The first weekend after the Christmas holidays marked Hardwin's first lesson in duelling with Professor Quirrell, and he approached their usual office filled with excitement for the lesson that he was about to have. Hardwin had been looking forward to utilizing the spells he had spent two months learning, and now that opportunity had arrived. Duelling was a skill that would be very useful in life, no matter what future career he eventually applied for.
Hardwin briefly wondered what careers there even were in the wizarding world, aside from teachers and Healers, like Madam Pomfrey. He would have to see if there was a book on magical jobs in the library when he had an opportunity —it seemed like something he should know as soon as possible.
Hardwin knocked on the door and waited for Professor Quirrell's call before entering. He had barely taken half a step inside before his wand was ripped from of his pocket and summoned across the room into the Professor Quirrell's outstretched hand.
"Sloppy," he scolded. "You didn't even think that I could pose a threat. You didn't prepare with even the slightest amount of effort for a potential attack. It was only too easy to disarm you, and had I wanted you dead, you would not have stood a chance."
Feeling ashamed of himself, Hardwin vowed to be more prepared next time.
Professor Quirrell tossed back his wand and began a lecture: "The first rule of duelling is to always be prepared for anything your opponent could throw at you. You will never know when the crimson spell cast at you could be a Stupefying Charm, a Disarming Charm, or even the Cruciatus Curse."
Hardwin winced. He would definitely be more prepared in the future.
"Let's move on," Professor Quirrell continued. He flicked his wand and the furniture in his office was moved over to one side of the room. He flicked it again and conjured a test dummy whose stomach was several tiers of circles to gauge accuracy. There was another set of targets on its face. Key points on the dummy were highlighted in different colours to show level of weakness.
"The spell you'll be practicing today," Professor Quirrell instructed, "is a Stupefying Charm. It is rather basic, compared to some other charms one could use, but it will get the job done well enough and has its uses—taking prisoners, for example. Stunning them ensures they do not have the chance to find an inopportune moment to curse you in the back and escape."
Hardwin nodded and took a position.
"Stop," Professor Quirrell said immediately. "What is wrong with your stance?"
Hardwin paid attention to how he was positioned, doing his best not to move and looking for whatever he was supposed to notice was wrong.
"I'm too big of a target," he realized. He adjusted his stance so he was more sideways than before, his wand-arm held as if he were wielding a sword.
"Better," Professor Quirrell noted. "But still not quite good enough."
Hardwin examined his stance again, looking for the smallest detail, but he didn't know what it was that needed to be changed. Professor Quirrell gave him a moment before scolding him. "Your posture is too stiff. If you don't bend your legs, how are you going to dodge when your opponent casts back?"
"Why wouldn't I use a Shield Charm?" Hardwin thought that solution was simple enough.
"And waste energy?" Professor Quirrell scoffed. "You are far better off dodging whatever comes your way first and using that extra time to return a spell before your opponent can recover. Shielding uses power and energy that decrease the time you will be able to continue the fight — and against a much stronger opponent, that is a foolish decision to make."
Hardwin committed that to memory and adjusted his stance accordingly.
"Good," Professor Quirrell remarked. "It's not perfect, but we have time to fix that. For now I want you to work on your accuracy. Focus on the spell and your intentions with it. You have to want to stun your enemy. If you do not have the correction intention, you'll be lucky to knock your enemy back a single inch—you're more likely to aggravate your enemy than win, at that point."
For the next hour Hardwin continued casting the Stupefying Charm over and over again, and when he was too exhausted, Professor Quirrell had him do push-ups, jumping-jacks, or other simple exercises that didn't need a lot of space. According to Professor Quirrell, being in good physical shape was one of the easiest ways to win a duel—if you can outlast your enemy because you have greater endurance then the battle is already won.
When their lesson was over, Hardwin left in high spirits. He had learned a new spell as well as some basic duelling techniques. Their next lesson would be focused on learning another useful duelling spell.
