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Chapter Text

Ever since Hagrid had taken Harry shopping in Diagon Ally, he had been a bundle of nerves and excitement revolving between disbelief and delight. At last, he could allow himself to believe in the magic, and he poured over every book he had purchased, savoring each page as though it contained a secret to a world long denied to him.

After discovering the fortune his parents left him, he spared no expense at Flourish and Blotts. Purchasing such a large assortment of books that even a magically enlarged bag was barely enough to contain them. Among the towering piles of purchases were all of his first year books, along with second and third year volumes, though for now, he could only make sense of the first year notes. He’d studied history, etiquette and Hogwarts: A History, yet aside from the locking charm, the wand in his hand felt like a foreign weight. Learning incantations was one thing, but without mastering the gestures, even the simplest spells left him feeling foolish.

The locking charm, however, yielded. After countless hours murmuring Colloportus, Harry turned to a rune book he had purchased. Experimenting until the cupboard under the stairs that was his room responded only to his touch. 

Watching Vernon and Dudley batter the door with crowbars and their sheer weight, only to be repelled by unseen magic, became a common delight. For the first time he had a space entirely his own.

But today marked the end of summer. The day he would finally board the train to Hogwarts. Harry’s excitement was so thorough that he barely noticed the Dursley’s sputtering car peeling away from the station as soon as he shut the door behind him. 

In the busy station, a lone boy carrying a trunk, a cauldron and a pet owl would’ve barely made an impression to an unassuming traveler. 

Though to Harry, when he spotted a bushy haired girl navigating a nearly identical luggage trolley, he rushed toward her, nearly colliding.

“Excuse me?” he called, skidding to a stop.

The girl turned, recognition lighting her face, two buck teeth peeking in a bright smile, “Hello! I’m Hermione.”

Harry froze, suddenly aware of the two adults standing quietly behind her were her parents, not random muggles. He didn’t know what he could safely say.

“And you are?” she asked expectantly.

“Harry,” he said, simply.

“Are you a muggleborn too?” 

“No,” he replied quickly, “But I’m muggle-raised.”

Her parents observed in quiet amusement, letting the conversation unfold. 

“Do you need help finding the platform?” Hermione asked.

“I read about the wall, and Hagrid told me where to find it, but…” Harry hesitated.

“But what?” She raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve never been to this Station before,” he whispered, embarrassed.

Her mother gasped behind her. “Your parents left you here without making sure you knew where to go?” The frown she wore was matched and exceeded by Hermione’s.

“Well, that won’t do. We’ll go together.” Hermione led the way, with Harry following, and her parents trailing. She guided him across the bustling station to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Stopping about halfway to the platform, she stopped to bid her parents goodbye. 

Harry watched awkwardly as she hugged them tightly, and got last second reminders to brush her teeth and make friends. “I read about this part,” he said.

Her frown melted into excitement. “In Hogwarts: A History?” she asked, eyes wide.

When he nodded, Hermione seemed ready to burst. “Though I can’t say I like the idea of running directly at a brick wall.”

Hermione giggled, “I’ll go first if you’d like,” Then, her laughter subsided, “It may not be the worst thing I have to do this year.”

Before Harry could respond, she sprinted at the wall, and vanished. Disappearing into the bricks as if slipping through a waterfall.

Not wanting to leave her waiting, Harry took off after her, eyes squeezed shut just as he was about to hit the wall. But the collision never came, instead his body tingled as though he was getting shocked by electricity as he continued running, eventually popping out beside a panting Hermione.

“Why- do they not- mention- how long- the- run is?” She gasped.

Harry laughed, though his lungs ached just as much.
The platform was packed with students, yet the crowd flowed like a single organism as they boarded the train. Harry and Hermione, staying near the entrance, stepped into the nearest carriage. Judging by the age of the surrounding students, they had lucked into the right one. Finding an empty cabin, Harry assisted Hermione in putting away her Trunk and her familiar and they sat together in the section.

“So Harry, where are you from?” Hermione began before they even sat down.

“Little Whinging,” he said. Seeing her blank expression he added, “Surrey.” 

“Oh!” Her face brightened, “I’m from Crawley, West Sussex. Not too far! Are your parents muggle-born?” 

Harry hesitated, “I live with my aunt and uncle, they’re muggles.” He quickly changed the subject, “What about you? What do your parents do?”

“They’re dentists!” Hermione announced proudly, showing her shiny white smile, “Are your aunt and uncle nice?” she asked.

Harry winced at the memory of being rushed to the hospital after Dudley pushed him from the swingset. Harry was saved from answering her question as he looked up to find two girls knocking on the cabin door.

“Do you mind if we sit with you?” one asked.

Hermione nodded, and Harry shrugged. “Sure.”

Harry helped them with their bags, then took a seat beside Hermione.

The girl closest to the window spoke first, “I’m Susan Bones, and this is Cho Chang,” gesturing to the other girl beside her. Susan was a rather plain looking girl besides her fiery red hair, while Cho Chang was exceptionally pretty with dark hair and fair skin.

“Harry,” he said, simply receiving a swat on the shoulder by  Hermione.

“It is rude to not introduce your family in the wizarding world,” Hermione corrected, “I am Hermione Granger.”

“I’ve not heard of a House Granger,” Cho said, her statement an implicit question.

“I am muggle-born,” Hermione said, and answered the question written on Susan’s face, “I studied as much as I could after the trip to Flourish and Blotts.”

Susan and Cho both immediately looked away, “You know about needing a sponsor, then?”

Hermione sigh conveyed everything. “Neither of you are from a Noble house, I take it?”

Susan and Cho both shook their heads.

Harry frowned, “A sponsor? A noble house?”

“Are you a muggleborn too?” they asked in unison.

“No,” Harry replied cautiously. 

The two girls sported a relieved look before turning back to Hermione, who began to explain, “More than ten years ago, there was a wizarding war that tore apart wizarding Britain. A wizard who hated muggles and muggleborn witches and wizards rose up and threatened the balance. After the war was defeated, it was impossible to punish all of his supporters, too many of them were Ancient and Noble houses. Houses that the Wizarding world relied on,” Susan and Cho both looked ashamed, “The Houses that swore to the dark lord were allowed back into the Wizengamot, that’s the Wizard parliament, and had enough power to pass a resolution declaring that all muggle-born wizards must be supported by sponsored by a Noble house to remain at Hogwarts…” Hermione trailed off, and Harry understood her statement from before crossing onto platform nine and three quarters.

“Which is difficult, as there are few Noble houses, and many of them are either unable or unwilling to sponsor a muggle born,” Susan explained.

“None were sponsored last year.” Cho concluded.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “They bargained with the Nazis!?” 

Hermione laughed hollowly, while Susan and Cho looked puzzled. “Now I must find a Noble house to sponsor me.” she added, her smile tinged with sadness.

“I’m sure we could bribe one,” Harry, remembering the massive pile of gold in his vault, “My parents left me money. Hagrid said it was a fortune…”

“I couldn’t do that to you Harry, besides sponsoring isn’t only monetary.” Hermione wore a sad smile.

Harry just grunted in frustration. Brushing his hair off his face as he did so. Hermione, noticing the tape on his glasses, quickly retrieved her wand and tapped it to the frame, “Occulo repairo.” 

Harry watched as the tape fell away, the smudges on his glasses disappeared and they returned to their original shape. In his shock, Harry removed his glasses to feel them in his hands. Cho gasped.

“Are you Harry POTTER?” she whispered.

All attention on his glasses was gone, as the three girls clambered to get a look at the lightning bolt scar dotting his forehead. Harry blushed furiously as the three pairs of eyes studied him.

“You are!” Susan exclaimed, and Hermione just stared shyly, her face soon dawning a blush as well.

“What of it?” Harry asked, flustered.

“What do you mean, what of it?!” Susan nearly shouted, “You’re the boy who lived! You killed the dark lord!” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Susan looked to Cho and then Hermione, “You truly don’t know?”

“Know what?” Harry asked, the question leaving him frustrated.

“Harry, the reason the last wizarding war ended is because as a baby you killed the Dark Lord,” Hermione explained, “You’re famous in the wizarding world, they have books about you…” Hermione turned away to hide a blush.

“You’re messing with me,” Harry said in shock, prompting Cho to retrieve a colourful novel from her bag. Handing it to him, he read the title The Boy Who Lived Tames a Dragon. On the cover was an image of him, although the only recognizable part was the scar that his hair often covered. Next, Susan grabbed a novel from her bag, a similar entry, The Boy Who Lived Slays a Basilisk. 

Harry just sat there in disbelief as Hermione retrieved a stack of eight novels from her bag, “I bought the collection…” She admitted, her face burning.

“How is it that for my entire life, there have been books sold about me fighting basilisks and taming dragons that I didn’t even know existed.” Harry asked.

“I doubt your fans will like to find out they’re fake,” Susan said, betraying her own feelings.

“Great. Now I’ll be a disappointment to everyone I meet.” Harry said begrudgingly.

Nobody had a response to that, and they sat in awkward silence until the lady came around with the sweets cart. Harry, despite his newfound predicament, was not going to pass by the first time he could purchase the sweets that he wanted, taking a handful of gold galleons, “We’ll take the lot,” he said.

A single chocolate frog later, and the laughter returned to the cabin. They traded trading cards and ate flavoured jelly beans. Eventually, Harry asked, “What houses do you guys think you’ll be sorted into?”

Cho was across from him, and she started, “Ravenclaw, my brother was a Ravenclaw when he went a few years ago, and everyone always says I’m just like him.”

Susan answered next, “I’m not sure. My aunt is a hufflepuff, but my mother was a Ravenclaw.”

“Is it just about genetics?” Harry asked, confused.

“Supposedly it’s about temperament, but the sorting hat isn’t infallible, if you wish for a different house you only need tell it that, so long as it hasn’t announced it yet.” Susan answered, “But generally pure-blooded wizarding families all go to the same house.”
“There’s a boy in our year who has five older brothers and each and every one of them were sorted into Gryffindor.” Cho elaborated.

“What house will I be in then?” Harry asked, figuring they likely knew more about his family than him.

