The Fat Lady squinted at them as they approached, clearly unimpressed with the human jigsaw puzzle that was Harry and Neville holding up a limp Hermione, while Tonks wobbled behind them like she'd just survived a Quidditch match. Which, to be fair, she kind of had—except it was against gravity, not bludgers.
"Password?" the Fat Lady snapped, arms crossed.
Tonks blinked slowly. "Caput Draconis."
The portrait muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "disgraceful" and swung open.
They stumbled into the common room like survivors of some secret war. The room was cozy and dim, the fire casting lazy shadows on the walls, but none of them had the energy to appreciate it.
"Think we can just leave Hermione here and pretend she's a new kind of beanbag?" Neville asked hopefully.
Hermione let out a half-conscious moan. "No time for beanbags… I have to… alphabetize my reading list…"
Harry raised a brow. "Okay, she's gone full Hermione. That's our cue."
Tonks cracked her knuckles. "Right. Time for the ol' fireman carry."
Hermione made a noise of protest, but Tonks hoisted her over her shoulder like she weighed less than a Niffler's attention span. "Merlin's kneecaps, did you swallow the Hogwarts library whole?"
Neville nodded solemnly. "She chewed the corners of 'Hogwarts: A History' when she was teething. True story."
"Don't die of exhaustion before class," Harry called after Tonks as she staggered toward the girls' dormitory, Hermione softly muttering, "I need quills…" like it was a prayer.
The moment the girls disappeared up the staircase, Harry and Neville groaned like creaky wardrobes and flopped into chairs.
"We need showers," Harry muttered.
"And possibly an exorcism," Neville added, rubbing his shoulder. "I think Hermione cursed my spine."
They trudged up to the boys' dorm, feet dragging, only to be greeted by the glorious hiss of hot steam and the comforting scent of eucalyptus shampoo—also known as the one good decision Seamus has ever made in his life.
Dean emerged from the bathroom like a Greek god who'd taken a wrong turn at a spa. Towel around his waist, hair dripping, skin glowing.
"Morning, lads," Dean said cheerily, drying his ears. "You both look like you lost a fight with a sentient broom cupboard."
Harry dropped his bag with a grunt. "Worse. We sparred with Tonks."
Dean winced. "Brave. Stupid, but brave."
"She said it was just a 'light warm-up,'" Neville grumbled, already digging through his trunk. "It felt like dueling with a caffeinated Hippogriff."
Across the room, Seamus yawned wide enough to swallow a Quaffle. He scratched his stomach, blinking blearily like someone who had no business being vertical yet.
"Who turned up the sun?" he mumbled, blindly reaching for a violently orange bathrobe that looked like it had been dyed in shame.
"You know we're indoors, right?" Harry deadpanned.
"Shower time," Seamus muttered, still half asleep. "Tell McGonagall I fought bravely if I drown in the sink."
As Seamus wandered into the bathroom like a confused leprechaun on autopilot, the unmistakable sound of heavy snoring filled the dorm.
"Ron," Harry said, peering at the tangle of limbs and sheets on the far bed. "Still dead to the world."
"Time for the traditional Weasley wake-up?" Neville asked.
"Oh, definitely."
Harry leaned in close. "Ron."
No response.
"Ronald."
A grunt.
"Oi, Ronald Bilius Weasley, get up before I send your mum a letter saying you volunteered for every chore this week."
Ron flailed like he'd been electrocuted. "—'Mum?! What—no! Don't make me degnome the garden again!"
Neville snorted.
Ron blinked groggily. "Wait—Harry? Where's Mum?"
"In the Burrow," Harry said dryly. "Where you're not. It's the first day of school, and you're ten minutes away from Flitwick charming your boxers to sing 'God Save the Queen.'"
"Bloody hell!" Ron threw back the covers and fumbled blindly for his robes. "Why didn't anyone wake me sooner?!"
"We tried," Neville said innocently, laying out his robes. "But you cuddled your pillow and muttered something about 'snogging a sausage.'"
Dean choked on his water. "What?!"
"It was a dream," Ron snapped, flushing redder than his hair.
Harry smirked. "Yeah, mate. Sounds like a banger."
Neville actually faceplanted into his bed to muffle the cackling.
"Savage," Dean muttered approvingly.