Accepting Professor Quirrell's offer for private tutoring was the best decision he had ever made.
A few days later, Hardwin watched Draco Malfoy hit Neville Longbottom with a Leg-Locker Curse outside the library and stalk off, laughing loudly. The moment Malfoy was out of sight, Hardwin cancelled the curse with a simple "Finite."
"Thanks," Longbottom said gratefully.
"Don't mention it," Hardwin told him. "Seriously—don't."
"I get it," Longbottom reassured. "The whole Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry."
"Exactly. And Malfoy would give me problems for it."
Neville shuddered.
Hardwin walked away before further words could be exchanged. He still remembered the way that Longbottom had laughed at him on the train. He had cancelled the curse more because it was Malfoy who had done it than because it was Longbottom who had been affected.
The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Hardwin overheard Evan Potter talking to his lackeys— Longbottom, Weasley, and Granger. They were sitting in the seat in front of him, for some frustrating reason that annoyed Hardwin immensely because it hampered his ability to focus.
"I'm going to play," Potter was saying to them. "If I don't, all the Slytherins will think I'm just too scared to face Snivellus." (Granger made a disparaging noise.) "I'll show them… it'll really wipe the smiles off their faces if we win."
"Just as long as we're not wiping you off the field," Granger deflected scathingly.
Hardwin had no idea what that was about, but recalled the Slytherins' excitement about hearing that Professor Snape, would be the referee for the next Quidditch match. Then he remembered that Granger had set Professor Snape on fire during the first match between Slytherin and Gryffindor back in November—they probably still thought it was Professor Snape who had jinxed the broomstick.
It was what they started talking about next, however, that truly caught Hardwin's attention.
"I still can't believe that Snape's after the Philosopher's Stone," Weasley grumbled. "But at least we know who Nicolas Flamel is now."
Hardwin barely restrained himself before he could react and give away that he was eavesdropping. If it truly was the Philosopher's Stone hidden in the school (For what else could require a giant three-headed dog to guard a trapdoor in a tiny room?) then everything made sense. The puzzle pieces were beginning to come together in Hardwin's head, building a picture that he wasn't sure he wanted to see completed. It sounded like more trouble than it was worth, despite the infinite wealth and Elixir of Life that the Stone could provide, were he to get his hands on it.
"I really think we should tell Dumbledore about this," Granger stated.
Potter scoffed "But where's the fun in that? All we need to do is find out how to get past Fluffy and the other enchantments and we can have the Stone for ourselves."
Granger gave Potter a disapproving look, but Hardwin spotted the wanting look in her eyes that told him she had her own plans for the Philosopher's Stone—probably an unlimited supply of books, if Granger was as predictable as she seemed.
That evening when classes let out, Hardwin made his way down to Professor Snape's office and knocked on the door.
"Enter," Professor Snape barked impatiently.
Hardwin entered the office. "Hello, sir."
"What is it, Potter? I have work to do."
"I overheard something interesting in Defense today," Hardwin told him.
Professor Snape sneered. "I have no time for simple-minded gossip."
"It's about the Philosopher's Stone."
Professor Snape froze in the middle of whatever he was scribbling. He looked up at Hardwin with an unreadable expression, and in a slow, cold voice, he demanded, "And just how do you know about the Philosopher's Stone?"
"I overheard Potter, Granger, and Weasley talking about it earlier, sir," Hardwin answered, feeling no guilt over throwing them under the bus like this. "They seem to think that you're trying to steal it, but I don't believe that."
"And you would be correct," Professor Snape confirmed, offended and annoyed by the accusation.
"They were talking about something fluffy and enchantments," Hardwin continued. "They seem to think that they can get their hands on the Stone and use it for their own purposes."
Professor Snape was silent for a long moment. Then he quietly said, "Thank you for coming to me with this. I shall be sure to inform the headmaster about what you have told me—but do not worry, I will leave your name out of it. I do not think you would like the attention that comes with knowing this particular secret."