Susan made to speak, but Cho stopped her, “We should let the sorting hat figure it out. For you and Hermione both. Maybe we’ll even all end up together.”

Susan smiled, which Harry and Hermione quickly reciprocated. The rest of the ride was filled with more questions and even more answers, although a large portion of them were about the books and if Harry had in fact killed a hundred trolls, he had not, or if Harry could do a one finger pushup, he could not, or if Harry would show them his eight-pack abs, which he had not, he could not, and he would not.

Still, the ride was enjoyable, and as such when they left the train and were directed towards the boats, the four of them chose to remain together in one boat. Across the lake, Hogwarts rose into the sky in front of the sunset, the beauty eclipsing that of any of the pictures. 

When the arrived across the lake, they were shuffled from the boats into a large line, where they followed a tall elderly lady, who introduced herself as Professor McGonagall into the castle and through a hall of moving staircases until they eventually came out onto a grand staircase. As she reached the top of the stairs, she stopped and turned back towards them. 

“Children!” She called, the dull conversations silenced, “Now it is time for your sorting. Once we enter the hall, the process will begin. You will wait at the entrance of the hall until the sorting hat calls your name. When it calls your name you will walk to the front of the hall and put it on your head at which point it will decide your House. Then you will remove the hat from your shoulders and join your new housemates at their table.” Professor McGonagall’s shrill voice radiated through the hall with such clarity, that even Harry’s group towards the back, heard it all perfectly.

Soon, they entered the hall and watched as members of their year got sorted into each of the houses. Harry took note of the students sorted into Slytherin, with their green robes and decided they were not of a sort that he would appreciate. 

Susan was one of the first to be called, and Harry wished her luck as she made the trek across the great hall to the sorting hat. The hat stalled for half a minute, before finally announcing, “Ravenclaw!”

Susan’s face, which had been riddled with anxiety, turned to shock, and then quickly a smile as her new house cheered.

Cho, was soon after her. It only took a moment for the hat to return the same verdict as Susan. 

Harry and Hermione waited for her name to be called, and when it was he wished her good luck as well. When Hermione placed the sorting hat on her head, Harry was surprised to find the hat did not say anything. A half minute passed, then a minute, then two. Soon, the closest table to Harry, Hufflepuff started talking about how “long of a stall it was” at the Gryffindor table they started placing bets, mostly facilitated by two extremely similar looking ginger boys.

It took seven whole minutes for the sorting hat to decide, finally announcing, “Ravenclaw!” The hall erupted in cheers, Cho and Susan cheering the loudest amongst them.

Harry felt a pit in his stomach realizing what it meant, if he were not placed into Ravenclaw, then he would be alone, and he did not fancy losing the only chance at friends he ever had.

As soon as the sorting hat called, “Harry Potter!” the great hall fell deathly silent. Every head in the hall turned to watch him walk to the sorting hat. Slowly approaching the stool and placing it on his head, he felt his palms drench in sweat as the whole school watched him intently. 

“Hmm Potter, Slytherin or Gryffindor could work…” Harry heard the sorting hat as though it were an intrusive thought, coming from his mind rather than his ears.
Begging in his mind “Not Slytherin, Not Slytherin!”, he heard back “Ambitious, cunning, resourceful, all traits of a Slytherin, yet you are brave as well.”

Focusing on his friends in Ravenclaw, he chanted the house over and over again in his head, “Ravenclaw, hmmm. Perhaps, your mother would have made a good Ravenclaw. Although your loyalty to your new friends may be better suited for Hufflepuff.”
Four and a half minutes later, the Sorting Hat finally settled.

“Ravenclaw!”

The Hall erupted, and Harry felt relief flood him, he would not be alone.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall erupted in a tide of cheers, gasps, and startled murmurs. At the Ravenclaw table, Cho, Hermione, and Susan were practically glowing with excitement, though the older students exchanged wary glances, as if unsure what to make of the unexpected addition. None looked more shocked, however, than the Gryffindor table, where Harry had half expected to sit, certain that he would be welcomed into their house.

It was strange, almost disorienting, to feel like a prize, a symbol to be claimed, a token elevating one house above the others. As he crossed the hall, the gray folds of his robes shifted magically to blue, and he took his place at the end of the Ravenclaw table, where a group of friendly faces awaited him.

The hall still buzzed with hushed conversation as the next student was called, a boy named Dean Thomas, who nearly leapt off the stool in relief as the Sorting Hat shouted Gryffindor!

When the last hat had been removed, a hush fell over the crowd. At the front of the hall, a tall, elderly wizard rose, robes rustling softly, and Harry recognized him as Dumbledore. The twinkle in the headmaster’s eyes danced across the sea of new faces. With a graceful sweep of his arms, he began, “Welcome, welcome, to another year at Hogwarts!” His voice carried easily over the hall. “Before we fall upon the feast, a few trifles of business must be attended to. First, the Forbidden Forest remains, as ever, strictly forbidden. Second, our caretaker, Mr. Filch insists I remind you that his list of contraband is ever expanding, though I strongly advise you not to tempt him by adding to it. And lastly, this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is closed to all students who do not wish to meet a most, shall we say, uncomfortable demise.”

He paused, eyes twinkling with mischief, and with a single clap, plates overflowing with steaming food appeared before every student. “Tuck in!” he commanded.

The hall erupted again, this time in awe and hunger. Harry’s gaze darted over the table, golden roast potatoes, thick slabs of meat, glistening puddles of gravy, baskets of bread. He piled his plate high, more food than he could have eaten in a week at the Dursleys’.

Across the table, Hermione leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. “I read that Dumbledore signals the house elves to deliver the food all at once, just to impress the first-years,” she whispered conspiratorially.

Susan, nodding toward Harry as he loaded his fork for the fifth time, added, “Well, he most certainly impressed Harry.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed as he dug into the steak and potatoes, delicacies he had never been allowed at home.

“Truly, Harry,” Cho teased, a faint smile tugging at her lips, “you’d think you hadn’t seen food in a year.”

Harry paused to swallow, a bite of potato sliding down his throat before he muttered bitterly, “After I went to Diagon Alley and came back with books, bags, and trinkets of all sorts, they demanded to know how I paid for it. When I told them about my vault… Well, they decided I could buy my own meals from then on.”

Hermione’s face darkened, brows knitting. “How dare they!” she exclaimed, voice sharp.

Susan held a hand up, softening Hermione’s outrage. “That’s awful, but… with the amount of galleons you spent on the train, couldn’t you have fed yourself for weeks?” Her tone rose slightly at the end, as if the question could not help but be both incredulous and amused.

Harry paused, finishing chewing before replying, “I didn’t think Tesco would accept galleons…”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror, her face flushed with indignation. “They let you starve?!” she nearly shouted, her voice teetering on the edge of storming out of the hall to give the Dursleys a piece of her mind.

Harry held up a hand, trying to calm her. “Only for the long weekend,” he said gently.

“That long weekend was five days!” Hermione’s exasperation boiled over, her fists clenched on the table.

Even Susan fell silent, mouth slightly agape, while Harry merely shrugged and returned to his plate, carving another piece of steak. Around them, the rest of the hall settled into a steady rhythm, the clatter of cutlery and low hum of conversation filling the space. Introductions to fellow students trickled naturally, with Harry’s new friends quietly observing the others being sorted into Ravenclaw.

Besides Harry, there was only one other boy assigned to their house, Michael Corner. Dark-haired and wiry, Michael moved with a restless energy, already leaning toward conversation with Padma Patil, a quiet Indian witch whose twin had been placed in Gryffindor. Padma’s replies were measured and minimal, offering only what was asked of her, while Michael seemed determined to draw her out. Across from them, Mandy Brocklehurst and Lisa Turpin, inseparable childhood friends, shared whispered jokes and subtle glances, clearly content in each other’s company rather than the broader group.

Harry watched them quietly, the buzz of chatter around his small table fading into the background. Finally, he whispered, “The Sorting Hat… it wanted to put me in Gryffindor. Actually, it suggested every house but Ravenclaw.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise. “Me too!” she said almost breathlessly.

“Hufflepuff,” Susan said softly, as if testing the statement on the table.

They all turned toward Cho, who merely shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Ravenclaw,” she said lightly, as though it was perfectly obvious.

Harry chewed on the idea, brow furrowed. “What if we’re meant to be somewhere else?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Hermione replied immediately, glancing at Susan for confirmation.

“The houses aren’t really that important,” Susan added after a pause, her tone calm and measured. “In practice, they just sort students into groups of like-minded people, to help them succeed and make friends.” She smiled, softening the edge of her words. “I’d say you’ve already done that.”

By now, the plates were cleared, and the Prefects from each house rose gracefully, their robes swishing softly as they signaled the first-years to follow. A fifth-year girl with sharp, observant eyes approached Harry’s table. “First-years, follow me,” she said briskly, voice confident and warm. Her name was Penelope Clearwater.

Harry trailed behind, watching as Prefects from the other tables led their students down winding corridors. The stone walls echoed their footsteps, flickering torchlight dancing along the ancient surfaces. Staircases twisted and turned, guiding them gradually toward the west side of the castle, the weight of Hogwarts’ centuries pressing softly against his senses.

At last, they reached a wide, spiraling staircase that coiled upward like a twisting ribbon of stone. The walls, rough-hewn and cool under Harry’s fingertips, were lined with flickering torches, their flames casting a warm, wavering glow that danced along the carved bannisters and worn steps. The group began their ascent, the air growing crisper with each step, carrying the faint scent of dust and old stone.

After what felt like a minute of climbing, they arrived at a simple wooden door, smooth and unadorned, bereft of a handle. Centered on its surface was a bronze knocker, shaped like an eagle, its talons gripping the wood with uncanny realism.

“Ravenclaw is different from the other houses,” Penelope explained, her voice echoing softly in the narrow stairwell. “We do not use a password to enter. Instead, you will knock on the door, and the eagle will pose you a riddle. Only a correct answer will allow you inside.”

Harry raised his hand hesitantly, speaking only after Penelope nodded toward him. “What if we don’t get the answer?”