Ron scowled and pulled a wrinkled sock over his hand instead of his foot.
Meanwhile, Harry had already opened his trunk and pulled out his school robes—sleek, perfectly pressed black with Gryffindor trim, ironed up the night before leaving by Kreth. He draped them neatly on the bed, like a knight laying out his armor, next to a folded white shirt and crimson-and-gold tie.
"First impressions matter," Harry said. "So maybe don't smell like a troll's armpit on Day One, Ron."
"Yeah, yeah." Ron grabbed his towel and muttered, "At least I don't iron my socks."
Harry pointed dramatically. "That's called discipline. Also, I like my ankles unsinged, thank you very much."
Neville, now fully dressed in clean robes and mismatched socks—one green, one plaid—looked up. "Is it bad luck if they don't match?"
"Only if the plaid one's cursed," Harry said without missing a beat. "But at this point, mate, you're a walking fashion hex."
Dean gave Neville an approving nod. "Respect. Real men fear no pattern."
Ron sniffed his robe. "Do I smell like chocolate frogs?"
Seamus's voice called from the bathroom, muffled by the shower. "Only if one melted in your bed again!"
"That was one time!" Ron called back, ears going bright red.
Harry chuckled, grabbing his towel. "C'mon, Neville. Let's de-sweatify before class. First day, best robes, no regrets."
"And no blood," Neville added hopefully. "Let's try for that too."
Harry winked as they headed for the bathroom. "Let's not promise miracles."
They shut the door behind them, leaving behind the chaos of mismatched socks, chocolate-frog-scented linens, and Ron's indignant muttering.
The first day of Hogwarts had officially begun. And if this crew was anything to go by… Hogwarts wasn't ready.
—
The bathroom door creaked open, and Harry Potter stepped out with the calm precision of a general inspecting his troops. His black Hogwarts robes fell around him in crisp, perfect lines, his white shirt practically glowing, and his tie knotted with such surgical accuracy it could've gotten a round of applause from McGonagall. Even his shoes shone like he'd just finished a duel with a bottle of polish and won.
He paused at the mirror, gave himself a once-over, and then tugged his sleeves down like they were armored gauntlets. "Right," he muttered to himself, "onward to battle."
Neville followed close behind, adjusting his robes with a frown of pure concentration. His shirt was buttoned—mostly right. His socks were definitely different shades of black (though he was convinced no one would notice), and his tie was doing some kind of interpretive dance around his collar.
"I feel like a penguin that got dressed in the dark," Neville grumbled, tugging at the fabric. "Do robes always itch like this, or is mine just cursed?"
Harry smirked. "Yours is just poorly folded. Maybe cursed too. Hard to say with Hogwarts. But you look better than Ron, so you're already ahead."
Across the dormitory, Ron Weasley was mid-wrestle with a pile of tangled robes that had apparently tried to eat him. His hair was sticking out at angles that defied gravity, his shirt buttons were misaligned to the point of rebellion, and his tie was looped around his head like a bandana.
Seamus Finnigan, already dressed and lounging on his bed like a smug cat, watched the chaos unfold with a snort. "Ron, mate, you getting dressed or starting a cage match with your wardrobe?"
Dean Thomas, sitting beside him while tying his laces, nodded solemnly. "I've seen gnomes put on overalls with more finesse."
"Shut up," Ron muttered, yanking his robes in the opposite direction, which only made things worse. "These bloody sleeves are conspiring against me."
"You're supposed to put your arms through them, not declare war on them," Harry drawled, folding his arms and leaning against the bedpost like he'd been waiting years for this show.
Ron looked up, flushed and exasperated. "Not everyone had their robes starched and tailored by a bloody butler, Harry."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "No butler. Just a grandfather who survived two wars and believes a proper cuff is the difference between dignity and disgrace. Trust me, Grandpa Charlus trained me for this like it was the Triwizard Tournament."
Dean whistled low. "No offense, but your granddad sounds terrifying."
"Oh, he is," Harry said cheerfully. "Once told me a sloppy tie is how Dark Lords win. And that was during breakfast. While buttering his toast."
Seamus barked a laugh. "Sounds like my mum, but with less tea and more death threats."