Hardwin voiced his agreement—this was definitely something he would rather not be involved with, if it was as dangerous as Professor Snape made it seem—and left the office quickly with an awarded ten points to Slytherin for 'being responsible instead of proving himself a complete dunderhead.'
Over the next few weeks, Hardwin noticed that Professor Quirrell was getting paler and thinner, but he insisted he was fine and it was just the stress of grading final exams. Hardwin also noticed that Potter, Weasley, Longbottom, and Granger had made a habit of visiting the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor, despite Professor Snape telling Hardwin that the headmaster had informed him he would speak with them.
Clearly, Dumbledore hadn't told them—or they had ignored him. Hardwin wasn't sure what was more likely, given his knowledge of and history with those involved.
The teachers began piling on more and more homework as the Easter holidays approached, and it seemed that Hardwin was among the minority that wasn't bothered by this. Frankly, he was thankful for the extra work to keep himself busy—it was awful boring, not having anyone to talk to with or anything to read. There were thousands of books in the library, but all the ones Hardwin had interest in were unavailable until he was an older student, which he thought was completely unfair, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Around the middle of April, Hardwin noticed that Malfoy seemed extremely smug about something, walking around superiorly—more so than usual, anyway. Hardwin was doing his homework in the common room one night when he eavesdropped on a conversation between Malfoy and his two butt-buddies, Crabbe and Goyle.
"I swear it's true," Malfoy whispered. "That oaf has an actual dragon! I've seen it!"
"But why would he have a dragon?" Crabbe asked stupidly. "They're illegal, aren't they?"
Goyle nodded in agreement.
"Who cares whether or not they're illegal!" Malfoy hissed. "The oaf actually has one, and it's only a matter of time before he gets himself eaten by it! This is a perfect opportunity to be rid of him and all those other disgraces to the magical world!"
Hardwin was starting to see a pattern in his life as he walked to Professor Snape's office the next day to tell him what he had learned.
"And you believed him?" Professor Snape questioned incredulously.
"Not really." Hardwin shrugged. "But I'd rather not endanger my life because of one incompetent buffoon and six dunderheads. Now that I've told you, it's not on me if anything comes of it. If you choose not to check, well, there's nothing I can do to make you. As far as I'm concerned, I've done my part, which means I can sleep easier with the knowledge that I can't be justifiably punished for my awareness of something but doing nothing about it."
Professor Snape stared at him for a long moment before sighing tiredly. "I really hate working here," he muttered. He looked back at Hardwin. "I shall inform the Headmaster about what you have told me. Thank you for taking the lives of not only yourself, but the other students of this school into consideration with your decision."
Hardwin left Professor Snape's office having earned another ten points for Slytherin. He hadn't really been thinking of the other students, but if that little fib made him look better, then so be it.
A few days later found a half dozen official wizards at Hagrid's hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest and stuffing a baby dragon into a cage. Professor Snape informed Hardwin that all six students who had known about it but done nothing had been given detention as well as a loss of twenty points each.
Once word of his involvement became common knowledge in Slytherin—which may or may not have been helped along by Hardwin—Malfoy was given sneers and glares everywhere he went.
Hardwin had a feeling that the only reason the three Gryffindors didn't have it harder was because they had managed to keep their lead over Slytherin in the House Cup championship—as short a lead as it was. It was something that the entire rest of the school seemed to want, given that Slytherin had triumphed for the last six years in a row.
Hardwin wondered why any of them cared about a tournament that had no effect on anything but their egos.
About halfway through May, Hardwin was in one of the last duelling lessons he would be receiving from Professor Quirrell, having been informed that his favourite teacher was only staying for the year. He had previously been the Muggle Studies professor two years ago then took a year off to travel the world, but had returned to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at the headmaster's request, though he only signed on for a single year.
"Better," Professor Quirrell praised as he was forced to move for the first time since they had started duelling. "Much better. You nearly hit me that time."