He expected snickers or laughter from the others, but there was only a quiet murmur. Michael and Susan even looked relieved that someone had asked the question aloud.

“It’ll happen to everyone eventually,” Penelope said gently. “If you fail, you just wait until another Ravenclaw arrives and enter with them.”

Relief washed over Harry, and he let out a quiet sigh. Penelope, suppressing a small chuckle, rapped lightly on the door.

The eagle’s beak creaked open, its voice ancient and gravelly, like the groan of a long-forgotten door hinge. “I speak without a mouth, and hear without ears. I have nobody, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”

The first-years exchanged glances. Hermione’s hand shot up almost immediately. Penelope nodded, and Hermione’s voice rang clear and confident: “An echo.”

“Your mind serves you well. You may enter,” the eagle intoned. The latch clicked, the door swung inward, and the students stepped into the Ravenclaw common room.

The space was vast, circular, and breathtaking. Tall arched windows stretched skyward, offering an unobstructed view of the distant mountains, dark against the evening sky. Above them, the domed ceiling shimmered like a miniature galaxy, stars twinkling in endless motion. Books filled every corner, some neatly lined in towering shelves, others stacked in leaning piles. Couches and armchairs, tables and ottomans, were scattered invitingly around the room. The faint, comforting scent of old parchment and ink filled Harry’s nose. Hermione’s eyes sparkled with wonder, and she let out a soft, awed gasp beside him.

Penelope guided them to the center of the room. “This is the Ravenclaw common room. You’ll spend much of your time here, so be grateful we’re not in the dungeons like Slytherin. Only Ravenclaws may enter. Does everyone understand?” All the first-years nodded.

“The bedchambers are tucked among the bookshelves and desks,” she continued. “Each year gets four rooms: two for boys and two for girls. You may organize yourselves as you wish, with a maximum of five students per room. Decide now.”

Harry and Michael exchanged a quick glance and came to an instant agreement, they would each take a room of their own. The lure of solitude, of having a space entirely to himself, was too tempting to resist.

The girls deliberated a little longer before settling the arrangements. Mandy, Lisa, and Padma would share one room, while Susan, Hermione, and Cho would occupy the other.

Satisfied, Penelope called, “Quibly!”

From the shadows of the room, a small, wrinkled figure emerged. Brown leathery skin stretched over a miniature frame. Almond shaped eyes gleamed beneath long, bat like ears, and a hooked, upturned nose twitched with curiosity. Long, nimble fingers and oversized feet peeked from beneath a simple pillowcase, the elf’s only garment. Harry’s eyes widened in recognition, he had read of house elves and seen pictures in his books, but never before in person.

“Hello, Ms. Clearwater,” Quibly greeted, his thin, quavering voice somehow both polite and mischievous.

“Hey, Quibly,” Penelope replied warmly.

“Small class of first-years, hmm? I take it these are your sleeping groups?” The house elf’s wide almond shaped eyes flicked between the students, taking in the uneven lines of nervous excitement and curiosity.

“You may presume so,” Penelope said, stepping back. She gestured to the group. “This is Quibly, the Ravenclaw house elf. If you have questions and cannot reach me or Andrew, simply call his name. But beware he may not respond immediately. He tends to finish his chapter before answering.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I think sometimes he doesn’t come until he’s finished the book.”

As they spoke, students from other years trickled into the common room, filling the space with murmurs and laughter. Some vanished behind bookcases, into desk drawers, or even under couch cushions. Harry watched, wide eyed, as Andrew Goldstein, another prefect, introduced himself, then strode over to the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw. With a slight tap, he disappeared into the stone scroll she held, leaving the first years blinking in astonishment.

“The prefects’ quarters are rather… less subtle,” Penelope remarked with a faint chuckle.

“Where is yours?” Susan asked, peering around the room.

Before Penelope could answer, Quibly popped up again, small hands clasped behind his back. Relief softened Penelope’s face.

“Well, first years, it appears your rooms are ready. You’ll keep the same rooms for your entire time at Hogwarts, so feel free to personalize them,” she said, her tone encouraging.

“I have removed the extra beds and placed all of your belongings from the train neatly at the ends of the remaining beds,” Quibly added, his voice almost a whisper.

With surprising speed, Quibly guided Mandy, Lisa, and Padma to a slanted bookshelf. “Climb carefully,” he instructed, pointing to a precariously balanced stack of tomes. Atop the shelf rested a massive encyclopedia, opened to page 2,347. Harry watched, astonished, as Padma slipped into the pages, followed swiftly by Mandy and then Lisa, their figures vanishing into the text as though it were water.

“We’ll meet in the common room before breakfast?” Hermione asked quietly, and Harry nodded, still stunned.

Next, Quibly led the remaining girls to a fireplace across the room. Behind a neat stack of firewood was a bronze filing cabinet. One by one, Susan, Cho, and Hermione disappeared into the cabinet, swallowed by the plain manilla folders.

Finally, Quibly turned to Harry. “Harry Potter?”

“That’s me,” he replied.

“Follow me,” Quibly said, leading him to a tall window near the fireplace. Built into the frame was a carved statue of a snake, its head as large as Harry’s chest.

“Tell it you wish to enter,” Quibly instructed.

“I wish to enter,” Harry said.

The snake’s eyes glinted, and it hissed sharply. Its mouth opened, revealing a ladder in place of a tongue. Harry climbed, too fascinated to notice the curious gazes of his Ravenclaw peers. The ladder twisted upward for what felt like two stories in pitch darkness before his head bumped a trapdoor. Pushing it open, he emerged into a vast, airy room.

Though only a quarter the size of the common room, it felt expansive. The walls were a continuous painting of open skies and distant mountains; reaching through, Harry’s hand passed into actual space. Stepping fully through, he realized he was exactly where the painting depicted, the top of Ravenclaw tower.

The bed dominated the center of the room, larger than any he had ever seen, raised high above the floor so he had to leap to climb in. His single trunk looked impossibly small beside the vast bedframe. Hedwig stirred in her corner, and Harry quickly opened her cage.

“Can you fly out?” he asked.

Hedwig tilted her head curiously, touching the edge of the painting with her wing. Unlike Harry, she could not pass through.

“Weird,” he muttered.

After exploring every corner, Harry finally sank into the bed. It was the first real bed he had ever owned. Wide enough to stretch out completely, the mattress felt like a cloud folded into marshmallow, and the blankets were warm and comforting. He looked up, and the ceiling seemed to vanish, revealing a dark velvet sky twinkling with stars.

For the first time in his life, Harry Potter did not wish for anything.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to a thin spill of gold threading across his pillow. For a long, drowsy moment he lay still, savoring the strangeness of it, the hush of his own room, the comfort of a bed softer than anything the Dursleys had grudgingly given him. It was so pleasant he half feared he would blink and find himself back in the cupboard beneath the stairs. But when he sat up, the dream did not break.

The trapdoor was exactly where he remembered it. Pulling it open, Harry climbed carefully down the ladder, emerging through the serpent’s mouth into the Ravenclaw common room.

The bronze snake had shifted in the night. Now it coiled itself lazily about Rowena Ravenclaw’s statue, its tail draped across her shoulders with its head resting along her arm as if it were reading the scroll she held. Harry paused, staring in quiet confusion and wonder before he stepped out.

He seemed to be the first one awake. His bag was already packed with his textbooks, and he carried it to a couch by the fire, determined to catch up to Hermione. Settling in, he pulled out Hogwarts: A History and let the warmth of the flames and the rustle of turning pages fill the silence.

A faint creak drew his attention. Across the room, a girl slipped out of an open desk drawer. Without a word, she crossed to a reserved tome, clutching it like treasure before settling into a desk to take notes.

Gradually, the common room began to stir. Students appeared one by one, but the quiet never broke. From midnight until half past six, Harry learned, the Ravenclaw common room was not for conversation but for quills scratching, parchment rustling, and the soft thud of books closing. Those who wanted noise or food streamed out in groups toward breakfast. Harry, being a first year, remained behind.

Harry turned, hearing a sound that was far less graceful. Hermione tumbled out of a filing cabinet, her face sickly pale. She lurched to the woodpile, clutching it as she retched. A moment later Susan and Cho followed, both hollow-eyed and heavy-limbed, their gazes flickering with sympathy to Hermione’s misery.

Harry abandoned his book and hurried over. “Are you alright?” he asked, steadying her elbow.

“No,” Hermione groaned, leaning hard on his shoulder. “Why couldn’t they just use stairs?”

He guided her back to the couch, letting her collapse across it while he leaned against an arm at the end. Susan and Cho dropped into nearby chairs with a weight, as though their bags were filled with bricks instead of books.

“What happened to you lot?” Harry asked, incredulous.

Susan spoke first, her voice pitched with the same false innocence Harry remembered from his own excuses to teachers. “We… lost track of time.”

They all looked dreadful with dark rings beneath their eyes, shoulders slumped. Hermione, for her part, did not bother to sit up or open her eyes even after her nausea passed.

“Did you get any sleep at all?” Harry asked.

“A few hours at most,” Cho admitted.

“Why?!” Harry blurted.

“None of us were tired,” Susan mumbled. “We got talking and suddenly… It was morning.”

Harry shook his head, though he couldn’t help a small smile. “Well, at least you made it in time for breakfast.”

The room was filling now. He even spotted Penelope emerging from the folds of Rowena’s bronze skirt, while Andrew clambered out from the scroll itself, yawning.

Harry leaned forward eagerly. “What’s your room like?”

Susan smirked. “Trying to sneak into ours already?”

Harry’s cheeks flamed. “No—I didn’t mean—well, I just—gah—”

She laughed, waving it off. “Relax, Harry. It’s lovely. We’ve got a big window that looks straight out over the lake.”

Harry hesitated. That didn’t sound like his room at all. “How big is it?” he asked.

Susan pointed around the common room, marking boundaries with couches and book piles. The space she indicated was maybe a fifth of the size of his chamber.

“Perhaps yours is smaller,” she suggested, seeing his puzzled look. “Since you’ve only one bed.”

