Harry spent almost his entire visit to the Notts’ either flying or reading. He left his new books in his trunk and focused on what he could find in the Nott library while he was here, collecting a big stack. Viscount Nott had Larkin, as Ms. Haigh insisted he call her, approve all his selections, which she did. She only gave Harry a funny look after one of them. “Is it allowed at school?” he said.
“It’s not forbidden,” she said, drawing out the word. “Just don’t get caught with it.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Only on the morning he was supposed to leave did Harry remember to ask Theo about something Larkin said the first day. “Theo… Larkin mentioned the magical orphanage. Someone brought it up last year, too, but I can’t find more than brief references to it in the Prophet.”
“Oh.” Theo grimaced. “That.”
“That?” Harry prompted.
“It’s… a… sore point for some of us. Um. After the war ended…” Theo paused and ran a hand through his hair. “There were over two hundred Death Eaters. Only about fifty of those had the Dark Mark, the more elite circles. They had bolt holes all over the country. When the Order and the Aurors cleaned them out a lot of their kids got caught in the crossfire.”
“Lots of people acted like it was some big shock to find Death Eaters’ kids.” Both boys jumped. Apparently Theo hadn’t noticed Larkin come into the library either. “Like it was a surprise they were human, with families and friends and everything.” She folded her arms. “My cousins are in that orphanage. Meldrin and Reya Travers. Twins. I’m not even allowed to see them, because of my, and I quote, questionable influences.”
“That’d be us,” Theo drawled.
Larkin nodded. “At last count there were almost fifty kids in there between… I think the youngest are about five or six now, and the oldest are starting Hogwarts this year.”
“Your cousins?” Harry said quietly.
“No. Not for another year.” She was quiet. “We write. I’ll be running into them in Diagon Alley in disguise when they go to buy their supplies.”
An orphanage. Harry turned a page of his book with more force than absolutely necessary.
“How is it there?” he said finally.
Larkin took her time answering. “It’s… not… the children banded together out of necessity. Different groups of them. Usually by age. Reya hates letters so most of mine are from Meldrin. He’s told me they have a common enemy—the people in charge—so even though it’s understaffed the kids don’t get too vicious with each other. It doesn’t help that the older set remembered the war, and apparently they tell the younger kids… unflattering stories about the Order.”
“Who is in charge.”
“There’s an executive board,” Larkin said. “Current chairwizard is… Elphias Doge. Vice chairwitch, Viscountess Molly Weasley.”
A vase on a table near Harry shattered.
“Merlin’s balls,” he muttered. “Reparo.”
The pieces of the vase flew back together, and he levitated it to the same spot it had been in.
“What about adoption?” he said to break the silence.
“Who wants Death Eaters’ kids?” Theo said.
Larkin sighed. “That’s not the only problem, Theodore, and you know it. Most people aren’t that shallow, or at least they would be fine with one of the younger kids who doesn’t really remember anything… before. A big part of it is the bureaucratic hoop-jumping and fine-paying and palm-greasing you have to do to get anywhere. The few families that can afford it mostly have their own kids, don’t want someone they can’t legally blood adopt, or aren’t legally allowed to foster anyone because of sanctions after the war.”
Harry needed a list of noble families. Soon. And their political declarations in the Wizengamot. Possibly he could call in a favor for that. Bole could work, or Higgs… Higgs made even more sense, actually. He was graduated and he’d never had many friends in the school. He’d announced his contract with the Murkwood Magpies at the end of last year and he was probably just playing quidditch and secretly dating his Hufflepuff girlfriend. It was as good a reason to call in the favor as any.
Aoife could take the letter tonight.
Once Larkin left, Theo spoke up again. “You… have plans.”
“I do.” No sense denying it.
“Can I ask what they are?” Theo said cautiously.
Harry looked at him for a few seconds.
“I can be more effective if I have a better idea of our goals,” Theo said.
“You’ve been doing just fine so far,” Harry pointed out.
Theo shrugged. “More effective.”
Slowly, Harry nodded. “In a nu—a snitch, never be powerless again. More complicated…” He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “The orphanage needs to go. The we-love-Muggles-let’s-all-just-hold-hands-and-sing-kumbayah thing is so stupid I can’t even say it.”
“You realize who you sound like,” Theo said.
“I’m not a violent genocidal psychopath,” Harry said dismissively. Well, violent maybe, but only when given a reason. “Riddle was a toddler smashing sand castles on the beach. Even if he’d ended up in power, no way would he have hung onto it. I’m not interested in mass murder. Just, you know, never have to go near a Muggle ever again.”
Theo snorted. “And the game plan for this year? It’s not that intense, but we should be preparing. You’ve probably noticed House politics kick into high gear once we hit year three.”
“Let them think I’m apolitical until then,” Harry said. “Push back only when they push first. Rookwood probably knows better and Avery definitely does.”
“They’re too old for you to be a threat to either of them,” Theo said. “Our year it’ll be Malfoy.”
Now that Bulstrode has been temporarily handled, Harry supplied. “It would be boring if there were no challenges,” he said instead.
Theo smirked. “True.”
***
The last three weeks of August were painful.
Not physically. Harry had firmly gotten the point across about attacking him physically and the Muggle children, even the worst bullies, didn’t touch him. There were still a thousand little snubs and insults and snide glances and shifts of body language to endure but he could, and did, distract himself with books. Raza’s commentary, as usual, helped.
When he wasn’t reading his books, he was thinking about Higgs’ letter, now memorized.
Potter,
I was wondering when you’d get around to this. I don’t even want to know why a noble needs this list, but I can guess it has something to do with the fact that you never talk about your mysterious guardians. Best of luck this year.
The Wizengamot has three parties—the Progressive Integration Party, usually shortened to PIP or just Integrates, the Neutrals, and the Traditionalists. Each family on the Wizengamot declares which way they orient. They don’t have to vote that way; it just helps keep things organized. Parties tend to change over time but we’ve had more or less these three since the 1960s. Title doesn’t change how much power you have or how many votes, it’s just a mark of prestige at this point. In order to be on the Wizengamot, you need at least a Knighthood. King Arthur named magical nobles to the Wizengamot and established it to rule after his death. There are nobles who aren’t in the Wizengamot, but a family being raised to the Wizengamot automatically makes them Knights. That’s only happened twice since Arthur’s time since it needs a unanimous vote, which pretty much never happens. Breakdown looks like this:
Integrates:
Dumbledores, Knight
Longbottoms, Viscountess
Moody, Lord
Pritchard, Lady
Doge, Knight
Abbott, Viscount
Edgecombe, Lord
Vance, Lady (our dear instructor’s older sister)
McKinnon, Baroness
Shacklebolt, Viscount
Meadowes, Lord
Crouch, Knight
Macmillan, Viscount
Bell, Knight
Podmore, Knight
Total votes: 15
Neutrals:
Jones, Lady
Smith, Earl
Towler, Knight
Slughorn, Viscount. Votes by proxy.