Hardwin dodged the Leg-Locker Curse sent his way and returned a Stupefying Charm.
It was to this sight that Professor Snape walked in, having to duck under a Jelly-Legs Jinx that had ricocheted off of Professor Quirrell's Shield Charm.
"Am I interrupting something?" Professor Snape questioned slowly, glancing at Hardwin.
"N-Nothing, S-S-Severus," Professor Quirrell answered, putting on his fake stutter.
"Professor Quirrell offered to give me advanced lessons a few months ago," Hardwin explained, sparing his mentor the pain of having to stutter.
"Obviously," Professor Snape drawled.
"I-I-I w-was actually h-hoping to sp-speak with you, S-S-Severus."
"Indeed?" Professor Snape looked genuinely curious.
"Th-That w-will be all, P-Potter."
"Yes, Professor." Hardwin hardly gave the two professors a passing glance as the door shut behind him, but that didn't stop him from wondering what they could be talking about. His best guess was Professor Quirrell asking for help on a lesson, given Professor Snape's almost legendary reputation with the Dark Arts.
Following their detention a few days later, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looked extremely shaken about something, but refused to tell anyone what had happened. All anybody could get out of them was that their detention had been in the Forbidden Forest, which had led to many theories, including one about a rogue werewolf, which Hardwin thought was ridiculous since the only full moon in the entire month had been a whole week before the detention.
Their exams began a week after that, and Hardwin was too distracted to bother himself with thinking about whatever it was that had scared Malfoy in the forest. The June heat had arrived, filling the classrooms with sweltering heat—the worst of which being any that wasn't in the cooled dungeons. For each written exam, the students were all given special quills that had been bewitched with Anti-Cheating Charms.
Hardwin thought he did an excellent job on his practical exams. Professor Flitwick called them one by one into his class to see if they could make a pineapple tap-dance across a desk, and Hardwin had gotten extra credit for making it do a few other dances, such as the waltz. Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse into a snuffbox and were scored for the quality of their boxes. Professor Snape made the Gryffindors nervous by breathing down their necks as they attempted to brew their Forgetfulness Potions. Hardwin was confident that he had gotten the highest grade in the class, having finished over twenty minutes before even Granger or Malfoy with a perfect potion that managed to impress even Professor Snape.
When the first years finished their final exam—History of Magic—they all cheered, any sense of composure forgotten by the Slytherins, as thankful as they were to finally be done.
Hardwin took a seat beneath a birch tree on the edge of the lake, enjoying the sunlight and the soothing sounds of the lake water. He pulled out a spellbook that Professor Quirrell had suggested he read to learn more about defensive charms and jinxes, trying to ignore the babbling of the Gryffindor first years he just couldn't seem to escape the last few months.
"No more studying," Weasley loudly sighed. "You could look more cheerful, Evan, we've got a week before we find out how badly we've done, there's no need to worry yet."
"I wish I knew what this means!" Potter burst out angrily. Hardwin glanced up to see the boy rubbing the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. "My scar keeps hurting—it's happened before, but never as often as this."
Hardwin frowned at that. The scar on his torso had steadily been darkening over time, and Potter's had been hurting him. That couldn't be a coincidence with how they had received them at the same time in the same attack, presumably—Hardwin didn't really have a way to confirm that outside of speaking with his parents, and he had no intention of ever doing that again.
"Go to Madam Pomfrey," Granger urged.
"I'm not ill," Potter said. "I think it's a warning… it means danger's coming…"
Normally Hardwin would have scoffed and brushed that thought off, but with everything else that was going on, he found it to be a very believable assumption.
"Evan, relax—Hermione's right, the Stone's safe as long as Dumbledore's around. Anyway, we've never had any proof Snape found out how to get past Fluffy. He nearly had his leg ripped off once, he's not going to try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play Quidditch for England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down."
"He's got a point," Longbottom agreed.
