The first thing Hardwin did the next morning was make the decision to go by his full name instead of the diminutive 'Harry'—a pathetic name that was associated with the weak freak from Surrey and not the wizard who would one day be powerful enough that no one could ever again torture him the way the Dursleys had.
The only problem with this resolution was all the whispering.
Everywhere he went, people pointed and spoke to their friends in hushed tones, but Hardwin knew what they were all saying — "There goes the other Potter!" "Why didn't we know about him?" "Is he really related to Evan Potter? He doesn't look like it." and all sorts of other nasty things that only served to remind Hardwin of his abandonment—well, except for that last one. Hardwin was rather grateful that he didn't look like the Boy Who Annoyed Him.
Classes weren't much help in taking Hardwin's mind off his problems in life.
He was disappointed with History of Magic as a whole. While having an actual ghost for a teacher was enjoyable in theory, the reality of it was horribly depressing. It was annoying how sleep-inducing the lectures were because of Professor Binns' slow, droning voice.
Herbology and Astronomy were somewhere in the middle—not as awful as History of Magic but also far from taking a place among Hardwin's favorites.
Transfiguration was difficult, but Hardwin had spent a lot of time reading up on the theory before their lesson and so was the only Slytherin out of a dozen to completely transfigure his matchstick into a silver needle. While Professor McGonagall was noticeably reluctant, she had fairly awarded him ten points for his success.
Charms was undoubtedly his favorite class. They spent the entire class time taking notes without any practical lesson, but Hardwin saw the value in the subject. There were Charms for essentially everything, from what he had read, and Hardwin was looking forward to when they got into the more advanced spells later on. It helped that Professor Flitwick was a very engaging teacher who kept his interest the entire hour through his excitement and demonstrations of spells they would learn.
Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell was different, to say the least. He had an awful stutter that made it nearly impossible to understand him. To make things worse, his classroom was filled with the smell of garlic —it was supposedly to ward off a vampire he had met in Romania and feared would come back for revenge. But for someone like Hardwin, who had learnt how to pay attention no matter how difficult the teacher was, the class was rather instructive.
This was one of the few times those pesky rumours the Dursleys had spread about him being a horrible boy who existed solely to cause mischief had been helpful, if unintentionally.
Hardwin paid careful attention to what was said between Quirrell's stutters, following along in his textbook, and because of it, he actually managed to learn quite a bit about basic Dark hexes in their first lesson.
Things truly got interesting during Double Potions with the Gryffindors on Friday.
On Friday morning at breakfast when the owls flew in to deliver mail—something thathad nearly given Hardwin a heart attack the first time it happened, although he was thankful he managed to avoid embarrassing himself through exceptional self-control—there was a loud cheer from someone at the Gryffindor table. Hardwin looked over to see Evan Potter looking very excited about something.
Even after a week at Hogwarts, Hardwin refused to believe they were related. They were just too different in almost every way for it to be remotely possible.
"That doesn't look good," Theodore Nott muttered.
Hardwin and Nott had come to a mutual agreement over the few days since the start of term, but neither one considered the other a friend. They were the two quietest boys in their year and focused more on their studies than bullying—unlike Draco Malfoy and his two bookends, and they didn't care enough about their own egos to act pompously—also unlike Draco Malfoy, but this time they included the stupid Potter from Gryffindor. Hardwin and Nott had already found a corner of the common room to work on their homework together without being disturbed.
After breakfast, Hardwin and Nott returned to the dungeons for their first Potions lesson.
Professor Snape was a sallow-skinned man with a hooked nose and curtains of greasy black hair that framed his face. He started the class by taking roll. He paused when he reached one certain name.
"Ah, yes," he said softly. "Evan Potter. Our new… celebrity."
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle snickered behind their hands. Professor Snape finished calling the names—Hardwin was pleased that the man hadn't paused at his like every other professor so far had—and looked up at the class with cold black eyes.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, speaking in barely more than a whisper, but every student's attention was caught. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic." (Hardwin nearly scoffed at the thought—of course potion-making was magic, the effects of the potions wouldn't work if it wasn't.) "I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Silence followed his speech. A few Gryffindors exchanged nervous looks. One girl with bushy brown hair—Granger, Hardwin recalled—was on the edge of her seat as if desperate to prove that she wasn't a dunderhead.