Haughsmoore, Marquess. Current Head of House is apolitical and hasn’t claimed the seat.
Bones, Knight
Wood, Knight
Davies, Lord
Greengrass, Viscount
Rosier, Viscount. Defunct—only one left is too young.
Moon, Lady
Prewett, Viscount. Defunct until someone proves a claim.
Total votes: 9
Traditionalists:
Selwyns, Marquess
Nott, Viscount. Defunct until the current Head dies.
Malfoy, Earl
Parkinson, Viscount
Burke, Viscount. Defunct until current Head dies.
Bulstrode, Viscount. Defunct until Perseus comes of age.
Black, Duke. Defunct until the current Head dies.
Lestrange, Viscount. Defunct until someone proves a claim.
Carrow, Viscount. Defunct until current Head dies.
Gaunt, Earl. Defunct until someone can prove a claim, at which point the Wizengamot votes to reinstate them or not. Whole family was sanctioned indefinitely in the eighteen hundreds.
Travers, Viscount. Defunct until current Heir comes of age.
Fawley, Viscount. Defunct until current Heir comes of age.
Yaxley, Viscount
Avery, Viscount. Defunct until Carter comes of age.
Rowle,Viscount. Defunct until current Heir comes of age.
Rookwood, Lord. Defunct until current Heir comes of age.
Flint, Viscount
Total votes: 5
My debt is paid.
-Higgs
It was a fascinating look into an archaic but somehow still functional system. Harry knew from his reading that the Minister was the only elected official in England, but that nobles on the Wizengamot represented families living in designated areas of the country. Complicated, ancient magics tied the nobles to their land and the people they stood for, so if a family went off the rails and started doing things that negatively affected their region, or went against what their people wanted, their magic would suffer. Go too far, and the current seat-holder would automatically lose their rights to do so, as determined by the Pendragon family magics that still held the whole mess together. He didn’t understand the details and barely understood the outline but at least now the power plays in Slytherin started to make a little more sense.
Then he turned his attention to the Ministry for a week and realized he’d spoken too soon. The Wizengamot was complicated but the Ministry was the real mess. At least Wizengamot nobles had some kind of weird magical oath thing keeping them accountable, even if exactly who they were accountable to was completely undefined given the end of formal oaths of fealty between a Lord or Lady and people under their care. In the Ministry, only the Minister was elected, all other appointments were to death or retirement unless the Wizengamot stripped Ministry posts as punishment for a crime, and the Minister chose all his or her people. Most just left the same people in place as their predecessors had but they usually replaced the Heads of the Department of International Relations and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at least.
Harry knew a decent amount about the Muggle government, since he’d realized young that at least being able to understand the political game was a requirement for having power. Even at twelve he could suggest at least three ways to make the Ministry work better. No wonder people like Malinra complained.
“Even the Muggles do better than we do at freedom of speech and accountable government,” he complained to Raza. “We have centuries more history and culture than they do and they’re still kicking our arses.”
“So change it,” Raza said, unsympathetic as usual.
“Oh, I’m going go,” Harry muttered. This world—his world—was his birthright and his place and it was beautiful and ancient and incredible. It was where he belonged, where he had always belonged even when he thought himself a freak, that he alone could do the impossible.
When he read that the Ministry of Magic and Wizengamot together employed sixty-three percent of wizarding Britain’s forty-three thousand people, he chucked his book across the room, because an idiot could tell that would eventually fall apart.
***
He was up at the crack of dawn on September first, just like the year before. Harry thought he could see a pattern forming.
Aoife bit his ear one more time before she took off for Hogwarts. Raza, now just over a meter long, jammed himself into Harry’s messenger bag, complaining the entire time. No one bothered them as Harry dragged his trunk downstairs, checked out with Sister Rachel, and left Saint Hedwig’s for another year.
“I swear I’m going to set that place on fire someday,” he said as they crossed the road.
“I want to watch.”
“You will.” Raza was the only one who could possibly hate Saint Hedwig’s as much as Harry did.
He suffered through one last tea with Mrs. Figg, and then he was stepping into her Floo and heading off to school again. He even managed to keep his feet when he stepped out onto the platform. Not that anyone noticed, because as usual, he was so early there was no one else there yet.
Longbottom was the first to find him, hours later. “Is that your Mimbulus mimbletonia crossbreed?” Harry said, pointing to the two-foot-tall cactus Longbottom was barely holding in his left arm.
“Yeah—hang on—oh crap—”
Harry flicked his fingers and caught the cactus as it toppled. Magic held it frozen in midair.
Longbottom stared at it for a few seconds, looked at Harry, looked back at the cactus, and then grabbed it by the pot. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Harry said.
Longbottom heaved his trunk up into the overhead rack and nestled the cactus in the corner of the bench. “How was the rest of your summer?”
“Boring,” Harry said. “But the Muggles left me alone, which is about as much as I hope for at this point, and I got a lot of good reading done. How’d your magic practice go?”
“I’ve done the first two weeks of transfiguration practical,” Longbottom said excitedly. “Gran and Mum and Dad and Uncle Algie couldn’t believe it. Once Mum got done scolding me for ignoring the Trace she couldn’t stop talking about how she didn’t know where I got it from. I just said a friend helped me out.”
Harry shook his head. “No, that was you, Longbottom. I just helped you get in the right place mentally. You’ve got plenty of power and intelligence yourself, you just need confidence.”
“You’re the one that said transfiguration is mostly a mental game,” Longbottom pointed out. “So helping me with the mental part was really important.”
Harry laughed and dropped the argument. Longbottom did owe Harry for that but it’d be crude to admit it. Humility was better with him. Official favors were for Slytherins.
Theo and Davis arrived next, already bickering about something. Bole was right behind them, sitting down next to Longbottom with a book already open and not a word of hello.
Longbottom fussed over his crossbred cactus, Davis and Theo argued, Bole and Harry read quietly, and he didn’t exactly relax as the train pulled away from the station but something in him stilled. Home. He was on his way home. He was surrounded by children but they were children like him, and that made all the difference.
Someone knocked on the door about half an hour in. Bole, sitting closest to it, kicked it open with a sigh. “Hey, big brother,” she said, not even looking up.
“Porsh,” he greeted. “Potter. Mind if I…”
“Not at all,” Harry said. He let an edge creep into his smile for half a second, but it was gone by the time Longbottom looked up.