Neville gave up on adjusting his socks and turned to Ron. "Here, let me help before you strangle yourself with that tie. You're wearing it like a Gryffindor-themed boa."
Ron reluctantly let Neville fix his collar and grumbled, "This is why I said Mum should've packed me a How-To-Dress charm."
"Pretty sure that would've just tied you to your bed," Harry muttered. "Your tie's got less coordination than a drunk pixie."
Dean snorted into his sleeve while Seamus wheezed, "Drunk pixie! I'm stealing that."
Ron huffed, finally managing to shove both arms through the correct sleeves. "You lot are so funny. Really. I'm dying laughing. Just wait till I learn a spell to tie your robes into knots in your sleep."
"I dare you," Harry said, completely unfazed. "I've got a hex that'll turn your pants into pixie wings. You'll be flapping through the Great Hall in your boxers."
Neville nearly choked. "Please don't give Peeves ideas."
"Too late," said Seamus, pointing toward the ceiling. "You just summoned him by accident."
Ron finally looked down at himself. He was now technically dressed, if you could call it that—his shirt was still slightly skewed, his robes hung crooked on one side, and his hair looked like it had lost a fight with a Blast-Ended Skrewt.
"Do I look okay?" he asked with a desperate sort of hope in his voice.
Harry gave him a long, critical once-over. "You look like you were mugged by your own clothes."
Seamus grinned. "If you're going for 'first-year lost in the Forbidden Forest for three days,' nailed it."
"Shove off," Ron muttered, grabbing his wand and stuffing it into his robes with the elegance of a troll.
"Hey," Neville said, clapping him on the back, "at least you don't smell like dragon dung. We're already improving."
Ron brightened slightly. "You think so?"
Dean exchanged a glance with Seamus. "Mate… it's a low bar. But yeah, you're above it."
Harry rolled his eyes, straightened Ron's robes one last time, and pulled him toward the door. "Come on, Disaster Squad. Let's go get breakfast before Seamus eats the entire table."
"Hey!" Seamus objected. "I have the metabolism of a racing broom, thank you very much."
"And the table manners of a Niffler," Dean added.
As the five boys made their way out of the dorm, Harry slung an arm around Ron's shoulders, half-affectionate, half-bracing. "Don't worry, Ron. By the end of the week, you might just manage to button your shirt in the right order."
Ron grumbled something unrepeatable, but didn't pull away.
Neville, trailing behind, called out, "Wait—did anyone see where I put my bag?"
Seamus turned around and smirked. "Was it under your left sock? You know, the blue one with stars while the other one's plain?"
Neville blushed furiously. "They're both black! The stars are… subtle."
Dean laughed. "You're not subtle, Nev. You're aggressively adorable."
Harry grinned. "Come on, lads. Hogwarts awaits. Let's go prove Gryffindors can show up to class dressed like warriors... or at least not like walking wardrobe accidents."
Seamus cracked his knuckles. "First stop—Great Hall. Second stop—chaos."
And off they went, the first-year Gryffindor boys marching toward breakfast like knights, jesters, and a poorly-dressed redhead in equal measure.
—
The Gryffindor first-years tumbled down the grand staircase with all the subtlety of a herd of caffeinated hippogriffs. Harry led the way, hands tucked in his pockets like he didn't just survive a five-mile morning run, with Neville loyally beside him, puffing but proud. Dean and Seamus followed, deep in some argument about which chocolate frog card was rarer, while Ron brought up the rear, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes like the morning itself had offended him.
Behind them, the girls made their entrance like the Avengers arriving on the battlefield. Hermione, freshly showered and glowing with the smug satisfaction of no longer feeling like a sweaty cryptid, marched beside Tonks, who looked like she could run three more laps, solve a riddle, and prank a teacher before breakfast. Lavender and Parvati trailed behind, arms linked, giggling about something involving robes, sparkles, and probably gossip with the destructive power of Fiendfyre.
The Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clinking cutlery—until it didn't. The second the Gryffindor squad entered, the entire room seemed to glitch. Heads turned. Forks paused mid-air. A first-year from Ravenclaw dropped his goblet. Harry, Neville, Hermione, and Tonks peeled off without hesitation and made a beeline for the Slytherin table.
"Uh…" Ron blinked. "Are they… are they defecting?"