"Potter!" Professor Snape snapped suddenly. "The Gryffindor Potter," he amended with a glance at Hardwin, causing a few snickers from the Slytherins. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Hardwin knew the answer, but he doubted the Gryffindor did.
Sure enough, Evan looked stupefied, staring at Professor Snape in disbelief.
"Tut, tut," Professor Snape chided, "fame clearly isn't everything." He ignored Granger's hand. "Let's try again. Same Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Granger stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat, but Evan clearly didn't have a clue. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were shaking with silent laughter. The rest of the Slytherins were sneering in disgust. Hardwin smirked in malicious amusement at his dear brother's embarrassment. The arrogant Gryffindor brat deserved to be brought down a peg or two so he would stop believing everyone should kowtow to him.
"I don't know," Evan mumbled.
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Professor Snape ridiculed. Hardwin forced himself not to laugh out loud—something that a few of his fellow Slytherins were struggling with. "I would have expected, given your mother's talent in the subject, that she would have taught you something." The teacher's black eyes glittered. "I suppose not…"
He was still ignoring Granger's quivering hand as he asked. "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?" There was no need to specify which Potter he was asking.
Granger, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling.
"I don't know," Evan said through gritted teeth, his eyes flashing with anger. "Why don't you pick on someone else for a change, Snivellus?"
The Slytherins fell silent instantaneously. The Gryffindor girls gasped, but the boys burst into laughter.
Professor Snape looked murderous. He leaned down until his face was inches away from Evan's so that the Gryffindor Potter seemed to realize just how big a mistake he had made.
"Detention," Professor Snape hissed. "One month—you will not be allowed to use magic. You are to come to my office each evening after dinner, and you will be dismissed when I tell you. No sooner, no later. And if you ever treat me with such disrespect again…" He left the threat hanging.
"Sit down," he snapped at Granger, who had still been standing, as if frozen in place by what she was witnessing. "Let us see if the other Potter is more competent, shall we?"
Every eye turned to Hardwin, but he kept his face blank and his back straight with confidence. He knew these answers, he was sure of it.
"Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful that it is known as the Draught of Living Death," he answered. "A bezoar is a stone capable of counteracting most poisons and is found in the stomach of a goat. As for monkshood and wolfsbane—they are the same plant, which can also be called aconite."
"Ten points to Slytherin," Professor Snape praised, his eyes shining with triumph. "Well?" he snapped at the unmoving class. "Why aren't you all copying that down?" There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Professor Snape said, "And fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor House for your disrespect, Potter."
The rest of the class didn't go well for the Gryffindors. Professor Snape was in an extremely foul mood and spent their time criticizing the smallest of details, most of which wouldn't normally have mattered. He barely acknowledged the Slytherins, choosing instead to take out his anger on the poor first year lions. It lasted until Neville Longbottom managed to melt his cauldron by adding porcupine quills to his boil-curing potion before taking the cauldron off the fire.
"Idiot boy!" Professor Snape snarled.
Longbottom whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.
"Take him up to the hospital wing," Professor Snape spat at Longbottom's partner. Then he rounded on Evan and Weasley, who had been working next to Longbottom. "You—Potter—why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought you'd regain some semblance of respect if he got it wrong, did you? That's another ten points you've lost for Gryffindor."
Evan opened his mouth to argue, but Weasley kicked him under the table.
An hour later, the Slytherins were the first ones out of the dungeon. They were done with classes for the day, just like every other first year, but none of them wanted to risk being found by their Head of House while he was in such a foul mood. Hardwin spent the remainder of his time until dinner in the library, working on a particularly difficult essay that Professor McGonagall had assigned them in Transfiguration yesterday.
But it was at dinner where fate decided to make him its chew toy.
Hardwin had just sat down to eat when two people walked into the Great Hall—a tall, slim man with untidy jet-black hair, hazel eyes, and expensive-looking glasses, and a pale woman with thick, dark red hair and almond-shaped green eyes.
Familiar green…
Hardwin suddenly knew what had made Evan so happy at breakfast.