“Heir Asten of House Bole,” he said, tilting his head to the compartment at large.
“Neville Longbottom, Heir of Longbottom,” Longbottom said, a little nervously.
Harry glanced around as Bole sat down. I’m just missing a Gryffindor at this point…
“How’s your summer been, Bole?” he said.
“Eh, bit of this, bit of that.” Bole shrugged. His sister still had her nose in her book but her eyes weren’t tracking. “Not too awful, but nothing exciting. We spent a couple weeks in Romania with our grandparents.”
“What’s in Romania?” Davis said.
“Ghosts,” he said gloomily. “Lots and lots of ghosts.”
Harry would have to go to Romania someday, then. All that time with history books had taught him one thing—the past was important. There were secrets in the past, of magic and history and politics, secrets still useful today. One of his plans for this year was to befriend the castle ghosts.
“One tried to trick me into jumping down her well,” Portia said, turning a page of her book. “I found runes carved inside the edge. My death would’ve allowed her to possess my body permanently and leave me stuck down there as a ghost. Apparently it’s happened about eight times in the last two hundred years.”
“Good job not falling for it,” Theo said.
Asten snorted. “Ghost regretted it, too. I spent two hours sitting on the edge of the well dropping rocks on her.”
“Fruit might’ve been better,” Harry mused. “Let it rot down there with her.”
“Yeah, this is why you’re Slytherin,” Longbottom said, laughing a little.
Bole hung around a few more minutes before he excused himself and left. Harry hid his smirk behind a book, saw Theo do the same inside a travel mug charmed to keep his tea ever-hot.
Harry had been expecting that. He’d even, sort of, been expecting Rookwood to pause and poke her head in to say hello. It came as more of a surprise when Merula Snyde knocked, slid the door open, and leaned on the frame with a grin.
She wasn’t particularly pretty. In fact, she was aggressively forgettable at first glance in the same way as Avery. Until you looked a bit closer and saw the ice underneath.
“Potter,” she said, nodding around the rest of the compartment.
“Snyde.”
“Welcome back.” She eyed his glasses. “You look a proper noble now.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” Harry said with a smirk.
Snyde half-smiled. “I don’t. See you at school.”
“What was that?” Longbottom said, after she left.
“Slytherin politics,” Theo said. Davis’ eyes were flicking from Harry to Theo. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I am so glad I’m in Hufflepuff,” Longbottom said.
Pascal Haigh, Larkin’s younger brother, stopped in for a few minutes to say hello to Theo. He side-eyed Harry the entire time. Marcus Flint paused long enough to gruffly ask if Harry was trying out for quidditch this year, and if so, what position, while Cassius Warrington and Adrian Pucey lurked in the corridor. Kinsley Mirren and Alen Weise tumbled in with a pack of Exploding Snap cards and drew the second-years into a game while they supposedly hid from a furious Gianna Rossi.
Longbottom mostly looked bemused by all of it.
Harry didn’t let his guard down once. None of them pressed him; no one after Snyde made any kind of prodding comments. They weren’t testing him politically, not now; they were after his attitudes toward Slytherin. He’d been overlooked as a threat until the end of last year. Dismissed, a stray Potter in Slytherin, someone who didn’t belong. Apparently, some of his House mates had seen the error of their ways.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Yes,” Theo sneered instantly.
Harry glanced up at Parkinson in the half-open doorway. “No.”
Theo laughed.
“Neville Longbottom, Heir of Longbottom,” Longbottom said. He wasn’t even bothering to look up from his and Bole’s chess game at this point.
“Pansy Parkinson, Heir of Parkinson.” She really took up a lot of the compartment for a girl her size. Parkinson took the empty seat between Davis and the inside wall, on the bench opposite Harry, flicked out a fashion magazine, and started reading.
“Good move,” Bole murmured.
Longbottom grinned. “Thanks.”
“Do anything fun this summer, Potter?” Parkinson said idly.
“Bit of this, bit of that,” Harry said, watching her closely. “Studying, reading, that sort of thing.”
“Maybe you should’ve been in Ravenclaw,” she said with a hint of a smile curling her lips. It was in no way a nice or teasing smile.
Theo snorted.
“Maybe,” Harry said, letting his absolute disbelief color his tone. Sure, he liked knowing things, but only things that were useful.
“Your guardians must have quite a library, then,” she said, turning a page in her magazine. “To keep you occupied.”
Well, there was an exception to every rule. Parkinson was the test du jour, apparently. “I’m kept occupied,” he agreed.
“So kind of you to care,” Davis muttered.
Harry laughed. “Mhm. She’s kind and I’m a Ravenclaw.”
Davis and Theo were tense as live wires and pretending not to be. Badly, in Davis’ case.
“Not good enough,” Bole murmured, barely audible. “Check.”
Longbottom frowned.
“You finally look like someone worth associating with,” Parkinson said, tossing her magazine lazily aside and eyeing Harry’s robes. “Hair’s tamed, and you got new glasses. The Potter heir instead of some mudblood.”
Longbottom stiffened.
Harry let his own eyes sweep dismissively over Parkinson. “And you look exactly like you always have, Parkinson.”
“Which is?”
“Someone who thinks she’s above little old halfblood me.” He leaned back in his seat, cocked his chin up a half inch, let his shoulders spread. A thousand tiny things that turned his body from that of a twelve-year-old boy into someone completely in control.
“She’d be an idiot to think you weak for your blood,” Theo said. The words were aimed at Harry but his eyes were on Parkinson. Davis was busy trying to dissolve into the seat so she didn’t get stuck between them.
Parkinson’s slanted eyes gleamed. “Agreed. After all, Riddle was a halfblood.”
The air in the compartment was sucked out.
“Check,” Longbottom murmured, moving a bishop.
“He also wanted genocide, and acted like a toddler hitting people for fun,” Harry said. “No strategy. Not to mention he tried to kill me. Magical power isn’t everything, but even if it was, we both know I wouldn’t lose.”
Parkinson was the first to look away. “My mistake.” She picked up the magazine again.
“Checkmate,” Bole said.
“Dammit,” Longbottom said with a grin, and the tension snapped. “Why do I always lose?”
“Because you think two steps ahead, at best,” Bole said, sweeping her pieces into a bag. “Three’s better, or four. The real grandmasters see seven or eight.”
Longbottom sighed theatrically. “I’ll let you stick to chess, then.”
“Is that the latest from Chandelin Verskov?” Davis said suddenly, pointing to a bent-back page of Parkinson’s magazine.
“It is. See the cut on the robe sleeves?” Parkinson said, and that was all it took to suck Davis into a happy debate about fashion.