“That’s just it,” Harry said slowly. “Mine’s… much larger.”

Susan’s giggle broke the hush, earning a swat from Cho.
“How big is it?” Cho asked, though her own lips twitched as Susan dissolved into tired laughter again.

Harry, baffled by the joke, pressed on. “I think it might be the room directly above the common room…”

“What do you mean?” Cho asked, tilting her head. Even Hermione managed to sit up, still pale but attentive.

“Well,” Harry began, searching for words, “the room feels about the size of this ceiling. And I can see all around, like I’m standing inside an entire floor of the tower.”

Hermione leaned forward, her fatigue momentarily forgotten. “Harry, is it a false painting?”

“Yes!” Harry’s face lit. “How did you know?”

Without hesitation, Hermione snatched Hogwarts: A History from his lap and rifled through the pages with trembling fingers. At last she jabbed at a passage in the Ravenclaw chapter and read aloud, voice quick and bright with triumph:

“It is rumoured that, soon after the founding, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin engaged in a secret affair. Their dalliances were said to take place in a chamber hidden at the very top of Ravenclaw Tower. A union of their magic crafted the space, Ravenclaw’s false painting concealing the entrance, admitting only the room’s rightful owner through the roof.”

Hermione lowered the book, her eyes wide.

Harry gaped at her. “Quibly gave me… the secret affair room?”

“Harry!” Hermione burst out, her exhaustion evaporating under the thrill of discovery. “That room was only a rumour until now!”

Susan leaned across the couch, voice rising in excitement. “You have to let us see it!”

“Who’s trying to sneak into whose room now?” Cho teased, smirking.

Before Harry could stammer a reply, a voice cut through the cluster of students.

“Time for breakfast, first years.”

Andrew Goldstein, the prefect who hadn’t escorted them the night before, stood nearby, his expression cool. With weary groans, the girls pushed themselves upright and joined the line as Andrew moved briskly around the common room, collecting the other new Ravenclaws.

Harry trailed near the back. To his surprise, Andrew slowed his pace until he was walking at Harry’s side, closer than necessary, close enough to make Harry uneasy, yet he said nothing.

The silence stretched until Harry blurted, awkward and worried, “Did I do something wrong?”

Andrew shifted a fraction farther away but replied quietly, “You did not move into the room we expected.”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry? I only went where Quibly showed me.”

Andrew’s mouth pressed into a line. He said nothing more, striding ahead until he rejoined the front of the line.

“That was weird,” Harry muttered to Hermione. She only groaned, rubbing her temples.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, Andrew had left them without a word, drifting toward the upper end of the Ravenclaw table near Penelope. The new students were left to choose their own seats. Still, Harry felt dozens of eyes following him as he sat down with Hermione, Susan, and Cho. Ravenclaws up and down the table gave him sidelong glances, quick and measuring.

Harry turned his attention to the breakfast spread, platters of eggs, bacon, porridge, fruit, and warm rolls. He forced himself to eat, ignoring the flickers of curiosity around him. Eventually, as older students trickled out, and the glances grew sparse.

Hermione ordered a black coffee with a weary mutter; the cup appeared instantly, steam curling into the air as she wrapped both hands around it. She sipped it in silence, her expression still pinched. Susan and Cho stirred awake more slowly, fighting through their lingering exhaustion. None of them had much to say, and breakfast remained a hushed affair.

Until the bell rang.

Every window in the hall vanished at once, replaced by a flood of flapping wings and swooping feathers. Hundreds of owls poured in, blotting the light with their swirling bodies. Brown, grey, snowy, and speckled, all bore letters, parcels, and newspapers clutched in talons.

Harry craned his neck, wonder written plain on his face. Then he spotted her.

Hedwig.

She arrowed through the air like a white comet, then swooped low, gliding to a graceful halt right before him. In her talons was a letter, sealed with red wax.

“Good girl,” Harry murmured, stroking her outstretched wing before carefully untying the letter. His grin spread as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

Dear Harry, I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three? I want to hear all about your first week. Send an answer back with Hedwig.

• Hagrid

Harry’s heart leapt.

“Who’s it from?” Hermione asked, her eyes flicking to the parchment, her being the only one at their table who hadn’t received an owl.

“Hagrid,” Harry replied, grinning so wide his face ached. “He’s invited me to tea on Friday!”

“That’s wonderful!” Hermione exclaimed, her tiredness dissolving beneath the lift of black coffee. “You must go.”

Harry’s grin only widened. “You should come too!”

Hermione’s smile softened. “Next time. For now, he invited you alone.”

Harry nodded, understanding but still glowing with excitement. He reached for a sheet of parchment that had appeared in the center of the table and quickly scribbled a reply, thanking Hagrid and promising to be there. Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately as he tied the note to her leg. With a powerful beat of her wings, she joined the swirling parade of owls streaming out through the enchanted windows.

Once the owl post ended, benches scraped against stone and the remaining students rose. Penelope was waiting to gather the first-years.

“How did everyone find their rooms?” she asked as she led them out of the hall.

A chorus of cheerful responses followed. Harry answered firmly, “Excellent.”

Penelope’s eyes flicked to him, measuring his tone before nodding. “Good. Now, have you all got your schedules?”

A ripple of confusion spread through the group as students checked bags and robes. No one had anything.

Penelope sighed. “Damn Andrew. That was literally the only thing he had to do.” Stopping the group, she turned back to face them with exasperated authority. “My useless partner prefect was supposed to make sure you collected your timetables before breakfast. Fortunately, your year is small enough they decided not to split you, all of your schedules are identical. First, you’ve got Charms. Double period. Either Andrew or I will be around to collect you for lunch.”

The group resumed moving, shoes tapping across the flagstones. Hermione had already pulled a scrap of parchment from her bag and was scribbling down their schedule at a furious pace.

“What’s after lunch?” she demanded, hand shooting into the air as though she were already in class.

Penelope chuckled. “Transfiguration, I think… but don’t quote me.”

Hermione wrote it down instantly, quill scratching furiously. She opened her mouth for another question, but Penelope smiled and cut her off gently as they stopped outside a classroom door. “You wouldn’t want to be late for your very first lesson.”

Hermione flushed and snapped her parchment shut as the first-years hurried inside.

At the front of the room stood Professor Flitwick, standing atop a precarious stack of books so that his head cleared the desk. Small, sharp-eyed, and sprightly, he commanded the room the moment he spoke, “Hello, students.”

The chatter died at once.

“I am Professor Filius Flitwick,” he announced with a proud flourish, “your Charms professor, and head of Ravenclaw House.” The latter title received a small cheer from the Ravenclaws.

He began calling roll, his high voice ringing out. When he reached, “Harry Potter?” it squeaked with unmistakable excitement. Heads turned toward Harry, who flushed under the weight of renewed stares.

To Harry’s disappointment, the first half of the double period wasn’t wandwork at all. Flitwick lectured briskly about course expectations, spellcasting safety, and the theory of magical intent. When they did turn to the actual subject of charms, it was still theory, principles of wand movement, the importance of concentration, and a dense list of terms Harry barely managed to keep up with.

He did his best, jotting hurried notes and answering when he could, but he always felt a step behind Hermione. Her parchment filled with neat, orderly lines, and she raised her hand so often Harry wondered if she’d ever tire of it.

When class finally ended, Andrew was waiting in the corridor, looking distinctly sheepish. He muttered an apology, handed out timetables at last, and led them toward the Great Hall for lunch.

The meal was much like breakfast with platters and pitchers appearing at the tables as students settled in but by now the girls seemed revived, their earlier exhaustion replaced with a dull eagerness.

“We should do the reading together,” Hermione suggested, already mentally dividing the workload. “That way, if questions come up, we can help each other.”

“Perhaps before dinner?” Cho offered. “That way we’ll still have time afterward in case Professor McGonagall gives us Transfiguration homework.”

Harry groaned dramatically, slumping against the bench. “No homework talk at lunch! Please?” He widened his eyes in mock desperation, trying his best impression of a pleading puppy.

Susan giggled, covering her mouth.

Cho burst out laughing, but Hermione narrowed her eyes, clearly gathering herself for a lecture. Before she could launch into it, Harry scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and flicked it across the table.

The lump hit Hermione squarely in the forehead with a wet splop, then slid in a gross trail down her nose and onto her lap.

Susan and Cho both clapped hands to their mouths to stifle shrieks of laughter as Harry offered Hermione a sheepish grin.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice rang across the table, sharp and affronted. For a dreadful moment Harry thought she might burst into tears, until she suddenly snatched up the rest of his mashed potatoes with her bare hand and hurled them back at him.

The mush exploded against his chest, spattering his robes… and Cho’s sleeve as well.

Harry froze, blinking down at the mess now dripping from his front. Then he looked up at Hermione, only to find her wearing a sheepish grin of her own.

That broke Susan completely. She doubled over, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

Cho, however, leapt to her feet, holding her potato-streaked robes away from her body. “Stop! Both of you!”

Neither Harry nor Hermione moved, though their eyes darted to the plates and bowls still heavy with ammunition.

“We will not speak of homework at lunch,” Cho declared, her voice full of stern authority, “so long as you agree to do it with us later.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a wary glance, then nodded together. Truce.

“Do I have no say in this?” Susan wheezed between giggles.

“No!” Harry and Hermione chorused, before both dissolved into helpless laughter of their own.

The rest of the meal was far more civil. Their conversation circled around schedules and classes, with Hermione and Cho dancing gingerly around the subject of homework, careful not to break their freshly forged pact.

After lunch, Penelope returned to shepherd the first-years to Transfiguration.

The classroom was empty of a professor when they arrived, and chatter filled the air as students crowded into seats. Then, with a soft thud, the doors swung shut behind the last of them.

From the back of the room, an orange tabby cat padded forward, its tail flicking as it made its way to the desk.

Students murmured, some pointing, some falling abruptly quiet.

Without warning, the cat leapt into the air, while mid-jump twisting, stretching, reshaping. It landed on the desk not as a cat, but as a stern, sharp-eyed witch in emerald robes and a pointed cap. Professor McGonagall.