Everyone in the Hall looked at the two arrivals as they walked up the center of the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, heading towards Headmaster Dumbledore. They exchanged a couple of words with the man before they seemed to be given permission for something.
Evan ran up to his dad when the man beckoned him with a nod of his head, but then the three of them started heading towards the Slytherin table—more specifically, to where Hardwin was sitting and trying to pretend he didn't see them. Evan looked furious as they approached, as if this was the worst punishment he could have ever been given.
"Hello, Harry," Mr. Potter greeted.
"Sorry," Hardwin responded kindly, "but who are you?"
Mr. and Mrs. Potter blinked. Evan glared at him while the nearby Slytherins stifled snickers with their sleeves. Hardwin was well aware that the entire Great Hall had fallen silent to watch the reunion of the Potters—it hadn't exactly been a big secret that Hardwin was raised by muggles, the other Slytherins had made sure that story spread quickly.
"We're your parents," Mrs. Potter told him with a tearful smile.
"No, I don't think so," Hardwin shook his head. "I was told that my parents died in a car crash when I was fifteen months old. So you see, you really can't be my parents simply because you're both alive."
The Great Hall went deathly silent.
Mrs. Potter choked on a sob, holding a hand to her mouth and shaking her head.
"That's not true," Mr. Potter claimed. "We didn't abandon —"
"Clearly, you did," Hardwin interjected, his tone calm. "Otherwise I would have grown up with my parents—with the brother I hadn't even known existed until last Sunday."
Whispers broke out like hissing fires. Mr. and Mrs. Potter both flinched as if struck. Evan continued glaring as fiercely as he could, but it was nothing compared to a drunk Vernon, so Hardwin merely smiled condescendingly at the boy. Evan's face started to turn red in anger.
"Look, we made a mistake," Mr. Potter tried. "But Headmaster Dumbledore said —"
"Said what, exactly?" Hardwin snarled, any illusions of peace gone with the wind. "That you should give up one of your sons? That you should completely forget that your child even exists?" He scoffed. "Well didn't that work out just brilliantly? What authority does a school teacher have to tell you what to do with your family?"
Hardwin saw Headmaster Dumbledore flinch at the staff table, but everyone else was too focused on the family drama serving as dinner entertainment.
Mr. Potter started to get angry now. "Come," he ordered firmly. "We came to speak with you, our son, and find out just why the hell you went to Slytherin instead of Gryffindor, where you belong."
"Funny," Hardwin snarked. "I think I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
Mr. Potter's expression turned furiously ugly.
"Come," he repeated quietly. "Now!"
"You have no right telling me what to do," Hardwin informed him. "Only a parent or guardian can order a child around, disregarding a teacher's authority, and you happen to be neither to me."
"We are your parents!" Mr. Potter hissed.
"No, you're not!" Hardwin spat fiercely, rising from his seat, his fists clenched at his sides. "Parents raise their children. Parents don't abandon their son. Parents don't forget that one of their children exists while raising the other to be a pampered, spoiled brat."
"Now, listen here —"
"Quiet," Hardwin interrupted. "I wasn't done yet."
Mr. Potter gaped at him.
"Don't talk to my dad that way!" Evan yelled, drawing his wand.
Hardwin rolled his eyes and disregarded his brother. "Ten years," he said. "That's how long I put up with the bullshit the Dursleys —"
"Language, Mr. Potter!" Professor McGonagall admonished.
"— threw my way," Hardwin continued, as if he had never been interrupted. "I had no idea that my parents were alive and hadn't died in a car crash; that I had a brother—a twin brother. And while all of this was happening, you were raising Mr. Perfect over there like a bloody prince, giving him whatever the hell he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
"I don't even know your names, other than 'Potter'," he raged. "You are no family of mine!"
There was a bright flash of golden light.
Those who knew of the significance of the phenomenon gasped. Mrs. Potter started sobbing and fled the Great Hall. Mr. Potter stumbled back against the wall with a hand to his chest. Evan was gaping at Hardwin, his previous anger obliterated from present thought.
"Stay the hell away from me," Hardwin snarled.