“—better to have the double seams in a different color,” Davis said. “For the accent.”
Parkinson shook her head. “The Italian style’s subtler. Match the thread, use magic to create patterns that shift and change instead of being static.”
“Why not enchant the thread?” Longbottom broke in.
Both girls stared at him.
“What? Gran likes fashion, she talks about it a lot,” he said.
“You’d never know it to look at her robes,” Parkinson said with a light laugh.
Longbottom grinned. “I know. It’s cool and all that she killed the vulture, she was quite a huntress in her day, but Circe, does she have to wear it on her hat everywhere she goes?”
Harry had not at all been expecting Longbottom of all people to get the first genuine laugh he’d ever heard out of Parkinson, but he wasn’t complaining.
Parkinson stuck around for the rest of the train ride, and she kept it light. Harry returned the favor. Keeping up the apolitical story. The rest of the House would be reeling when Harry stepped up third year. Especially Malfoy.
Speaking of. Harry caught Theo’s eye, mouthed Malfoy and cut his eyes in Parkinson’s direction.
“Oi, Parkinson,” Theo sneered. “Won’t your blond boyfriend be looking for you?”
“Probably,” she said indifferently.
Ah. Harry smirked. She was hoping Malfoy would come looking and run into Harry, force a confrontation before they even got to school. Canny.
He didn’t, though, and she eventually got up and left, since only Harry had put on his uniform already. He’d worn magicals’ standard trousers and light cotton shirt from the orphanage and put on the robe once he got to the train. The rest were wearing split-front robes with the trousers and shirts underneath, so it was easy for them to swap their casual robes for the uniform one.
Second years and up took four-person carriages to the castle instead of boats. Harry, Longbottom, Theo, and Davis climbed into one, and Harry spent the ride ignoring Theo and Davis’ conversation. Theo was his ally and Davis… he wasn’t sure quite what to call her yet. Other than useful, and meek. Longbottom wasn’t like Harry, growing up in an orphanage, or Theo, carrying the whole family on his shoulders. He was soft. Harry would need to cultivate him carefully for a while. Already it was obvious Longbottom would eventually have to split with his family, and that would not be easy, not in this world where heritage and family mattered so very much.
“Several of the orphanage kids are getting Sorted this year,” Davis said offhandedly.
“Oh, right, the one Mrs. Weasley runs, right?” Longbottom said.
Harry eyed him. “I thought Elphias Doge was the chairwizard of the board.”
“He is, but he mostly handles the financials,” Davis said. “My aunt’s done some of the runes for their wards and watch-spells, and she says Mrs. Weasley does most of the day-to-day stuff.”
Longbottom nodded. “She and Mum and Gran are friends, and she comes over a lot, or we go over to the Burrow. She talks about it a lot.” He hesitated.
“What is it?” Harry said.
“She worries about them being… Death Eaters’ kids,” he mumbled, hands twisting. His eyes darted around but never in Theo’s direction. “And turning out… bad.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Harry snarled, hands gripping the seat. “If anything they’d be most likely to turn out bad if they’re mistreated in that stupid orphanage.”
Davis, the only one who didn’t know about his own childhood, frowned a little. “And you care… why?” she said.
“Why should I not?” he said, warning.
She looked away. “Right.”
“How many?” Longbottom said, to break the silence.
“Five, I think,” Theo said. “Father knows—knew—two of their families.”
“Which two?” Harry said.
Theo looked grim. “Annabeth Fawley and Thaddeus Rowle.”
“Death Eaters,” Longbottom added, with a somewhat accusing look at Nott.
“What, Longbottom, afraid the big bad Death Eater’s son is going to curse you?” Theo sneered.
Longbottom flinched. “I…”
“He’s not his father, Longbottom,” Harry said. “Just like I’m not mine and you’re not yours.”
“Did you never consider that not all of them were crazed murderers?” Theo spat. “That the Death Eaters might have had actual political beliefs or goals at some point? That it’s stupid to believe enough of our population actually wanted to run around torturing people at will to be a threat? I know it’s the popular thing nowadays but try to keep up.”
“Theo,” Harry warned.
Theo shut his mouth and sank back into the bench. Longbottom and Davis had both frozen.
“Sorry,” Theo muttered.
“It’s… okay,” Longbottom said, some tension seeping out of him. “You’re right, I was too quick to judge you.”
Theo huffed a laugh. “You are so painfully Hufflepuff sometimes.”
Good thing he is, too, Harry thought eyeing Longbottom sideways. That loyalty will be so easy to use if I play it right.
“Just like you’re so painfully Slytherin,” Longbottom muttered.
“And proud,” Davis said primly, now that the conflict had passed.
Longbottom hooked Harry’s elbow as they were climbing out of the carriages, holding him back. Harry sent Theo ahead with a wave. “What?” he asked. “That wasn’t subtle, by the way.
“How do you stand it?” Longbottom said. “And I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”
“Stand what?”
“They… killed your parents,” Longbottom said slowly. “The… Voldemort did. Him and his Death Eaters were—evil. Nott’s father, too. And you just… you’re surrounded by them. Nott, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Bulstrode.”
“I never knew my parents,” Harry said. “I can’t miss them, only what we might have had.” Can’t even really miss that, not anymore.
“But… aren’t you Slytherins all about family?” Longbottom said.
“Heritage,” Harry said promptly. “I’ve got nothing left, except the Potter name. That’s mine. No fortune to jump-start me, no fond memories of them, no idea of their opinions except the fact that they opposed a wizard who wanted to kill all the Muggles and ran around blowing things up without any visible pattern or plan. I’ll try to represent the Potters well, but no one ever told me I had to be the same as my parents to do that.” He shrugged. “So they’re Death Eaters’ kids, so what? Would you throw the son in prison because the father committed murder?”
Longbottom shook his head slowly.
“They can make their own opinions, separate from their parents,” Harry said, beckoning Longbottom out of the carriage. They were some of the last heading up to the castle. “Most of them already have. This might surprise you, but they’ve actually given me more crap for my hair and my old glasses than for blood purity.”
Longbottom blinked a few times. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s… Slytherin. I hate to ask, I know you can handle yourself, but… is it possible they’re just talking behind your back?”
Harry sighed sharply. “Are you aware that there’s muggleborns in Slytherin?”
“There’s what?”
Harry raised an eyebrow and waited.
Longbottom’s expression faded from disbelief into shock. “I… didn’t. Know that.”
“Well, there are.” Harry willed him to understand this. Slytherin had more than its share of blood purists, but they were the stupid ones, and with the glaring exception of Bulstrode, none of those led the pack. He needed Longbottom to understand this. “Successful, too. They do just fine and no one gives them a hard time for it as long as they’re respectful. You’re judging again based only on rumor.”
