped half-heartedly. Harry struggled to stay awake, Ron failed spectacularly, and even Hermione's notes began to lose precision.
But Athena sat ramrod straight, her quill flying across parchment with military precision. She raised her hand—an unusual event in Binns's class—and when he called on her without hesitation (perhaps surprised anyone was listening), she launched into a detailed breakdown of the political strategies that led to the uprising of 1612.
"Your analysis suggests," she finished crisply, "that the Ministry failed not due to goblin ferocity, but because wizardkind consistently underestimated their capacity for organized resistance."
The silence that followed was unlike any Binns had ever commanded. Students stared at her, jaws slack. Binns blinked once, an expression so unusual it was almost human. "Y–yes… that is… correct. Extraordinarily correct."
He stammered, then promptly returned to his droning, but the impression had been made.
Harry glanced at Hermione. For once, she looked utterly deflated.
"Brilliant," she whispered reluctantly. "She's… brilliant."
And Ron groaned, "Not another one."
Whispers of Unease
By the time the trio returned to the common room that evening, the whispers were louder than ever. Students were no longer just impressed—they were unsettled.
"They make the professors look bad," Dean muttered.
"They make us look bad," Seamus corrected.
"Maybe they're spies," whispered Lavender, earning a scandalized gasp from Parvati.
Harry sat quietly, staring into the fire, and wondered which was worse: if they were simply brilliant… or if there really was something more.