Without another word, he turned on his heel, his dinner forgotten on the table. Hardwin stalked through the corridors and down into the dungeons. He hissed the word for the Slytherin dormitory ("Medusa!") without realizing that there was a literal underlying hiss to the sound. He didn't stop moving until he reached his bedroom, thankful once more that every Slytherin student was given their own personal space.
Hardwin ripped his school robes off and threw on his pajamas then flopped down on his bed.
Now that he was away from the Great Hall, Hardwin's adrenaline started to fade and he was left with the horror of the way he had revealed so much about his life in front of the whole school. He didn't know why he had done it—it was like something inside him had snapped when Mr. Potter claimed to be his father and started trying to order him around like a servant.
Like the Dursleys.
All Hardwin knew for certain was that his life had gotten supremely more complicated.
Not once that weekend did Hardwin leave his bedroom, not even for meals, but no one came to get him, either, so he saw no reason to think anyone cared. He spent the entire day on both Saturday and Sunday doing his homework, and when that was done, he turned to reading ahead in his textbooks.
He was a little surprised that not even a teacher came to check, but Hardwin was so used to nobody giving a damn about him that it was easy to push aside that hurt and focus instead on learning more magic. He turned to a book on duelling spells he had picked up at the library after his first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson—something told him that he would need to know how to fight.
When school started up again on Monday, no one said a word about Friday's dinner — at least, not where they thought Hardwin could hear them, but he did.
It was from those whispers that he learned what the flash of light had been—magic itself (which, was actually sentient, as it turned out) had accepted Hardwin's claim of disowning himself from the Potter family. While he still had their blood in his veins, he would no longer show up on their family tapestry or through a lineage test; he wasn't a member of the family anymore.
He was a Potter only in name, now.
Despite the heaviness of the situation, Hardwin felt strangely light, as if he had left a burden behind him. He had spent years wondering if his parents would be proud of him, if they would condemn him for all the horrible things he had done in life, but now that was no longer a concern. He knew exactly how they felt about him—they didn't care in the slightest, which meant he was free to live his life in whatever manner he wished.
On the first Thursday following his encounter with the Potters, the Slytherins and Gryffindors gathered out on the castle grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day and the grass rippled under their feet. Hardwin stood with his eyes closed, embracing the warmth of the sun on his face. He was just looking forward to the lesson being over and done with so Malfoy would stop bragging to anyone with ears about how great a flyer he was and how many times he had 'narrowly escaped one of those muggle flying machines'—Hardwin assumed he meant a helicopter.
When the Gryffindors finally arrived at half past three, the Slytherins had already been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes. Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived not much later. She was a grey-haired woman with yellow eyes like a hawk's.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
Hardwin glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch called, "and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" everyone shouted.
Hardwin's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. The only other students to have managed it were Malfoy and Potter. Granger's simply rolled over on the ground, and Millicent Bulstrode's hadn't moved at all.
Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," Madam Hooch instructed. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three—two —"
Before Madam Hooch could blow her whistle, however, Neville Longbottom lifted into the air and floated higher and higher until he was five metres above the ground.
"Come back, boy!" she shouted.
Longbottom's face was pale, his eyes wide and filled with fear. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slipped sideways off the broomstick.
WHAM!
Hardwin winced.
Longbottom lay face-down on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher. It started to drift lazily toward the Forbidden Forest and out of sight.
Madam Hooch bent over Longbottom, her face as white as his.
"Broken wrist," she muttered. "Come on, boy—it's all right, up you get." She turned to the rest of the class. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."
She flicked her wand and levitated his unconscious body onto a conjured stretcher before heading back to the castle for medical treatment.
No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter.
"Did you see his face, the great lump?"
Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson joined in.
"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped a Gryffindor girl with dark skin and plaited black hair. Hardwin recalled that she had a twin sister in Ravenclaw.
"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" Parkinson mocked. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."
"Look!" Malfoy darted forward and snatched something out of the grass. A small glass ball glittered in the sun as he held it up. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's mum sent him."
"Give that here, Malfoy," Potter snarled.
Everyone stopped talking to watch.
Malfoy smiled nastily. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find—how about… up a tree?"