The room fell into instant silence.

“Transfiguration,” McGonagall said, her voice crisp and commanding, “is the branch of magic that changes something into what it is not.”

She pointed her wand at the desk. With a muttered incantation Harry couldn’t catch, the desk shivered, reshaped, until a pig stood in its place, snuffling and squealing in bewilderment.

“With it,” she continued coolly, “I can give life.”

The pig bolted across the platform, hooves clattering, students gasping in amazement. Then McGonagall flicked her wand again, and in an instant the pig was gone. The desk sat where it had always been, solid and unmoving, as though the animal had never existed at all.

“And I can take it away.”

The room erupted in cheers and applause, a tide of awe and delight.

McGonagall raised her voice above the din. “Transfiguration is among the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will study at Hogwarts. Anyone foolish enough to treat this class as a joke will leave and not return.”

The applause cut off at once. Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

McGonagall nodded, satisfied. “There are, of course, limitations. The first is Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration: you cannot conjure something from nothing, nor alter the true essence of an object beyond certain limits. While I gave that desk the form and life of a pig, it remained, in its essence, a desk.”

Harry watched quietly, taking in every word as McGonagall spoke, letting the lesson settle around him while the rest of the room murmured softly.

Chapter Text

Towards the end of McGonagall’s first class, she closed her lecture notes with a sharp snap that echoed through the hall. Her keen eyes swept over the rows of students, and her voice cut through their chatter with crisp authority.

“I do believe it is time you tried it for yourselves.”

A ripple of nervous whispers stirred the room.

Without warning, McGonagall flicked her wand, and a small box of matches leapt from her desk. The lid popped open midair, and the contents scattered like startled birds. With a deft sweep, she directed them, each matchstick gliding gracefully to hover in front of every student.

“You will attempt to turn these matchsticks into needles,” she instructed. One match remained suspended before her. With a deliberate, precise wave, she murmured, “Acusmutatio.”

The wood shimmered, sharpened, and gleamed silver, its form slender and precise. McGonagall plucked the needle from the air and held it between two fingers for all to see.

“Begin.”

At once the room filled with a jumble of voices, eager incantations overlapping like a chorus of misplaced notes. Wands slashed and twitched clumsily in the air.

Harry hesitated, watching. As far as he could tell, no one’s matchstick had changed in the slightest. The stubborn bits of wood sat stubbornly as wood.

He raised his wand, trying to imitate McGonagall’s smooth, measured motion, and said carefully, “Acusmutatio.”

Nothing.

Suppressing a groan, he glanced around. No one else had succeeded either, though some looked more confident in their failures than others. Relief washed through him. At least he wasn’t alone. And McGonagall, watching from the front, seemed entirely unsurprised. Harry guessed that few, if any, managed such magic on their very first attempt.

He tried again, adjusting the flick of his wrist, altering the tone of his voice, over and over, to no avail.

Then, beside him, a small squeal burst out. Hermione’s eyes were wide, her face alight. Her matchstick gleamed at the tip, the wood paling into a faint, silvery sheen.

Susan Bones and Cho Chang leaned in, their awe plain.

“How did you do that?!” Harry blurted.

Hermione barely seemed to hear him. Her brow furrowed, she muttered the incantation again, her wand sweeping in a precise, deliberate shape. This time the matchstick flashed bright, and in an instant the wood was gone, replaced by a perfect silver needle.

She squealed again, unable to contain herself.

McGonagall was suddenly at their side, her expression softened by the faintest smile of surprise. “Congratulations, Miss Granger. You are the first of your year to achieve a successful transfiguration. Ten points to Ravenclaw.”

Hermione beamed, her face flushed with pride, while the rest of the class redoubled their efforts with renewed determination.

Now finally turning back to Harry, Hermione leaned close, her voice brisk but encouraging. “You need to see it happening. Focus your mind on the matchstick. Imagine the magic reshaping it, visualize the needle clearly. And your wand, you’re twirling too much. It’s a rounded triangle, not a circle.”

Harry nodded, taking in her words. He set the matchstick squarely before him and closed his eyes. In his mind, he pictured it changing, wood smoothing into metal, grain fading to gleam, the tip narrowing to a sharp point.

He opened his eyes, fixed the image at the forefront of his thoughts, and raised his wand. “Acusmutatio!”

His wand traced a rounded, upside-down triangle in the air. The matchstick flickered and then gleamed, slender and perfect.

Harry stared. It had worked.

Beside him, Hermione clapped in delight. Her excitement carried across the room, drawing McGonagall’s attention once more.

“Another successful transfiguration for Ravenclaw,” the professor announced, her tone as brisk as ever, though her eyes glinted with approval. “Five points.”

A few heads turned to Harry, though this time not out of curiosity at his name, but for what he had done. The attention warmed him in a way he found he rather liked.

Before long, the moment passed, and the class bent back to their work with renewed vigor. Hermione’s advice seemed to ripple outward; Susan and Cho soon managed their own needles, their faces bright with triumph.

And just before the bell rang, a boy at the Gryffindor bench, Dean Thomas, gave a whoop of joy, holding up a shining needle of his own.

Though Dean’s triumph had earned Gryffindor five points, the victory was swiftly undone. Seamus Finnigan, in his enthusiasm, managed not only to set his match alight but also to catch Neville Longbottom’s robe on fire. The disaster cost Gryffindor fifteen points, and Neville spent the remainder of class patting himself down while looking both mortified and singed.

To Harry’s surprise, given her reputation, Professor McGonagall set no homework for their first lesson, not even a bit of compulsory reading. From somewhere to his left, Harry swore he heard Hermione stifle a groan of dismay.

When the lesson ended, there was no prefect waiting to herd them away. Instead, McGonagall dismissed them with a reminder that while they were free to roam the grounds, the Forbidden Forest, and any other restricted places, were strictly off-limits.

The moment they were released, Susan seized Harry’s sleeve and practically dragged their little group through the corridors. “The club fair’s on in the Great Hall,” she said breathlessly, clearly determined not to waste a second.

Sure enough, the long tables and benches had been cleared away and replaced with rows of booths. Bright banners hung above them, charms causing the colors to shimmer and ripple. Though the fair had only just begun, a scattering of curious students was already drifting among the stalls.

Susan, unhesitating, led them straight across to the dueling club booth. A sign declared it was overseen by Professors Snape, Quirrell, and Flitwick, though only Quirrell himself sat hunched behind the table.

Hermione slowed her pace, muttering something about “perhaps next year,” while Cho trailed after Susan and Harry with measured steps.

“Hello, Professor Quirrell,” Susan said, her voice steady. “I’d like to sign up for the dueling club.”

“O–o–of c–c–cou–course,” Quirrell stammered, his pale hands fumbling to open a large ledger. He pushed it toward her, and Susan neatly signed her name at the top of a fresh page, adding her house and year.

Harry stepped forward next. Quirrell’s watery eyes darted up, and his expression brightened with sudden intensity. “Ha–ha–Harry P–Po–Potter,” he stuttered, extending a trembling hand. “H–how very, very l–lovely to m–meet you.”

Feeling awkward, Harry accepted the hand, the shake limp and uncertain, before taking the quill Susan passed him. He scrawled his name quickly, then handed the quill to Cho. As she bent to write, Harry noticed that neither she nor Susan had received nearly as warm a welcome as he had.

From there, they wandered to the Ravenclaw Quidditch table. The captain, a tall, broad-shouldered student, explained that tryouts would begin in October, but cautioned them not to get their hopes up, as first-years rarely made the team. Cho’s eyes shone anyway, though she nodded soberly.

Despite Hermione’s curiosity, they steered well clear of the Potions Club. Snape stood intimidatingly behind the booth, his presence enough to repel most passersby. Only a few Slytherins ventured within five paces, and even they looked uneasy.

The hall grew busier by the minute, voices bouncing beneath the enchanted ceiling. Then Harry spotted Hagrid entering through the main doors, towering over the crowd with something large and feathery cradled in his arms.

“Hagrid’s here!” Harry cried, darting off with the others on his heels.

By the time they reached him, a cluster of students had already gathered, stretching out eager hands to stroke the creature he carried. Its long tail swished dangerously, nearly bowling over a line of second-years who ducked just in time.

“Hagrid!” Harry called.

“Harry!” Hagrid boomed, his bearded face splitting into a grin. He turned too quickly, and the creature’s tail whipped a startled boy backward. “Still on for tea on Friday?”

“Yes!” Harry said eagerly. His eyes widened at the beast in Hagrid’s arms. “What’s that you’ve got?”

“This here’s Buckbeak,” Hagrid announced proudly. “A baby Hippogriff!”

Hermione, now catching up, gasped. “I’ve read about those!”

Harry remembered the name too, something like a griffin’s cousin, though when he’d read about them in a book, they hadn’t sounded half so impressive. Or half so dangerous.

“I didn’t know you were a professor,” Harry said curiously.

“Ah, well, tha’s ’cause I’m not,” Hagrid admitted, lowering his eyes with a sheepish smile. “But Dumbledore lets me run the Magical Creatures Club—lookin’ after ’em’s part o’ me duties anyhow.” His grin widened. “An’ this year’s the first time first-years are allowed to join!”

“We’d love to!” Harry said at once, ignoring Cho’s doubtful glance.

They signed their names quickly before stepping aside for the throng of students already pressing forward with quills in hand.

“I’ll see you Friday, Hagrid!” Harry called over the din as they left, his excitement still bubbling.

Hermione, unsurprisingly, signed up for a club dedicated to Muggle-born witches and wizards, and before long had corralled, well, practically dragged, the rest of them into enrolling in a logic and debate society jointly led by Professors McGonagall and Flitwick. To Harry’s dismay, she also announced that Professor Binns contributed, though Harry doubted the ghost’s idea of debate would be anything but sleep-inducing.

By the time they’d finished circling the fair, the shadows from the enchanted ceiling were stretching long. It was nearly half past four, and Cho and Hermione had quietly conspired to declare that the hour before dinner must, must, be devoted to finishing Flitwick’s reading. Remembering his deal struck at lunch with Hermione, Harry begrudgingly followed, while Susan groaned about not getting a vote.