“Sorry,” Longbottom said quietly.
“It’s fine,” Harry said, forgiving, welcoming. He clasped the other boy’s shoulder. “I just wanted to explain, all right? It’s kind of like people assuming Hufflepuffs are all duffers. I know you’re not, and you know you’re not, but outsiders still make assumptions, and it’s still bloody annoying.”
“What is?” Smith said, falling in on Longbottom’s other side.
Longbottom grinned. “People thinking our House are all duffers.”
“Oh, yeah,” Smith said. “But expected. I’ll just prove them wrong. How did you get on that topic, anyway?”
“Potter was pointing out to me that there’s muggleborn Slytherins,” Longbottom said.
Smith looked sharply at him. “Really.”
“The propaganda has worked so well,” Harry muttered.
“History’s written by the victors,” Smith said gloomily.
“But… why would anyone lie?” Longbottom said.
Harry laughed. He could probably talk for five minutes about why the powers that be wanted Slytherin discredited. But most of his observations were unflattering toward those powers that be, who Longbottom’s and possibly Smith’s families supported. He had to be diplomatic for now. “Politicians always lie, Longbottom. I bet it’s just easier to have the blood purity thing a clear-drawn line in the sand.”
The concept of authority figures lying seemed to be a new one for Longbottom. Harry left him to stew on it, waved goodbye to them, and went to the Slytherin table. Davis and Zabini had left him a seat between them. He slid easily back into the snake house’s shifting politics like he’d never left.
Davis quietly pointed out kids from the orphanage as they got Sorted. She might not fully understand Harry’s thing with orphanages, but she had seen his interest and responded without being asked. Oriana Grader went to Gryffindor, Mercer Kershaw to Ravenclaw, and three joined the Slytherins—Thaddeus Rowle, Annabeth Fawley, and Samantha Carran. Two noble Heirs and a pureblood or halfblood from an unnobled family. Greengrass immediately struck up a conversation with some of the firsties.
The other Slytherin first-years avoided those three like the plague. Rowle, Fawley, and Carran clustered together at the very end of the table, faces closed and movements precise. They reacted to the food a lot like Harry had last year, with a little hesitation and a tendency to take too much. Clearly they hadn’t had excess at their orphanage. Or maybe they just hadn’t had so many choices.
Like Theo, none of them was in a great political position in Slytherin. None of this year’s other firsties had social black marks, judging by how Greengrass interacted with them, which meant the three from the orphanage were outcasts from the start.
If they were clever, if they handled it well, Harry would reach out to them. The other orphanage kids, too. It was so easy to collect isolated, ambitious people.
***
Bulstrode hit Theo with a leg-locker curse on the way down to the dorms. Harry caught him and cast a quick finite. Theo gave Bulstrode tentacles on her face and sent her scurrying off to her brother. Perseus flat-out refused to heal them.
-----
Severus finished with the first-years. The three from the orphanage promised to be almost as problematic as Potter. Fawley, in particular, had the air of someone who would happily grind anyone who crossed her into the proverbial dirt. She wasn’t the most unsettling first-year he’d ever met (that award went to Elias Graves, who wasn’t even a Slytherin) but she was definitely in the top ten.
Even though he knew it was wishful thinking, Severus prayed to Merlin and Circe that the Bulstrode drama from last year was settled and the no-doubt-bitter-as-Mordred orphanage children didn’t cause too much more.
“Half-blood bint,” someone sneered.
Severus only barely caught the words, along with about eight other older Slytherins in his vicinity, all of whom honed in on the speaker without appearing to do so. Gregory Goyle, whose minion potential was topped only by Vincent Crabbe and whose rigid-minded blood purity ideals were rivaled only by Bulstrode. And he’d directed it at Tracy Davis, who Potter and Nott were grooming as a follower. Davis snapped back and Goyle lumbered away. Based on Potter’s expression that was not the end of it.
***
At the first breakfast of term, Goyle showed up with designer bags under his eyes, disastrous hair, and a nervous twitch whenever he looked in Potter’s direction. If you looked closely, there was a very slight curl of satisfaction to Potter’s smile as he easily conversed with Nott, Davis, and Parkinson. But only if you were very observant.
Severus spent the entire meal longing for the days before Potter’s spawn was anywhere near this castle.
-----
Professor Vance opened their first history lesson with a moving picture, blown up to fill the blackboard, of a man pulling a sword from a stone.
Harry sat down with excitement. The previous year they had covered very early wizarding history, going back four thousand years, and the various ways Muggles had misinterpreted magic into pantheons of gods. The early Sumerians’ earliest ocean goddess, for example, was a witch from long before the invention of staffs, who drew her power straight from the sea. It had been interesting but not particularly relevant to the modern era. Harry had spent so much time filling his own educational gaps that he never got to read much about the things that really did interest him, like Arthur and Morgana and Merlin, or the founders of Hogwarts. Much less more recent developments like the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery or the International Statute of Secrecy or the Wand Registration Act.
The only two downsides to this class, actually, were the professor and the other students. Vance was nice and smart but she tended to cherry-pick historical events. Harry couldn’t quite figure out the shape of what she was trying to subtly teach them with her selection and omissions, but there was something. He’d never have noticed if not for his endless extracurricular studying. And on top of that they had History with the Gryffindors this year.
“Welcome back to second-year History of Magic,” Vance said to start the class. People settled down, even the rowdy lions. “Anyone recognize this motif?”
Granger’s hand was first in the air, like usual. “It’s King Arthur Pendragon pulling the sword Excalibur from the stone,” she rattled off. “But, Professor, I thought that was all symbolic myth?”
“No, Miss Granger, it is not.” Vance tapped the board once with her wand. The image changed to four moving pictures of people: an old man with catlike eyes and a close-trimmed beard holding a staff, a witch in old-fashioned purple robes holding a wand and smirking at the viewers, and two young men. One of them was the one from the first picture, holding the sword, and the other could’ve been his brother with the same fair hair, dark eyes, and sun-tanned skin. Merlin, Morgana, Arthur, and Mordred. “The legend of the sword in the stone is quite a literal one. Arthur Pendragon was born son of Uther Pendragon in 429 Common Era. In that time, wands were comparatively rare. Magical foci could be anything—a sword, a wand, a staff, a shield, or a smaller blade were but some of the more common types. One wizard used his quill, and there are at least three reports of magicals whose cauldrons formed their foci, which they had to carry everywhere. The point was that each foci was keyed to the wielder in some way. The Ollivanders were wandcrafters, not wandmakers, back then.