Hardwin sniffed in disgust. Malfoy lacked any sense of subtlety—how he had made Slytherin, beyond his prejudices against anyone and anything that wasn't a pureblood, Hardwin would never know. He looked forward to the day where Malfoy bit off more than he could chew.
"Give it here!" Potter yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off.
Hovering level with the top branches of an oak, Malfoy called, "Come and get it, Potter!"
Potter grabbed his broom.
"No!" Granger shouted. "Madam Hooch told us not to move—you'll get us all into trouble."
Hardwin felt it would be rather pointless to inform her that only whoever was caught would get in trouble—the rest of them would be just fine if they remained on the ground.
He watched as Potter launched after Malfoy, then the two of them exchanged a few words while Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown gasped and the boys cheered. Then Malfoy turned and threw Longbottom's ball as hard as he could before streaking back toward the ground.
Potter sped off after the ball, racing it to the ground and snatching it a foot from impact, just in time to pull his broom up.
"EVAN POTTER!"
Hardwin smirked when he spotted Professor McGonagall was running toward them.
"Never—in all my time at Hogwarts —" Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, though Hardwin doubted her words were true. "— how dare you—might have broken your neck –"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor —"
"Be quiet, Mr. Finnigan —"
"But Malfoy —"
"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now."
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looked triumphant as a dejected and terrified Potter walked numbly in Professor McGonagall's wake back toward the castle.
Hardwin felt like cheering. Potter deserved whatever punishment came his way for reacting so poorly to a situation with such a simple solution. All Potter had to do was sit back and let Malfoy make a fool of himself—Malfoy was arrogant enough that he would have stayed up there, and then he would have been the one that Professor McGonagall caught breaking the rules.
It was hardly difficult to see why Potter was in Gryffindor.
The next morning at breakfast, a long, thin parcel carried by six large screech owls circled near the ceiling before dropping to the Gryffindor table.
Right on top of Evan Potter.
Hardwin scowled. Not only was the twat not punished for breaking the rules, but he had been given a spot on the House Quidditch team and a new broomstick. Potter didn't open the package at the table, but anyone with eyes and a semblance of a functioning brain could tell what it was.
Potter and Weasley immediately left the hall—Hardwin wasn't surprised to see Malfoy follow them with Crabbe and Goyle at his flanks.
After their Double Potions lesson a few hours later, Professor Snape asked Hardwin to stay behind. Professor Snape had been giving him strange looks during meals when he clearly thought he wasn't looking, but Hardwin had grown used to noticing the small details, searching for possible threats.
Once the classroom was empty, Professor Snape did the last thing Hardwin would have ever expected from him—he wanted to talk about feelings.
"How are you, Mr. Potter?"
Hardwin almost scowled when he was called 'Potter,' but he expertly managed to keep it hidden.
"I'm fine, sir," he answered politely.
"Really?" Professor Snape looked unimpressed. "I was under the impression that your life had taken a turn for the worst—students avoiding you in the corridors, your study partner, Mr. Nott, distancing himself, why, I even heard that Professor McGonagall has gained a tendency to glare any time she so much as glances in your direction."
Hardwin kept his face carefully emotionless, but inside he was seething at the reminders. It was as if the entire school had turned against him after he yelled at the Potters—and the Slytherins probably only avoided him because they didn't care enough about someone who had no influence. Either that, or it was the small matter that Professor Snape seemed to like him more than most other students, for some unknown reason; giving him points in class when he answered the simplest of questions.
"You may not believe me," Professor Snape said quietly, "but I do care for my Slytherins, and my door is always open for any issues that may arise while you are here at Hogwarts."
"Is that all, Professor?" Hardwin asked tonelessly. "I have an essay on the properties of moonstone for your class that I'd like to have done by dinner tonight."
Professor Snape's lips twitched. "Yes, that is all, Mr. Potter."
Hardwin was unable to restrain a wince this time. He left the room without another word, wondering where that conversation had come from. Everything Hardwin had heard from the older students about Professor Snape told him that the 'Dungeon Bat'—as many residents of Hogwarts called him—rarely, if ever, showed concern for a student, even the ones in his own House. If Professor Snape was taking an interest in him, then Hardwin could only assume that his Potions teacher had his own agenda.
It was only a matter of finding out what it was.