Dean shaded his eyes dramatically. "I see no white flags, but there is suspiciously friendly body language. Highly sus."
"They're not defecting," Seamus muttered. "They're infiltrating. Obviously. Classic Gryffindor move."
"I dunno," Ron said slowly. "They're talking to Slytherins."
At the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass—poised like royalty despite it being not even 8 a.m.—flashed a smile at Harry as he stopped beside her. Tracey Davis, all sleepy smirks and sarcasm, sipped her pumpkin juice with the air of a predator who'd already planned her first five verbal kills of the day.
"Morning, Daph. Trace," Harry greeted, leaning casually on the table. "Looking devious as ever."
Daphne flicked a strand of perfectly styled blonde hair over her shoulder. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Just an observation. You wear devious well."
Tracey grinned over her goblet. "You wear arrogance like a second skin, Potter. Works for you."
"I try," Harry said smoothly. "Trendsetting's a burden."
Neville offered an awkward but sincere wave. "Hi, again. Um, nice to see you not actively sneering?"
Daphne raised a brow. "Aw. He's polite. I like this one."
Tonks leaned on Tracey's shoulder, who barely flinched. "Still too early for actual murder, yeah?"
"Barely," Tracey deadpanned. "But your hair makes it hard to stay mad."
Hermione gave the two Slytherin girls a cautious nod. "You're more tolerable when you're not laughing at me."
Daphne gave her a once-over. "You're more tolerable when you're not doing your impression of a drowned puffskein."
Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it. "Fair."
From the staff table, Snape looked like someone had just suggested bathing in unicorn blood for skincare. His eyes narrowed at Harry like he was debating whether to hex him or assign him a five-foot essay on treason.
Harry met Snape's gaze and slowly—very slowly—lifted a piece of toast from Tracey's plate and took a bite.
"Potter," Daphne murmured, "did you just eat a Slytherin's toast while making eye contact with Snape?"
"Yup."
"You're either a genius or a lunatic."
"Why not both?"
Their pitstop at the Hufflepuff table was equally chill. Susan Bones waved Harry over with the ease of someone who'd known him for years. Hannah smiled shyly, and Cedric Diggory—Quidditch chiseled and charming—gave Harry a nod of athletic approval.
"Running again tomorrow?" Cedric asked, offering a fist bump.
"Wouldn't miss it," Harry replied, bumping back.
"You still look like you could do another lap," Cedric told Tonks.
Tonks winked. "I could. But then who would babysit this lot?"
"Hey!" Hermione protested.
"Not you, obviously. You're the mom friend."
Back at the Gryffindor table, Ron was still processing. "So you lot just… hang out with them?"
Harry sat down, poured himself some juice, and finally looked at Ron. "You mean my friends? Yeah. Wild, I know."
"But—they're snakes!" Ron sputtered.
"And you're a Weasley," Harry said mildly. "We don't choose our Houses, but we do choose how we act."
"I'm just saying—"
"You're saying I shouldn't talk to people I've known longer than I've known you," Harry interrupted, voice smooth but with an edge. "You're saying your opinion of a House you know nothing about matters more than my actual friendships. That it's okay to reduce people to a color-coded system designed by four dead founders."
Ron flushed. "Blimey, mate. I didn't mean all that."
"No," Harry said, stabbing a sausage. "You just meant to insult my friends. Congratulations, you succeeded."
Seamus looked back and forth between them like he was at a tennis match. "Harry, mate. You just verbally dropkicked him into next week."
Dean muttered, "You should teach a class in Sass and Savage 101."
Lavender leaned in to Parvati. "Okay, but that was hot."
Parvati smirked. "You're not wrong."
Tonks grinned. "You've got admirers, General Potter."
Harry sighed. "Fantastic. Groupies before toast. Just what I needed."
Neville, gently munching on a scone, finally spoke. "Well, at least it's not a boring morning."
Dean raised his goblet. "To Hogwarts: where the friendships are forbidden, the toast is communal, and Ron gets roasted before breakfast."
"Oi!" Ron protested.
Seamus shoved a sausage at him. "Eat. It'll heal your pride."
—
As the clatter of cutlery and cheerful morning chatter filled the Great Hall, a sudden hush rippled through the Gryffindor table. The sharp, deliberate click of heeled boots on stone echoed like a metronome of doom. Heads turned.