Hardwin wasn't sure whether he wanted Potter to listen to his friends or not — on one hand, it would be another way to get him in trouble, but on the other, it was so life-endangering foolish Hardwin was hoping that Potter would prove him wrong by showing he possessed an ounce of self-preservation.
"Where're you going?" Weasley asked sleepily.
Hardwin glanced over to see that Potter had jumped to his feet—his expression was frantic and his face was pale.
"I've just thought of something," he said. "We've got to go and see Hagrid, right now."
The four Gryffindors ran off, Longbottom trailing behind.
Hardwin knew it could only be about one thing, so he closed his book with a tired sigh and stuffed it in his bag. He trekked back to the castle to inform Professor Snape that the biggest dunderheads in Hogwarts' history were about to be even more rash and reckless than usual. Luckily, he met Professor Snape on his way to the dungeons.
"Sir?" Hardwin called.
"What is it, Potter?" Professor Snape looked exhausted—apparently it wasn't just the students that the finals had worn out.
"The Gryffindors are at it again," Hardwin told him quickly. "They just went to Hagrid's to keep their little investigation going. I thought I should let you know."
Professor Snape sighed and looked to the heavens, as if asking 'Why me?' Then he looked back to Hardwin and said, "Thank you, Potter. Another five points." He swept off without another word.
At dinner that night, Hardwin saw the four Gryffindors looking anxious and uncomfortable, passing what they probably assumed were subtle looks at each other.
He sighed—those stubborn idiots just didn't learn.
No longer caring about Potter or his lackeys, Hardwin brushed those thoughts aside and turned his attention to planning how he would survive this summer with the Dursleys since wizards under the age of seventeen weren't allowed to use magic outside of school.
He scowled and jabbed his food a little harder, wishing that he could have a decent life with a family that actually cared about him.
The next morning the whole school was buzzing with the knowledge that Evan Potter—the dratted Boy-Who-Lived In The Spotlight—was in the hospital wing, apparently having fought against Professor Quirrell and triumphed.
Hardwin highly doubted that was actually what had happened, having been on the receiving end of Professor Quirrell's wand several times and not even coming close to success to winning.
Over the next couple days, a few more details were released once Weasley escaped from the hospital wing, having suffered a concussion somehow, and he hadn't hesitated to gloat about how he had beaten Professor McGonagall's giant chess set, which Hardwin figured was one of the protective enchantments guarding the Philosopher's Stone if one managed to get past the three-headed dog.
Hardwin had seen James and Lily Potter enter the school to visit their son. He tried to ignore the disappointment and hurt that they didn't so much as try to look for him. It was a painful thought, knowing that his birth parents truly didn't have a care in the world for him.
Three days after the incident, Potter was rumoured to have woken up from his exhaustion-induced coma. It was the last day of school, and everyone was at the end-of-year feast. The Great Hall was completely filled and decked out in the Slytherin colours of green and silver to celebrate their seventh straight win of the House Cup. A huge banner with the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the High Table where the teachers sat.
There was a sudden hush. Hardwin looked up and saw that Potter had entered. Everyone started talking loudly at once, most people standing up to look at the idiotic Gryffindor, who seemed quite pleased with all the attention, telling his story to whoever would listen—which happened to be almost everyone in the room, even if only a scarce few were close enough to overhear.
The story told was that Professor Quirrell had been possessed by the Dark Lord, which Hardwin thought was outrageous. Voldemort was dead, and he doubted that even magic could bring someone back from the other side of the Veil. It seemed like most of the school didn't believe that story, either, from what he could see, but more several of the older Slytherins looked nervous.
When Dumbledore arrived, the babble died away.
"Another year gone!" he said cheerfully. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were… you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts…
"Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus — In fourth place, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty points; in third, Gryffindor, with three hundred and seventy-two points; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six; and Slytherin, five hundred and twenty-two."
A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the Slytherin table. Malfoy was banging his goblet on the table. The rest of the school looked depressed or disgusted. Hardwin let a pleased smile twist his lips as he made eye contact with Professor Snape, who gave him an approving nod.
"Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin, well done," Dumbledore continued. "However, recent events must be taken into account."
The room went very still. The Slytherins' smiles faded. Professor Snape was now glaring more fiercely than the time that Potter had insulted him to his face at the beginning of the year.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes…
"First—to Mr. Ronald Weasley—" the Gryffindor was subjected to a few hundred stares, making his face turn purple — "for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty points."
Gryffindor cheers shook the bewitched ceiling—the stars overhead seemed to quiver. It took several minutes to get them silent.
"Second—to Miss Hermione Granger… for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House fifty points."
Granger buried her face in her arms, her body shaking as if she were crying while Gryffindors up and down the table were beside themselves.
Hardwin had a sinking feeling in his stomach, and he wasn't the only one. Most of Slytherin House was openly glaring at the Headmaster, daring him to continue the way he was. They had all known he was biased towards Gryffindors and against Slytherins, but to be this blatant about it? To let them all believe they had won for days only to swipe the rug out from beneath their feet at the last moment?
"Third—to Mr. Evan Potter—" the room fell totally silent — "for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House fifty points."
The roaring cheers were deafening. Gryffindor now had exactly the same amount of points as Slytherin.
Dumbledore raised his hands and the room gradually quieted again.
"There are all kinds of courage," he smiled. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."
It was as if the room had exploded, the cheering from the Gryffindors was so loud. Longbottom had disappeared under a pile of people hugging him. Slytherins were all glaring at whoever they could see—most of whom were Gryffindors, but many were aimed at Dumbledore. Hardwin heard more than one cursing the old man.
"Which means," Dumbledore called over the storm of applause, because even Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were celebrating Slytherin's defeat, "we need a little change of decoration."
He clapped his hands and the green hangings became scarlet, the silver turning gold, and the huge Slytherin serpent was replaced by a towering Gryffindor lion. Professor Snape bitterly shook Professor McGonagall's hand with an obviously forced smile.
It was a bitter group of Slytherins that returned to their common room that night.
"Enter."
Hardwin entered Professor Snape's office for the fourth time that year, but the second time he hadn't gone without being called. Professor Snape was sitting behind his desk, watching Hardwin with an inscrutable expression on his face.
"Take a seat, Mr. Potter." He gestured to the chair across the desk from him. Once Hardwin was sitting, Professor Snape said, "Would I be correct in assuming that you do not wish to return to your normal residence this summer?"
Hardwin stiffened. "Yes, sir," he responded carefully. "That would be correct."
"I thought as much," Professor Snape acknowledged. "Between the way you spent your Christmas holidays and an interesting conversation I had with Professor Quirrell a couple weeks ago."
Hardwin gave his Head of House a curious look.
"He informed me that he had been teaching you Occlumency to assist in your studies," Professor Snape said slowly. "And that, in doing so, he saw some rather… interesting memories that he thought were important for me to be made aware of."
Hardwin forced himself to relax. "Like what, sir?"
"It is not important at this time," Professor Snape dismissed. "But what is important is what you would say if I told you I had another place for you to go this summer."
Hardwin didn't dare let hope blossom, knowing that it would only be crushed. "Sir?"
"An old friend of mine owes me a favour," Professor Snape went on. "Upon hearing what your living situation is like— and from my own observations—I feel it prudent, as your Head of House, to find somewhere more suitable for a young wizard to live in safety." He gave Hardwin a penetrating stare. "My friend has agreed to assist in this matter, but the choice is entirely yours."
"Who is your friend, sir?" Hardwin asked.
Professor Snape looked relieved, as if Hardwin had done what he hoped.
"You can come out now," he called to the closed door on the other side of his office that Hardwin knew led to the private quarters.
The door opened and a man stepped out. He was tall and black-haired with haughty good looks. But what caught Hardwin's attention the most were his striking grey eyes.
"Hello, my name is Regulus Black."