They arrived at the bronze knocker of the Ravenclaw tower, for the first time, without an older student to usher them in. The tall, arched door gleamed faintly in the afternoon light, the eagle’s bronze head already watching them.

Susan, ever restless, stopped short. “Wait—let’s each try the riddle ourselves!”

Hermione frowned. “What if one of us can’t answer it?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed nervously. “Then what?”

Susan folded her arms with a smirk. “If the next person can’t get in either, someone from inside will come out eventually. We’re not going to be locked out forever.”

Hermione looked dubious, but after a pause, she conceded. “All right. But only if we don’t waste too much time.”

“Ladies first,” Harry said quickly, eager to delay his turn.

Cho stepped forward with a steady breath and knocked. The eagle’s bronze beak clicked, and its rasping voice filled the stairwell:

“Throw me out the window, you’ll leave a grieving wife,
but drop me in the middle of a door, and you might save a life. What am I?”

Harry’s mind went blank. Cho, however, barely hesitated. Her lips moved as though arranging letters on an invisible board before she declared, “The letter n.”

“Very good,” the eagle intoned. The door swung open, and Cho slipped inside.

Susan went next. She rapped the knocker confidently.

“I leave men’s lips but am no word,
I season food but am no herb;
Ascend the skies but am no star,
I make men weep but leave no scar. What am I?”

Susan sat on the step, chewing her lip. Nearly a minute passed before she glanced at a gentleman sporting a pipe painted on the far wall and suddenly beamed. “Smoke!”

“Well thought,” the eagle rasped, and Susan vanished into the common room.

Hermione hesitated only long enough to glance back at Harry. “You can go before me if you want…”

“I’m fine,” Harry lied, his voice tight.

Hermione gave him a look but turned to the knocker anyway.

“Tread on the living, they make not a mumble.
Tread on the dead, they mutter and grumble.”

“Leaves,” Hermione answered instantly. The eagle inclined its head, and she disappeared through the doorway.

Harry’s stomach dropped. Now it was his turn.

He stepped up, palms damp, and lifted the knocker. The eagle’s eyes gleamed.

“I walk before kings yet wear no crown,
I die each night but am never slain.
I hide the path that all must tread,
and yet, without me, no road is seen.
I bind tomorrow in a fleeting breath.
What am I?”

Harry blinked, already forgetting half the lines. He muttered under his breath: “Walk before kings… die each night but not slain… hide the path but no road is seen…”

The minutes dragged. His frustration mounted with every repetition. He imagined the others waiting inside, probably already sitting by the fire with their books while he stood here stewing like an idiot.

If the sun goes down, I’ll be stuck out here reading by moonlight…

The thought struck him like a jolt. He blurted, “The sun!”

The eagle’s head tilted. “A calm mind is the friend of reason,” it croaked, and the door clicked open.

Harry stumbled through into the common room, red-faced, only to find his three friends mid-argument.

“I’m telling you, it’s been too long,” Hermione insisted, half-rising from her chair. “We should go help him.”

“He’ll be fine!” Susan said with exaggerated patience.

Cho tried to interrupt, her eyes flicking toward the door. “Er—guys—”

“It’s been nearly ten minutes!” Hermione countered, throwing her hands up.

“Honestly, just give him—” Susan began, but Cho finally raised her voice.

“Hey! Guys!”

They both turned.

Harry stood in the doorway, cheeks burning. “Was it really ten minutes?”

Silence followed, awkward and heavy, until Susan broke it with a grin. “Well look at the brightside, at least we got out of reading. And it’s dinnertime!”

Chapter Text

The dungeon was cold and damp, the stone walls slick with condensation that caught the candlelight in a dull sheen. The air smelled faintly of mildew and something acrid—potions long since brewed and spilled. Rows of students sat hunched at their desks, the scrape of quills stilled as the roll call continued.

“Ernest Macmillan?” Snape’s voice carried across the room like a silken thread wound tight with disdain.

“Present!” the Hufflepuff answered brightly.

“Padma Patil?”

“Present.”

Snape let silence stretch, his black eyes sweeping the room until they fixed on Harry. The corner of his mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile.

“Harry Potter,” he said, spitting the name like venom.

“Present,” Harry replied, wary, uncertain why his very existence seemed to offend.

Snape’s gaze lingered, sharp and unblinking, even as he finished the list. With a swirl of his robes, he stalked to the front of the room. Harry bent to retrieve a quill from his bag, and the movement snapped Snape’s patience.

“Potter!” His voice cracked through the room like a whip. “Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry’s stomach clenched. Heat rose in his face as his mind scrambled for an answer. Beside him, Hermione’s hand shot into the air, trembling with urgency.

“Muffling Draught?” Harry blurted.

A curl of satisfaction touched Snape’s lip. “Incorrect. Five points from Ravenclaw.”

“What?” Harry stared at him, astonished. “That wasn’t in the reading—”

“Very well,” Snape cut him off, eyes glittering. “Try again. Where would you look to find a bezoar?”

The word tugged at Harry’s memory. He ransacked his mind—where had he seen it? Hermione was nearly out of her seat now, her hand still straining toward the ceiling. Then it clicked. He had read about it, briefly, in Hogwarts: A History.

“A goat,” Harry said, with more confidence.

“Incorrect.”

Hermione gasped, affronted. “But you do find them in goats—!”

Snape whirled, his robes snapping like a shadow given life. “Ten points from Ravenclaw for Miss Granger’s interruption, and five more for Mr. Potter’s ignorance.” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “In the stomach of a goat was the correct answer. Precision, Potter. In this class, a single slip can be fatal. I do not reward half-truths.”

Hermione shrank back into her seat, cheeks blazing. Harry’s jaw tightened. He knew the look, the tone, he had suffered bullies before. He had hoped Hogwarts would be different.

Snape’s gaze bored into him again. “One more chance, Potter. Tell me, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Finally, a question Harry recognized. Relief surged. “There is none. They’re the same plant.”

Snape’s smile was thin and cruel. “Incorrect. Again.”

Harry’s anger burst free. “No, I’m not! They are the same thing—you’re lying!”

His fury rippled through the room. The candles guttered, shadows twisting against the walls. Around him, the desks began to tremble, then lift an inch from the flagstones as if caught in an unseen wind. Gasps broke from the class, but Snape only stood, arms folded, eyes glittering with a predator’s satisfaction, as if he had been waiting for this storm to break.

Snape’s smirk only sharpened. “Just as incompetent as your father.”

Something inside Harry broke. The desks he had lifted with his fury suddenly hurled themselves at Snape.

“Protego!” Snape barked, his shield charm flaring with a pale shimmer. The heavy oak desks rebounded harmlessly, thundering against the flagstones. His wand snapped forward. “Incarcerous!”

Ropes sprang from thin air, snaking around Harry’s arms and legs, binding him tight. He toppled to the ground like a netted fish, the breath knocked from his chest.

“Fifty points from Ravenclaw for attacking a teacher,” Snape declared coolly. His face bore the same gleeful malice Harry had seen so often in Dudley’s whenever Harry was punished for something Dudley had started.

Snape sent Michael Corner scurrying to fetch a prefect, and before long Penelope Clearwater appeared, breathless and pale. Her eyes widened at the sight of Harry bound on the stones. She stammered apologies to Snape before levitating Harry with a flick of her wand, guiding him stiffly out of the dungeon.

As Harry was guided out the door, Snape called after him, “And five more points from Ravenclaw for Mr. Potter’s inadequacy.”

The moment he crossed the threshold into the corridor above, the fire inside him guttered. Anger drained, leaving only a hollow pit of shame. His mouth was still bound, so he said nothing. Penelope too was silent, her lips pressed thin as she floated him through the hushed, torchlit corridors of the castle.

They reached a great stone gargoyle, which leapt aside at her approach. The spiral staircase beyond was already revealed, waiting as though Dumbledore had known they were coming. Penelope guided Harry upward, her silence heavier than any scolding.

At the top, the office doors swung open.

Harry had never seen such a room. The air shimmered with a faint scent of parchment and something spiced, like cinnamon smoke. Towering bookshelves and gilded cabinets lined the walls, broken by the watchful faces of dozens of portraits, former headmasters and headmistresses who whispered and stirred in their frames. Every surface seemed alive with peculiar contraptions, delicate silver instruments ticked, whirred, or puffed tiny clouds of smoke. Atop a golden perch beside the great desk sat a phoenix, its scarlet and gold plumage glowing in the firelight. It regarded Harry with dark, knowing eyes.

Behind the vast claw-footed desk sat Professor Dumbledore. His half moon spectacles glinted as he looked up, the lamplight catching in his long silver beard.

“Thank you, Miss Clearwater. That will be all.” His voice was gentle, yet it carried with it the weight of absolute authority. With a flick of his fingers, the ropes binding Harry vanished.

Penelope bowed her head and retreated quickly, leaving Harry standing alone before the Headmaster.

Words burst out of him in a rush, tumbling over one another. “I don’t know what happened! I answered his questions—nothing was good enough—he kept twisting everything—”

“Harry.” Dumbledore rose and crossed the room, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. His touch was light, but steadying. “It is all right. Breathe.”

Harry’s chest hitched as dread coiled in his stomach. “Please don’t expel me…”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened, and the faintest smile touched his lips. “You are not going to be expelled, Mr. Potter.”

Relief washed over Harry, weak as a wave against the greater tide of shame.

“Though,” Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard, “I imagine your return to Ravenclaw Tower tonight may not be met with celebration.”

Harry blinked. “So… I’m not in trouble?”

Dumbledore moved back to his desk and lowered himself into the high-backed chair, steepling his fingers. “You must learn to master your emotions, Harry. You are too powerful a wizard to let them master you.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit.”

Harry obeyed, his legs stiff as though the ropes still held him.

“Your mother,” Dumbledore continued, his voice gentle but deliberate, “was the most brilliant witch of her age. Your father, gifted, especially in dueling and on the Quidditch pitch. I hope, in time, you will find a way to honor them both, not by force of anger, but by strength of character.”