Professor McGonagall was approaching.
Dressed in her traditional emerald tartan robes with a brooch the size of a snitch on her chest and her hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun that could deflect spells, she carried a stack of first-year timetables under one arm like a Scottish general preparing for battle.
Ron, who had just stuffed half a sausage into his mouth, looked like he'd swallowed a Quaffle. Seamus and Dean hastily sat up straighter. Lavender and Parvati exchanged a look that clearly read: We're going to die.
McGonagall's eyes locked onto Harry and Neville, sharp and glinting like she could see into their very souls. She stopped at the table, scanning the group before her.
"Mr. Potter. Mr. Longbottom. Miss Granger. Miss Tonks. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Finnegan, Mr. Thomas, Miss Brown, Miss Patil," she said crisply, like she was announcing a battle roster. She began handing out schedules with the efficiency of a professional card dealer in a high-stakes poker game.
Harry, calm as ever, gave her a polite nod. "Morning, Professor."
Neville, fumbling with the flap of his bag, dropped his new quill and knocked over his pumpkin juice. "S-sorry!"
She raised an eyebrow but, instead of the scolding he expected, flicked her wand to clean the mess with a silent charm. Her eyes lingered on him a second longer.
"Still needs work on hand-eye coordination," Harry muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
"Oi," Neville whispered back. "I'll have you know I caught a falling toad last night."
"Wow," Tonks deadpanned, grinning. "A true Gryffindor feat."
"Should've been there," Neville said solemnly. "It was majestic."
McGonagall cleared her throat, and even Tonks sat up straight, though she was clearly suppressing a grin.
"I witnessed your... gathering this morning," the professor said, glancing toward the other tables. "Inter-house mingling on the first day of classes is rare. Encouraging, even."
Hermione's hand shot up like she was still in primary school. "Professor, it was Harry's idea—"
"Of course it was," Ron muttered.
"—and it was lovely! We had breakfast with the Hufflepuffs, and some of the Slytherins were surprisingly civil. Daphne and Tracey were there, and Cedric Diggory came over too—"
McGonagall raised a hand. "Yes, Miss Granger, I was aware. I also noticed the absence of food flying through the air, tears, or duels. So, I will be awarding ten points each to those involved. Miss Tonks, Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Potter... Miss Granger, and the rest of your... entourage."
"Entourage?" Seamus grinned. "Do we get robes with our initials on the back?"
"Speak for yourself," Tracey drawled, flipping her braid over her shoulder with a smirk worthy of a Slytherin runway model.
Before anyone could say more, a breathless voice chimed in, floating through the Great Hall like the smell of warm treacle tart.
"Minerva! I absolutely must agree!"
Enter Professor Sprout—robes covered in smudges of dirt, a trowel poking out of her pocket like a wand's muddy cousin, and cheeks flushed with excitement. She looked like she had just come from a greenhouse wrestling match.
"Susan! Hannah!" she beamed, spotting her girls. "And Cedric! My dear boy, I'm giving each of you ten points for showing such kindness and camaraderie. That's the sort of behavior we like to cultivate in my house."
Cedric gave her a sheepish grin. "Didn't do much, Professor. Just sat and didn't cause a scene."
"Which is more than I can say for most students in their first week," Sprout replied, eyes twinkling.
And then, like a human firework of cheer and high-pitched enthusiasm, Professor Flitwick popped up beside them, as though he had apparated from under the Ravenclaw table.
"Well said, well said!" he squeaked, clapping his tiny hands. "Inter-house friendships! Brilliant way to start the year! Ten points to each of you, and perhaps next time you might consider dragging a few Ravenclaws along, eh?"
He winked. "We've got excellent riddles and even better manners."
Daphne snorted. "I'd rather be hexed."
"Daph," Tracey said, nudging her. "We talked about the diplomacy thing."
"My bad," Daphne said lazily. "I meant hexed politely."
"Better," Tracey nodded approvingly.
At that moment, the Great Hall quieted again.
Professor Snape had risen from the Slytherin table. Having distributed the last of his schedules with all the warmth of a cold cauldron, he turned slowly.
His eyes locked onto Harry.