“Merlin recognized the threat posed by the Saxons to Britain as a whole, and the threat Mordred posed to the magical community.” She tapped the picture of Arthur, who obediently drew his sword and brandished it for the class. White fire raced up and down the blade in a flash. “He created the sword Excalibur and tied it first the land of England itself, then to the Pendragon bloodline, to give Uther and Arthur greater stability.”
“So it has nothing to do with being worthy of ruling England?” Granger said, brows furrowing.
Vance waggled one hand back and forth. “Yes and no. Merlin tapped into magics he didn’t completely understand—things no one understands. Ley lines and such. Every magical family, noble or not, has its own family magics. The Pendragons’ was tied with the magic of England to the point that they became inseparable. In a sense, Uther Pendragon was England, and Arthur even more so, since Uther died before he ever had a chance to wield the sword. Drawing that sword marked you as the Heir Pendragon. Worthy, not necessarily.”
“Then why do Muggles have it so wrong?” Granger asked.
Malfoy snorted. “Because they’re Muggles, Granger. They refuse to believe magic exists until it’s waved in their faces so once we went into Seclusion they made up all these stories to excuse away things that just couldn’t be true,” he said derisively.
She puffed herself up.
“That’s enough, Mr. Malfoy,” Vance said before Granger could explode. “It is entirely understandable that Muggles would make errors. Their recounting of history is not so complete as ours.”
Harry put his hand up.
Vance hesitated. “Yes, Mr. Potter?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why… is Muggle history less complete?” she said, frowning.
He nodded. He had his own ideas, of course, but her answer would still be interesting.
“Well…” Vance hesitated. “Part of it, as Mr. Malfoy pointed out, is Seclusion. There have also been relatively more major upheavals in Muggle society than there have been in ours, in all corners of the globe, that in many cases hampered the accurate preservation of historical knowledge.”
“Like the Christian Dark Ages?” Dean Thomas pressed. Harry tried not to smile. Someone else had pushed the issue, and a Gryffindor muggleborn to boot. How convenient.
“That’s one such example, yes.” Vance cleared her throat. “To return to the lesson… we’ll begin, today, with an overview of the conflict between these four historically important characters. Who can tell me what the relationship was between Morgana, Mordred, and Arthur? Mr. Weasley?”
“Uh…” Weasley looked up. He’d been whispering to Runcorn. “They were… related, right? Arthur and Mordred were brothers.”
“Half brothers, actually. And Morgana?”
Weasley frowned. “She… trained Arthur, or something?”
“She did,” Professor Vance said, “but that’s far from her only role. Uther Pendragon, a wizard king, married Igraine and they bore Arthur together. Mordred was the son of Queen Igraine and her previous husband, a wizard named Gorlioth. Igraine herself was a Muggle—”
“They were halfbloods?” Goyle whispered, except it carried to the entire class, because he didn’t understand subtlety. Harry wanted to curse the other boy and it had only been two days ago that he sacrificed his own sleep for a night to make Goyle’s night a living hell.
“What, does that not suit your outdated blood purity ideals?” Runcorn jeered.
Professor Vance flicked her wand with a small crack. “Mr. Runcorn, please. Mr. Goyle, ten points from Slytherin for speaking out of turn.”
Every Slytherin in the class sat up and glared at her. It was the first time Harry had ever been perfectly unified with every single one of them.
“Yes, Mordred and Arthur were both halfbloods. Of the three, only Morgana was a true pureblood as we now think of it. In those days, when magical and Muggle society were the same, we were much less concerned about blood purity,” she said. Harry nodded slightly as he took notes. He’d gotten that impression from his reading. “Morgana was raised by her mother, a former mistress of Uther Pendragon, in a fully magical community in the far north of Scotland. Mordred lived in Camelot as the bastard prince, while Arthur was hidden away for his own safety.
“Mordred arranged for the Saxons to poison Uther sometime around 455 CE in a bid for the throne. He was eleven years older than Arthur, more experienced with a blade and with his magic, and took the throne with little opposition. He intended to create an alliance with the Saxons, but as he was not of Uther’s blood, he couldn’t claim the sword. Merlin fled to find Arthur in his seclusion and train him.”
“Why did Mordred want an alliance with the Saxons?” Greengrass said coolly. Several other Slytherins whose hands had been in the air slowly lowered them.
Vance barely looked at her. “Our sources are unclear. The dominant theory is that he believed the Saxons were unbeatable and he should save what he could of our autonomy with treaties.”
Harry put his hand up. She could ignore the other snakes but not the Boy Who Lived.
“Yes, Mr. Potter?”
“Why is that so threatening?” Harry asked. “Muggle and magical history is full of compromises and peace treaties. The Saxons probably would’ve won but not without paying a heavy price and they had the rest of Europe to conquer. England had its own negotiating points. Shouldn’t Merlin have been focused on that rather than creating chaos by ousting the king?”
“It was threatening because the Pendragon magics were intertwined with England by then,” Vance said. Her hands were a bit tight now. “We couldn’t have a non-Pendragon on the throne.”
“We haven’t had a Pendragon on the throne since Arthur,” Bulstrode argued. “He was the last magical king of England.”
“But the current Muggle line descends from the Pendragons, and we haven’t had any other magical try to claim the title,” Vance said. “Five more points from Slytherin. The next person to speak out of turn will receive a detention.”
They stewed in silence.
“Thank you.” Vance looked sternly over the class. “If I may continue… Merlin did, in fact, have his own tasks to pursue, both to weaken Mordred and delay the Saxon invasion. Arthur was then twenty-six years old, extremely skilled with the nonmagical weaponry we still mastered in that time, but unskilled with magic. Merlin took him and his half-sister Morgana le Fay, who Arthur had never met, to a purely magical community in France for their safety and study.
“Arthur spent another nine years there. The Saxons and Britons squabbled up and down the northern and eastern coasts, but all landing parties were eventually turned back or destroyed.”
Harry scribbled a quick note to Davis and slid it over to her.
“During that time, Arthur trained—yes, Miss Davis?”
Davis swallowed. “I… am a halfblood, Professor Vance, so I grew up hearing this from the Muggle side as well as the magical. And—my parents both loved history. I remember reading somewhere that Merlin allied with Mordred during that time, even though he thought Mordred’s beliefs about outlawing purely magical communities were dangerous. Is that true?”
Vance looked around. Even the pureblood and halfblood Gryffindors had their eyes on her, waiting. Those kids had families that would have taught them this kind of history.