Shame welled hot in Harry’s throat. He bowed his head, unable to meet those piercing blue eyes.

Dismissed at last, he shuffled from the office, his steps heavy. He did not return to Potions. By the time he reached the dungeon corridor again, he felt the simmer of anger rise in his blood, unbidden. The walls seemed to press closer, the stones whispering of Snape’s sneer. Heart thudding, he turned on his heel. Best not to tempt fate. Best not to linger in the dark.

Heeding Dumbledore’s words, Harry resolved not to return to the common room or anywhere he might chance an encounter with an angry older student. Instead, he wandered the castle’s corridors aimlessly, drifting from the shadowed dungeons upward through halls that twisted and stretched like a labyrinth. His steps echoed against cold stone, a hollow rhythm that seemed to mirror his thoughts.

Eventually, he found himself in a portion of the castle that felt abandoned, the walls bare, the corridors stretching long and empty. At the end of one hall, a tall, narrow window offered a sliver of pale light, and Harry began pacing before it, replaying the confrontation with Snape over and over in his mind.

He had arrived at Hogwarts hoping to leave behind the feelings of inadequacy that haunted him. When Hagrid first discovered him, magic had seemed like a path to mastery and purpose, a way to never feel powerless again. But Snape, Snape was Dudley amplified, weaponized. Harry had never felt his weaknesses displayed so starkly. With Dudley, he could at least claim intelligence, cleverness, a small superiority that made him feel alive. Here, in Snape’s cold gaze, even that comfort dissolved.

He would give anything to never feel so inadequate again. He needed power. He needed knowledge. He needed… something else. Something he couldn’t yet name, yet knew he hungered for.

As he circled the empty hallway for the fourth time, he stopped dead in his tracks. In the very center of the corridor, a doorway had appeared. A tall archway, simple in design, yet its sudden presence halted him mid-step. Heart pounding, he approached cautiously, he expected a lock or a secret secret, but the door swung open effortlessly.

Inside, the room revealed itself in stages, the left side resembled a dueling platform Harry had glimpsed in Diagon Alley posters, or in the portraits of famed wizard duels, complete with polished floors and protective barriers. But to the side of the platform, the space opened into a library unlike any he had ever seen. Shelves stretched higher than the eye could follow, packed with tomes that seemed older than Hogwarts itself.

Harry moved closer, scanning the spines. Advanced Defensive Magic. The Subtle Art of Non-Wand Channels. Shadow Magic and its Manipulations. Dominium Mentis: Mind-Binding Enchantments. Necromantic Principles for Advanced Warlocks. Oblivion: The Art of Erasure. And many more. Each book seemed stranger and more forbidden than the last.

Some of the magical disciplines he had only heard whispered as theory, almost mythical. Yet these tomes presented them plainly, with the authority of fact. Advanced defense and wandless magic were one thing—but shadow magic? Mind-binding? Necromancy and obliviating? He was almost certain these were illegal. And yet… here they were, in a secret room at Hogwarts, untouched, unquestioned. 

He hadn’t broken any rules. McGonagall had explicitly told them they were free to explore the castle except in explicitly disallowed areas. This was certainly not one of them.

Turning back to the doorway, Harry noticed it had vanished. In its place stood an old grandfather clock. It bore no hour markings except where twelve should be, replaced with the word Lunch. Only a minute hand and a second hand ticked, moving slower than any normal timepiece, as if the clock measured a time entirely its own.

Determined to make use of what might be his only opportunity in the room, Harry’s gaze roamed the shelves. Which tome was most worth his attention?

Almost immediately, a single book tumbled from its shelf, as if gently pushed from behind. The crash against the floor made him jump, but he bent quickly to retrieve it.

The Room of Requirement, he read aloud, tracing the gilded letters across the cover. Opening it, the first page shimmered slightly, and words formed as if aware of his eyes:

"Congratulations. You have discovered the Room of Requirement. You need only think of what you need, and the room will provide it for you. While you remain at Hogwarts, the Room shall appear only to you. Wherever on the castle grounds you require it, you must simply wish it, and it shall appear before you."

Harry blinked, heart skipping. “Wait… what?”

Deciding to test it, he imagined a pile of Galleons, stretching from the center of the dueling floor all the way to the vaulted ceiling. Within moments, the golden coins shimmered into existence, stacked impossibly high yet solid and real. His heart leapt, there was no other way to replicate Galleons magically, which was precisely what made wizarding currency so stable.

A sudden, imperceptible breeze stirred the pages of the tome beside him. They flipped themselves, as though reading along with him. The Room of Requirement, he read, borrowed its images. it could not create objects that defied magical law, nor could any items be removed from its walls.

Harry’s brief thrill deflated but only for a moment. He had to test the room further. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, imagining the dueling floor replaced by the dungeons, perfectly replaying the morning’s scene. All the students were there, Snape beginning his scathing roll call.

“Ernest Macmillan!” Snape barked.
“Present!” the boy replied, cheerfully.

Harry watched as the false scene unfolded exactly as it had before, his irritation simmering. Only now, the reenactment offered him a small measure of control, the false Harry answered in the stomach of a goat rather than just “a goat,” and then correctly solved the final question. Snape scowled, shamefully awarding the points but the real Harry was left feeling underwhelmed.

He smirked. Focusing again, he imagined a dozen snakes bursting forth from the floor, hissing and weaving around Snape, who cowered atop student desks while laughter echoed through the dungeons.

Curiously, Harry noticed that none of the students nor Snape himself acknowledged his presence. Stepping forward, he touched the shoulder of the false him. A strange sensation rippled through his own body: the pressure of his hand seemed mirrored, yet the apparition remained unaffected, frozen in its part of the illusion.

Cautious, he returned to the library, wishing the dueling platform back to its proper form. Once restored, he faced the shelves, muttering, “Uhh… what should I read first?” The words felt ridiculous even to him.

The books shimmered as if reacting to his indecision. A small, aged tome slid out from a corner shelf as though nudged by invisible hands. De Occlumencia, the cover read. Harry opened it carefully to the first chapter.

Occlumency: the magic of refining one’s mind…

He spent hours absorbed in the text. The tome detailed the importance of concentrated meditation, of training the mind as one would a muscle. By the end of the first chapter, Harry began imagining a fortress around his thoughts, a sacred place guarded against intrusion. The exercises were painstaking, requiring complete focus, but the benefits seemed extraordinary. 

A master of Occlumency gained total control over their mind. Faster learning, sharper focus, unbreakable defenses. And beyond defense, the book spoke of offense, the mastery of Legilimency, the ability to peer into the minds of those less skilled.

Harry could hardly believe such knowledge wasn’t taught at Hogwarts from the start. He was desperate to learn more.

Almost imperceptibly, the Room of Requirement tome’s pages flipped on their own to a blank sheet, which quickly filled with text.

"A Master of Legilimency only weakens their own power by sharing their knowledge."

Harry frowned, skeptical that Dumbledore truly would withhold the benefits for a power grab.

Suddenly, the grandfather clock rang, echoing through the chamber. Anxiety grabbed him, it was already lunch, his friends would be worried and he was still in the obscure wing of the castle. As if acknowledging him, the clock fell away, and the archway reappeared. Harry paused, muttering, “I will be back.” The room remained silent, patient, as though aware of his promise.

He stepped through the doorway but instead of the bland hallway he expected, he found himself in a main corridor of the castle, empty, though the distant sound of footsteps suggested students were just around the corner. As he moved forward, the doorway vanished behind him.

Moments later, Hermione, Susan, and Cho rounded the corner, whispering urgently to one another.

“Harry!” Hermione called, nearly running as she noticed him.
“Are you alright?” Cho asked.
“Did you get in trouble?” Susan added, all speaking at once.

“We’ll testif—” Hermione began.
Harry raised a hand, cutting her off. “I’m not in trouble with Dumbledore. Though… it may be a different story with our housemates…”

Hermione’s eyes lingered on him, sharp and questioning, but she said nothing. He was quickly drawn into a conversation about the incident, the others piling on sympathies for how he had been treated and their shared outrage at the cruelty of the “evil Professor Snape”, yet Harry’s mind was elsewhere, still focused on the room. 

A/N: If you like the story please consider joining the discord, it really means the world to me and comments and kudos are also greatly appreciated. We just reached 100 members on the discord server, thank you to everyone that joins!

Chapter Text

      During the first week, Harry spent nearly every free moment within the Room of Requirement. He had decided, at least for now, not to share its secret with anyone.

    At this early stage of his studies, he had little physical magic to be able to practice. Most of his time was spent reading beneath the soft golden glow of the room’s conjured lanterns. Occasionally, he would summon a likeness of Professor McGonagall or Flitwick to demonstrate a transfiguration technique or lecture on wand movement. Yet, despite the usefulness of watching their representations perform, he found he learned best through the quiet discipline of reading. 

His transfiguration had improved nonetheless, he had managed to turn a representation of a matchstick into a hairpin, far more easily than when he’d attempted the same spell outside the room. The success had even earned him five points in his next lesson with McGonagall, when he repeated it before the class on his first try.

The room, however, did little to improve his sense of time. It allowed him to flit through the castle’s corridors as if by magic, almost teleportation, really, which only made Hermione’s patience wear thinner. She would insist they hurry, and Harry, with infuriating calm, would tell her to go ahead without him. Moments later, he’d appear at class before her, bag slung over his shoulder, grinning like nothing was amiss. He had grown to rather enjoy her exasperation.

So it was again that morning. They had a free period after breakfast, and Harry broke from the girls under the pretense of taking a nap while they went to study in the common room.

As soon as they stepped out of the Great Hall, he feigned realization. “Oh, shoot—I forgot my bag.” He turned on his heel, waving them off. “I’ll see you up there.”

Hermione gave him a long, suspicious look but said nothing, while Susan and Cho continued chatting beside her, laughter trailing down the corridor.

Harry reentered the hall, retrieving the bag he’d deliberately left behind. Once free of watchful eyes, he slipped into a side corridor. 

“I need the Room of Requirement,” he murmured.