There was no expression—no sneer, no frown, not even the flicker of a raised eyebrow. Just a silent, soul-deep stare like he was trying to decide whether Harry was a curiosity, an enemy, or an overcooked cabbage.
Three seconds passed. Four.
And then, with a flourish that would make a stage magician jealous, he turned on his heel and stalked away, robes billowing dramatically behind him like he had a permanent wind machine installed under his feet.
"Did he just…" Ron whispered.
"Do the Bat Cape Flounce?" Harry nodded solemnly. "Yup. Classic Snape move."
"What does it mean?" Dean asked, wide-eyed.
"It means," said Harry, reaching for a croissant, "that I live in his head rent-free."
Neville choked on his juice. Tonks let out a loud snort. Hermione buried her face in her hands.
"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said sharply, though a twitch of amusement betrayed her.
"Yes, Professor?" Harry asked innocently.
"You are not to refer to me as 'Grandma Minnie' while on school grounds."
Harry held up his hands in mock surrender. "Understood. No grandma nicknames on Hogwarts property. Off-campus, though…"
"Off-campus," she said dryly, "you'd better come with biscuits if you expect to get away with that cheek."
Tonks leaned toward Susan, whispering, "Did McGonagall just joke?"
"She did," Susan whispered back. "We're living in a golden age."
McGonagall turned with a huff, though her mouth betrayed the tiniest hint of a smirk. As she strode away, her robes swishing behind her with far more grace than Snape's flounce, Flitwick beamed and Sprout chuckled.
Ron stared at Harry like he'd grown another head. "You got us house points. Before breakfast."
Harry took a dramatic bite of toast. "First of many miracles, Ron. Buckle up."
"I'm not ready for this," Seamus groaned.
"You never were," Dean replied with a laugh.
The Great Hall filled once more with chatter and laughter, but something had shifted. Friendships had formed, boundaries had blurred, and—for the first time in a long time—hope felt like more than just a four-letter word carved onto a castle wall.
—
Meanwhile, at the staff table, Professor Quirinus Quirrell sat perched at the edge of his chair like a man anticipating an explosion. His turban itched, his nerves were frayed, and his porridge had long since gone cold, congealing into a lump that looked alarmingly like troll snot.
He forced a spoonful into his mouth, chewing with the haunted detachment of a man being slowly digested by the Basilisk of existential dread. Which, in a manner of speaking, he was.
Across the Great Hall, golden sunlight poured in through enchanted windows, setting the floating candles aglow and bathing the tables in a warm, welcoming light. Students laughed and chattered, unaware—or perhaps willfully ignorant—of the parasite sipping tea two seats down from Dumbledore.
Quirrell's eyes, bloodshot from sleepless nights, flicked again to the Gryffindor table. To him. Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Laughing, radiant, surrounded by friends like he hadn't been a horcrux-sized thorn in the Dark Lord's side just eleven years ago.
"The boy lives," came the sibilant voice in Quirrell's mind, "and now, he flourishes. Like a weed in sunlight."
Quirrell stiffened, fingers tightening around his spoon. "P-please, my Lord," he muttered mentally, "must we—must we do this every morning?"
"Yes," Voldemort replied coolly, his voice smooth and predatory, like oil on water. "Every morning until he is ash. Or I am flesh."
A laugh erupted from the Gryffindor table. Potter had spilled pumpkin juice across the table as one of the Weasley twins mimicked Professor McGonagall's stern expression using a pair of peeled tangerines.
"They adore him," Voldemort sneered. "Like a saint. A savior. They forget his only true accomplishment was surviving—barely."
Quirrell cleared his throat, letting out a nervous "Eh-heh-heh…" that earned him a curious glance from Professor Vector. He pretended to be terribly fascinated by the pattern in his spoon.
"The plan," he offered weakly. "The Stone… perhaps it's in the Forbidden Forest? Or—"
"We have searched the castle, the forest, the dungeons… even that revolting creature Hagrid's shack," Voldemort interrupted. "If the Stone were here, I would have sensed it. No—Dumbledore has hidden it elsewhere. He knew I would come."
Just then, Dumbledore let out a great guffaw beside Professor Sprout, raising a goblet of morning mead. The old man's blue eyes twinkled like he'd just heard the punchline to the universe's longest-running joke.