“There have been reports discovered to that effect, yes,” Vance said. “Our records are not completely clear on Merlin’s activities. Regardless, he brought Arthur back to Camelot in about 465 CE, traveling by foot and horse as neither Floo nor Apparition had been invented. Arthur was attended by a number of Muggle knights and soldiers, who would later be immortalized as the Knights of the Round Table, and a company of magicals led by Guinevere, Morgana’s friend and Arthur’s love. Morgana herself is believed to have remained in France.
“Unfortunately, Merlin had intended to time it so Arthur could reclaim the throne and then turn his attention to the Saxon threat. Instead, the Saxons invaded while Merlin was traveling to find Arthur. The Battle of Camlann was already underway when Arthur, Merlin, Guinevere, and the Knights arrived at Camelot.
“Arthur and Mordred struck up a temporary alliance, because their shared interest was England’s safety. Arthur’s magicians were better-trained than Mordred’s, with the exception of Mordred himself, and with their arrival the tide of battle turned. The defenders reclaimed the room where Excalibur in its stone was stored, Arthur drew it, and essentially turned himself into a conduit for the Pendragon magic, which was at that point the magic of England. The battle was won in less than an hour. They say the soil around Camelot turned red and so did the rivers with all the Saxon blood spilled. Channeling such power took its toll, and Arthur collapsed the second the last Saxon died.
“Mordred was fatally wounded trying to fight his way to Arthur’s side in the final minutes of the battle. No one knows if he was planning to betray his brother while Arthur was distracted, or if he, knowing magic as he did, sensed that his brother might not survive and wanted to save him. His last words were, reportedly, “To Morgana goes the crown if neither Arthur nor I survives.” Yes, Miss Granger.”
“Arthur died, though,” Granger said. “I thought Mordred killed him.”
Professor Vance sighed. “Mordred’s role in Arthur’s death was very indirect. Had he not stolen the throne in the first place, Arthur would have held Excalibur already when the Saxons arrived. On the other hand, the invaders knew there was no one who could wield Excalibur and few highly-trained magicals in Camelot, and probably would have sent a larger force with more magicals of their own if they had. Perhaps Mordred’s treachery allowed for an element of surprise that was key to our victory. We’ll likely never know.
“The truth is that Arthur lived, thanks to Morgana. Merlin had stepped up as Regent in Arthur’s absence; the King was comatose and hidden on an island to the north for his safety with a contingent of guards. Among them were Guinevere and Lancelot, a witch and a Muggle. While guarding his body, they reportedly struck up an affair.” Professor Vance sighed. “It was uncommon at that time for marital infidelity to be a problem, but it seems a chronic issue for the royals. Morgana alone escaped it and had no known offspring.
“She arrived out of nowhere nearly two years after the Battle of Camlann. Guinevere, as Morgana’s friend and Arthur’s wife, allowed Morgana in to see Arthur. Morgana broke down in tears and requested that everyone but Lancelot leave the room.
“When Guinevere felt a surge of Dark magic several hours later, she led the charge back into the room. Morgana sacrificed Lancelot’s life against his will, a form of necromancy that woke Arthur, but at the cost of turning to the Dark. It is for this reason that she is known today as one of the earliest Dark Ladies. She chose Lancelot because, in her eyes, he betrayed her brother and her friend with his affair.
“Guinevere, furious at the use of Dark magic, attacked Morgana. Morgana barely escaped with her life and was never heard from again. Her last words to Guinevere were that had she not woken Arthur before his recovery was complete, great evil would have befallen England. Arthur returned to Camelot and ruled for the second half of the fifth century and much of the sixth before he established the Wizengamot, tied it into the Pendragon magics, and left the ruling of Britain to the magical nobles. He married a daughter of a now extinct noble family but she bore him only Squibs—supposedly the price for his quasi-resurrection, and the reason the Pendragon line intermarried with Muggles and forgot its magical heritage.”
For a few seconds, the only sound was the scratching of people’s quills.
A hand crept tentatively into the air.
Professor Vance smiled. “Miss Brown.”
“What was the… the great evil Morgana talked about?” Brown asked hesitantly.
“Another thing we’re unsure of, I’m afraid,” Vance said. “Some of the best Seers and historians have spent their entire lives trying to unravel that mystery. There were a number of major crises in the rest of Arthur’s rule but none whose solutions hinged solely on his presence. It’s possible that the fact of him sitting on the throne prevented some threats from ever forming. It’s likely that we’ll never know.”
“What about the prophecy?” someone said.
Vance shifted. “Regarding his title?”
The girl who’d asked, a Gryffindor with dark hair and brown skin, nodded.
“For those of you who don’t know, one of Arthur’s titles was the once and future king,” Vance said. “Muggles interpreted it to mean that Arthur was healed but comatose after Camlann and lying in wait for someone to awaken him. We have generally, in hindsight, decided that the title came from his sort-of resurrection at Morgana’s hands. His body is in his tomb, which is a national monument known only to magicals, so we know he is in fact fully dead. Though there are some who believe some remnant of the Pendragon line exists and a Seer foresaw the return of Arthur’s heir to the throne.”
“How likely is that?” Weasley said.
“Not very,” Vance said with a laugh. “Gringotts has extremely sophisticated blood tests. If a Pendragon heir existed, their bloodline would have been found by now, and we have no records of Arthur ever having had children. Most likely the expression is just wishful thinking. Any more questions?”
Harry had loads of questions, but none he was willing to ask her. Mainly about the existence of purely magical communities, even in the 400s and 500s when magicals and Muggles coexisted, and what that bit was about Mordred not liking them. Vance had skipped over it and he wasn’t sure if she did it on purpose or not.
No one else had any they were willing to ask, either, so Vance nodded and moved on. “This year, we’ll be covering the early lives of Arthur, Mordred, Morgana, and Guinevere, the history of Arthur’s rise to the throne, and the rest of his reign. The last two months of the year we’ll work on the formation of the Wizengamot and how that changed the political and social structure of magical Britain. To begin, please open your textbooks to page nineteen.”
Forty minutes later, the Slytherins left the classroom in a state of controlled fury.
“That—hag,” Vane snarled as soon as they were safely in the hallway. “Fifteen points for talking out of turn—like the lions weren’t doing exactly the same—”
“Since when is that news to anyone?” Harry snapped. “Slytherins always get blamed.”
Vane and several others looked at him strangely.
“A Potter, defending Slytherin,” Crabbe muttered. “The world must be ending.”
“Dumbledore definitely thought so the day I was Sorted,” Harry said lightly, to hide how his blood boiled at the implication that he didn’t deserve Slytherin. That he wasn’t one of them. Crabbe was a follower and an idiot and Harry was better than him.
Runcorn, in the back of the group of Gryffindors up ahead, suddenly spun around. “Hey, you shouldn’t make fun of Dumbledore!”
Harry blinked at him.