A door unfolded between two tall portraits, sliding neatly into the wall as if it had always been there. At first, Harry had worried the painting that lined every hall of the castle might cry out in alarm, but the room seemed to veil itself from notice. Their eyes never flickered his way as he stepped inside and vanished.

He remained within only a second, just long enough to will himself elsewhere. The next moment, he was standing before the winding staircase that led to the Ravenclaw common room.

He had once tried to summon the room directly to his dormitory, but it refused to appear on any outer wall. Still, he could hardly complain, his quarters were magnificent. Though it had taken him some time to stop thinking about their rumored origin as the secret meeting place of Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin’s first affair. Once he had, he’d learned to appreciate the comfort and quiet of his strange new sanctuary.

From above came the rhythmic sound of footsteps, the trio’s familiar cadence. He smiled and started up the steps, jogging lightly until he caught sight of them.

Hermione glanced back, arching an eyebrow but smiling despite herself. “Thought you’d already be in the common room,” she said.

“What do you mean? You had the head start.” His voice carried an innocent lilt that fooled no one.

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to the eagle-shaped knocker.

“The more you take, the more you leave behind,” it rasped in its metallic voice.

“Foots—” Hermione began.

“Footsteps!” Harry interrupted, the answer springing to his lips before he could stop himself.

“Correct,” croaked the eagle, and the bronze door swung inward.

Hermione turned to him, half impressed, half annoyed.

Harry offered a sheepish grin. Since beginning his Occlumency practice, the riddles had come more easily to him, flashes of clarity, as if the answers already waited somewhere in his mind. Hermione had noticed, and though she was pleased for him, she didn’t much like having her moment stolen.

“Sorry…” he said softly as they crossed the threshold.

She huffed but let it go, drifting off toward a table by the window. Harry crossed the common room toward the great marble statue at the far end, around whose ankles his snake was coiled, gleaming faintly in the morning light. As always, a few curious Ravenclaws looked up when he passed.

“I wish to enter,” Harry said quietly.

“Oh, that’s it!” Andrew’s voice cut sharply through the common room as he appeared beside Harry, eyes blazing.

Harry blinked, startled. “What?”

“You’re a Parselmouth!” Andrew hissed, his voice dropping into something low and venomous. “You don’t belong in this house.”

Harry frowned, thrown off balance. “What are you talking about?” He had read about Parselmouths before. They were the rare witches and wizards who could speak with serpents.

Before he could say more, Hermione crossed the room and planted herself firmly between them. “Leave him alone, Andrew.”

Andrew recoiled, but his scowl only deepened. “He belongs in Slytherin. With the other snakes.” The last word came out like a curse.

“Andrew!” Penelope’s voice rang through the air as she swept into the room. Her eyes locked in on the tense exchange immediately. “You are out of line.”

“I’m sick of pretending he belongs here,” Andrew spat, his cheeks flushed with anger.

Penelope didn’t hesitate. She crossed the space in three strides and slapped him hard across the face. The crack echoed through the common room. “Then take your complaints up with the Sorting Hat.”

For a heartbeat, Andrew’s hand twitched toward his wand. Cho and Susan moved at once, stepping close around Harry, forming a quiet barrier. The hesitation cost Andrew his chance and with one last furious look, he turned and fled the room, the portrait door slamming shut behind him.

The silence that followed felt heavy. Harry just stood there, bewildered. “Why does he think I’m a Parselmouth?” he asked finally, voice uncertain.

Penelope stared at him, shock written plainly across her face. “You mean—you don’t know?”

Hermione looked equally incredulous. “Harry…”

“What do you mean?” His confusion was giving way to frustration. “What are you talking about?”

Penelope opened her mouth, then closed it again, searching for words. Hermione stepped in instead, calm but firm. “When you speak to the snake to enter your room—do you speak normally?”

“Yes,” Harry said slowly.

Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Penelope before turning back to him. “Harry, when you talk to that snake, all we hear is hissing.”

“What?” he breathed.

“It’s true!” Cho said softly. “At first, we thought you were joking.”

“So…” Harry hesitated, his stomach tightening. “I am a Parselmouth?”

Penelope gave a reluctant nod. “Seems so.”

A pause lingered. The room felt colder somehow, the shadows in the corners lengthening.

“Am I in trouble?” he asked finally.

“Of course not,” Penelope said quickly, her voice gentler now. “But you might want to keep it to yourself. Parselmouths… aren’t remembered kindly.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Susan spoke hesitantly. “There hasn’t been one since…” She faltered, unsure how to say it. “Well—since you killed the last one.”

Harry’s lips parted. “Vold—” He stopped. The others’ grim nods finished the name for him.

A wave of shame washed over him, sudden and suffocating. His chest tightened. That he could be doing something so bound to the Dark Lord without even knowing felt like a betrayal of everything he was trying to become. Even his Occlumency couldn’t hold the storm of emotion pressing against his thoughts.

“I—need some air,” he muttered, voice tight.

He pushed past them, ignoring their calls, and slipped through the door of the common room. The corridor outside felt cool and hollow, his footsteps echoing as he took the stairs two at a time. He could hear someone following, Hermione most likely, but he didn’t look back. His heart thudded against his ribs.

By the time he reached the bottom of the tower, he was running. He didn’t know where. His robes billowed behind him as he tore down the west corridor, past old suits of armor and dusty portraits that turned their heads to watch.

He found an empty stretch of hallway that ended in a locked classroom door. Chest heaving, he closed his eyes. “I need the Room of Requirement.”

The wall shivered and there it was, the plain wooden door appearing out of thin air. He slipped inside, and it sealed shut behind him, cutting off the world.

It was quiet here. Always quiet.

“Do you have anything on Parselmouths?” he asked the room.

The question was half rhetorical, but the shelves responded at once. Books rustled, leapt from their places, and fell into a neat stack on the desk before him, their spines glinting in the lamplight.

“Which should I start with?” he murmured.

The topmost book shimmered faintly, as if answering. He took it, opened the cover, and began to read.

It didn’t take long to learn the truth. Parseltongue was no spell or enchantment, but an ability passed down through bloodlines. It could not be taught, only inherited. The name that surfaced most often was Salazar Slytherin, and those who claimed his descent.

Curious, Harry searched for any record of his own family’s connection to a house that had history of the unique ability. He found nothing. No mention of intermarriage, no hint of shared ancestry.

Still, there was some comfort to be found, beyond Britain, Parselmouths were not feared but treated as curiosities or assets and he was most comforted to find it was not dark magic, just had negative associations.

Harry closed the books, watching as they returned silently to their shelves, neat and obedient. For a moment, the quiet felt almost oppressive, the stillness pressing against his thoughts.

“What should I call you?” he asked, an intrusive thought slipping into his mind.

The Room of Requirement’s tome, his main point of communication, flipped open, the pages fluttering as though stirred by a gentle wind.

The Room of Requirement.

“Yes, yes, but that’s a mouthful,” Harry muttered. “Can’t I call you… Marie? Paul? I don’t know.”

The tome remained silent, its pages unmoving.

Harry groaned and rubbed his face, wishing there were a human form he could speak to directly.

“Hello, Harry.”

He spun around. The dueling grounds that had once occupied the space were gone. In their place, a cozy bedroom had formed, soft rugs and low light giving it an intimate warmth. Standing there was a woman.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, hand twitching toward his wand.

“I am the human representation of the Room of Requirement,” she said. “Requa.”

Relief flooded Harry’s chest. His sanctuary had not been violated. He lowered his wand, letting his gaze linger. She was striking—shorter than him, but with a presence that seemed older, wiser. Her hair glowed a warm ginger in the soft lamplight, and her dark brown eyes held an intensity that made him shift slightly on his feet. Her robes were modest, yet her form filled them in a way that made him acutely aware of her.

“Nice to meet you, Requa,” Harry said, stepping closer and offering his hand.

She took it with a gentle smile, her grip was warm, soft, and unmistakably real.

“Uhh…” Harry hesitated, unsure where to begin. “Are you… real?”

Requa giggled, a soft, melodic sound. “I am a human representation of the Room of Requirement. If I am not real, then where are you?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. “But… are you like an imaginary friend?”

“No,” she said simply. “I am what you need.”

“And what is that?” he asked, voice low.

“Whatever you want,” she said, her gaze locking onto his, steady and unflinching. A strange nervousness pooled in his stomach, forcing him to look down.

“Can you… explain the room to me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“What would you like to know?”

Harry shrugged, hands gesturing in confusion. “Are the representations in here… some kind of… I don’t know, voodoo doll thing?”

“The Room cannot affect anything outside of itself,” Requa said simply, her tone patient.

“So, if I have a representation of Snape, I could, what,slap him, and he wouldn’t know in the real world?”

“The Room is a tool for knowledge and need,” Requa explained. “What is represented here is the concept of Professor Snape, not Snape himself.”

Harry’s curiosity piqued. “Can you give me a representation of myself, then?” 

Across from him, an identical twin formed. Its expression was blank, eyes unblinking, posture stiff. Entirely different to when he summoned Flitwick, McGonagall or even the representation of the class in the dungeons.

“Is… he alive?” Harry asked, frowning.

“He is just a representation. He can be whatever you wish.”

Harry reached out, pressing a hand to the decoy’s chest. It toppled to the ground with no resistance, and a sharp jolt of pain shot down his back.

“Ow! Why do I feel that?” he exclaimed.

“You are within the Room’s grasp,” Requa said gently, helping the decoy to its feet. “You can wish for it not to represent you… though you may find you appreciate it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering with words, Requa placed a single finger on the decoy’s chest and traced it slowly down his side. Harry squirmed at the teasing, light touch, the tickling sensation traveling from the twin to him. 

As she approached his hip, her hand followed the crease in. Harry’s squirming stopped as he felt the sensation. He gasped.

For a moment, she let it rest there, and he watched in confusion as the decoy grew at the same time as he did. Then, Requa stopped.

Harry groaned in displeasure.

Requa just giggled.

A/N: If you like the story please consider joining the discord, it really means the world to me and comments and kudos are also greatly appreciated. We just reached 100 members on the discord server, thank you to everyone that joins!