Quirrell's eye twitched.
"He mocks me," Voldemort said, voice sharp as broken glass. "He knows I am here."
"—Honestly, Pomona, if the gnomes do manage to unionize, I may have to start charging them rent!" Dumbledore said cheerfully from just a few seats down.
Quirrell slumped in his seat, wishing he could dissolve into his robes. "I—I've done everything you've asked, m-my Lord. I have risked exposure, dug through every tunnel—there are things in the Chamber of Secrets that should stay buried—"
"Excuses," Voldemort said with venom. "I expected better of the man who claimed to be a seeker of truth. But you are weak, Quirinus. A frightened academic dressing up cowardice in scholarly robes."
Quirrell flinched. His hand trembled as he reached for his goblet.
"You knew what you agreed to when you let me in," Voldemort whispered, almost seductively. "You invited me. You wanted greatness. Now you hide behind stutters and silk."
From across the hall, a Ravenclaw girl laughed. A Hufflepuff boy offered her a flower that turned into a butterfly and flew off. Joy. Hope. Laughter.
It all grated.
"We will pivot," Voldemort continued, contemplative now. "If the Stone eludes us, then we look elsewhere. There are other ways to return to power… and other ways to bleed the Boy Who Lived."
Quirrell swallowed. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper and shame.
"Perhaps a curse during class. An 'accident' in the Forbidden Forest."
"B-but—D-Dumbledore watches him like a hawk. He… he knows."
"Then we shall test how far his gaze reaches. One fracture at a time."
From nearby, Professor Flitwick chuckled softly. "Did you hear, Minerva? Young Harry's already enchanted two first-years into joining his study group! Natural leadership, that one."
Minerva McGonagall smiled faintly, glancing down the table. "He reminds me of James, but with Lily's heart. The boy is special."
Quirrell's fork bent in his hand.
"They fawn over him like he's a prince," Voldemort spat. "We'll see how much they adore him when he's broken. When they see what I see."
Quirrell looked down at his plate, uneaten porridge staring back at him like a pale, glutinous omen.
The turban itched.
The laughter grated.
And inside his head, something old and hungry and impossibly patient waited, whispering of shadows and blood and the slow, surgical unraveling of a legend.
The Great Hall basked in the morning light.
And Quirrell shivered.
—
Meanwhile—completely unaware of the parasitic soul fragment plotting just a few seats away—Harry Potter was locked in a fierce staring contest with his timetable.
"Alright, let's see… first up—Transfiguration with McGonagall," Harry said, flipping the parchment sideways like it might suddenly start displaying animated instructions. "Then Charms before lunch… and after that—oh brilliant, Potions and Herbology."
Across from him, Hermione Granger had her parchment flattened out like a battlefield map, complete with color-coded ink (red for theory-heavy classes, blue for practical, green for 'needs improvement'—which currently had nothing under it).
"I cannot wait for Transfiguration!" she said, glowing like she'd just inhaled a stack of encyclopedias. "It's literally the most complex branch of magic. Turning one thing into another? That's basically rewriting the universe!"
Ron Weasley, meanwhile, looked down at his blackened toast and poked it suspiciously with a butter knife. "I'll be impressed if I can transfigure this into something that doesn't taste like dragon droppings."
Tonks snorted, nearly choking on her pumpkin juice. Her bubblegum-pink hair fluffed up slightly, and one of her eyebrows spontaneously turned into a lightning bolt. "Don't worry, Weasley. If you faint in class, I'll draw something real special on your face."
Ron squinted at her. "You wouldn't dare."
Harry didn't even look up. "She absolutely would. In glitter ink. And then she'd charm it to sing show tunes whenever you open your mouth."
Dean grinned. "Honestly, I'd pay Galleons to see that."
Tonks grinned back. "Mate, I do commissions."
Parvati Patil, who had styled her long black hair into twin braids and wore bangles that jingled every time she moved, leaned over. "You lot are mad. I'm just hoping we get to transfigure people into animals."
"Why? So you can turn Malfoy into a ferret early?" Harry asked dryly. "Jumping ahead a few books, aren't you?"
Parvati laughed. "I was thinking more like… a dung beetle."
"Oi," Ron said, "Dung beetles are useful. Let's not insult them."