“Look at this, the Light Lord needs a twelve-year-old boy to defend him,” Theo laughed.
“I’m thirteen,” Runcorn snapped. “Early birthday. I’m older than you lot.”
“Whoops,” Parkinson drawled. “The Light Lord needs a thirteen-year-old boy to defend him. Our mistake. That makes so much more sense.”
Weasley and Granger fell back with their friend. “We should always stand up to bullying when we see it,” he snapped. “Even when it’s against a grown wizard.”
Huh. So he could create some decent comebacks. Shocking.
“Says the one who’s been bullying younger Hufflepuffs and Slytherins all last year,” Zabini mused like he didn’t give a crap how this went.
“How dare you!” Granger shrieked.
“Careful,” Harry said softly, stepping forward. “The rest of your pride’s gone ahead, leaving you three lost lion cubs with all of us. I wouldn’t push your luck.”
“That’s because you’re a Slytherin coward,” Runcorn spat, but his eyes flicked over the Slytherins assembled in the corridor. They’d come to a dead stop now, with the three Gryffindors facing them.
Harry smiled. “Cowardice, survival instinct, call it what you want. Point still stands.”
“You wouldn’t be so tough without all your little snakes backing you up, Potter,” Weasley growled. “How about we have a wizard’s duel, traitor? You, me, the trophy room, midnight on Saturday.”
“Do you know none of the proper etiquette for a duel?” Malfoy said. Harry had to stifle a laugh. He’d only seen Malfoy more shocked and offended when someone insulted his hair.
Weasely made a face. “All those poncy rules? No thanks! My family doesn’t stick with all that nonsense.”
“Fine,” Harry said, holding out a hand. Shockingly, Malfoy went along with the unspoken command, and shut up. “We’ll duel. Who’s your second?”
“Edward, obviously,” Weasley said. “Yours?”
“Tracy?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.
She blinked. “Oh—yes, of course.”
“Excellent.” Harry smiled thinly. “See you at midnight on Saturday, Weasley.”
The Gryffindors turned around and stomped off.
“Tell me you’re not actually going to that,” Bulstrode said.
“Mmm.” Harry absently slid his hand into his pocket and ran his fingers over his wand. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“You’ll get caught and cost us loads of points!” Malfoy hissed.
Harry just started walking towards the library. They had a free between now and lunch. “Only if one of you lot tattles, and I know no one would ruin such a perfect opportunity to humiliate Weasley.”
They might have wanted to set him up to get caught before—if Gryffindor and Slytherin both lost points it would only reflect badly on Harry, not whoever told—but after that challenge no one would. Theo and Davis flanked him on the way to the library. Harry smirked. It was almost too easy.
“Are you so sure you can humiliate him?” Zabini said, in a voice that carried down the hall between them.
Harry looked back over his shoulder at the rest of his year-mates. Zabini and Parkinson, each a little apart; Vane and Hopkins with Greengrass, Goyle with Bulstrode, Crabbe with Malfoy. All watching him with clever eyes.
“Ask Bulstrode whether she thinks Weasley’s a match for her,” Harry said sweetly, “and then answer that question for yourself.”
Theo whistled softly. Harry caught just a flash of a grin from Parkinson before she secured her mask again.
***
Marcus Flint eyed Harry up and down with the air of someone with visions of victory trophies dancing in his head. “How much flying experience do you have?”
“Are you an idiot?” Harry sneered.
Asten Bole elbowed Flint in the ribs. “Did you see him fly, Marcus? He’s got enough experience, and we have time to get him into shape.”
“And no one else flew nearly that well in tryouts,” Cassius Warrington added.
Miles Bletchley frowned. “Malfoy…”
“Wasn’t as good and you know it, Bletchley, stop pandering to his family’s nonexistent influence,” Warrington said. He was a rare example of a blunt and straightforward Slytherin. In Warrington’s case, he managed being that way by staying apolitical and spending all his time on quidditch.
Bole smirked at this spirited defense and swung his broom over his shoulder. “C’mon, Flint.”
“We’re taking him,” Flint decided. “Potter, do you have a broom?”
“I wouldn’t be using this piece of crap if I did,” Harry said, flicking one of the broken twigs on his borrowed school broom. It was newer than Theo’s, but in worse condition.
Flint made a face. “Can you get one?”
Harry considered the favors people owed him, and the alternative, which was admitting he couldn’t afford a broom. “No.”
They’d seen his robes. They had to know he wasn’t wealthy.
“We’ll petition Snape,” Flint decided. “Put your stuff away. Bole, show him the changing room and change the name on Higgs’ cabinet. Potter, the Slytherin Seeker manual is your new best friend. Read it until your eyes bleed and don’t talk to me until you’ve got it memorized.”
Every team had a changing room, lounge, and workout room under the pitch. Harry looked around it with interest, since it was an area of the school he’d never seen before, and he meant to ferret out as many of Hogwarts’ secrets as possible before he left here. The changing room was lined with large cabinets built to store each player’s uniforms, broom, padding and gloves, strategy books, and broom-cleaning kits. Bletchley’s and Pucey’s cabinets were disorganized messes.
“Does Derrick just change in here with the rest of us?” Harry said.
“Privacy spells,” Bole said. “We use them if we’re stripping past underwear.”
He tapped the name on the empty cabinet so it read Potter instead of Higgs. “Terrence left us all his Seeker playbooks, they’re right in here. Flint’ll want you to know this one front to back inside of a month,” Bole said, handing a worn book bound in green leather to Harry. “Slytherin Seeker plays and tactics. You don’t actually have to have it memorized before the first practice, but you should study it before then.”
“Noted,” Harry said, putting it in his bag. He dumped the other three in it, too. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” Bole said. “C’mon, or we’ll be late to dinner.” He hesitated. “Portia says your Potions study group is growing.”
“It’s a nice group,” Harry said.
Bole’s expression indicated he knew the group was not nice. “That’s good.”
***
News that Harry Potter was Slytherin’s new Seeker went through the school like wildfire. “Playing for the wrong team,” he heard Weasley complaining, “it’s just wrong for a Potter to not be playing for Gryffindor,” while Granger sighed about how quidditch divided the Houses.
“Like your lot doesn’t isolate us just fine outside of sports,” Tracy sniffed on the way by.
Granger said something rude, but Theo grinned approvingly, if not kindly, at Tracy for it.
“It’s true,” Tracy said, a little defensively. “Quidditch isn’t the reason.”
“Nah,” Harry said. “Just a symptom. I’ll have fun trouncing Gryffindor this year.”
Theo laughed. “Everyone knows they haven’t got a decent Seeker since Charlie Weasley left.”
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