Neville Longbottom, who had accidentally spilled marmalade on his timetable and was trying to clean it off with a serviette that had somehow come alive and was now fighting him, looked up miserably.
"My gran said we don't even get to touch a wand until we write an essay about the ethics of transfiguring hedgehogs."
"That's oddly specific," Dean muttered.
Neville blinked. "It… might've just been me."
Seamus Finnigan, grinning with the unearned confidence of a boy who once lit his own eyebrows on fire trying to toast marshmallows, leaned across. "I bet I can accidentally blow something up before we finish the first spell."
"You say 'accidentally' like you don't plan this stuff," Lavender muttered without looking up from her tiny mirror.
Hermione huffed. "Honestly, if we all just focused, we'd probably get through the week without anyone combusting."
"I dunno, Hermione," Harry said, smirking. "I think Seamus exploding is nature's way of telling the rest of us how not to cast a spell."
"Oi!" Seamus protested. "I only blew up, like, two cauldrons last year!"
"We were ten, Seamus!" Dean said. "We didn't have cauldrons yet!"
"And where did you even get them from?" Parvati asked, blinking.
Seamus shrugged. "eBay?"
Hermione looked scandalized. "That's a Muggle—!"
Harry waved a hand. "Don't, Hermione. He doesn't know what he's saying half the time. The other half he's trying to summon demons using instant oatmeal and fireworks."
Seamus looked oddly proud. "Did get one to explode in blue. I call that a win."
Lavender rolled her eyes so hard they nearly detached. "You're all lunatics."
Ron was chewing on a piece of bacon like it personally offended him. "So after Transfiguration we've got Charms, yeah? That's Flitwick. Bet he teaches us how to summon chocolate."
"I heard he used to be a dueling champion," Dean added. "Went toe-to-toe with an entire squad of professional duelists and didn't even lose his hat."
Harry's eyes sparkled. "My granddad told me he once hit a troll so hard with a Blasting Hex, it learned to conjugate Latin. Backwards."
Tonks leaned in, her eyes wide. "Bet he teaches us how to do that."
"You can't teach someone to throw a troll off a cliff," Ron said, incredulous.
Tonks raised her eyebrows—one of which morphed into a thumbs-up. "Not with that attitude."
Hermione was now checking her quill tips like they might rebel if left unsupervised. "You know, if we all studied a bit harder instead of planning troll violence, we might actually learn something useful."
Harry grinned at her. "Hermione, if I studied as hard as you did, I'd be you. And frankly, one of you is already more than Hogwarts can handle."
Parvati whistled. "Oof. That's a burn and a compliment."
Hermione pursed her lips, clearly unsure whether to be offended or flattered. "I'll… allow it."
As the enchanted ceiling above glowed with the soft, golden hues of morning, the Gryffindor table buzzed with that uniquely chaotic mix of nerves, excitement, and the kind of banter only eleven-year-olds could weaponize.
Further down, older students shot them fondly exasperated glances. One fourth-year muttered, "First-years are louder every year," while Percy Weasley hovered nearby like a well-dressed storm cloud, pompously offering wisdom like a self-published textbook.
"Remember, punctuality is the backbone of magical discipline! Five points to Gryffindor if you're all exactly on time to class!"
Harry arched an eyebrow. "And how many points if we make it fashionably late?"
Percy turned red. Hermione looked horrified. Ron choked on his pumpkin juice.
Then, just for a heartbeat, Harry's eyes wandered to the teacher's table—Dumbledore clinking goblets with Sprout, Flitwick talking animatedly with Sinistra, and…
Quirrell.
Turbaned. Pale. Twitchy. Ducking his head just as Harry looked his way.
The prickling sensation returned—sharp and cold—like someone had iced his spine from the inside.
Harry frowned.
"Something wrong, mate?" Ron asked.
Harry shook his head. "Nah. Just… got a weird feeling. Like I saw someone I've seen before."
"Probably that Malfoy git," Seamus offered. "He looks like a half-plucked chicken."
The unease passed. The laughter returned. And the day ahead beckoned with promise—of spells, of transformations, of wild explosions (mostly Seamus's fault), and the beginning of a journey that would shake the magical world to its very core.
Little did they know, chaos had already found them.
And it was wearing a turban.
---
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