The Ravenclaw dormitories were unlike anything Harry had imagined. Nestled high in the towering spires of Hogwarts, the common room was a work of celestial beauty. The vaulted ceiling was enchanted to resemble a night sky, constellations twinkling softly against a backdrop of midnight blue. Tall, arched windows overlooked the grounds, and the room was dotted with plush armchairs, bookcases crammed with tomes, and tables that seemed purpose-built for study sessions.
The dormitories themselves were just as breathtaking. Harry climbed the spiral staircase to the first-year boys' dorm and stepped into a cosy yet elegant room. Three canopied beds with deep blue curtains encircled a central area, where a small table stood littered with candles and parchment. A bronze chandelier hung above, casting warm light that reflected off the intricate carvings on the wooden beams.
Harry's bed was by the window, where he could see the moonlight shimmering on the lake in the distance. He placed Hedwig's cage on his bedside table and gave her an affectionate stroke. She hooted softly, settling into her feathers.
His dormmates were already preparing for bed: Stephen Cornfoot and Kevin Entwhistle.
They seemed nice enough, if a bit tired from the day's excitement. After a few introductions and a bit of light chatter, the others drifted off to sleep, the soft sound of breathing filling the room.
But Harry couldn't sleep.
He sat on his bed, pulling out the two-way journal. Its soft leather cover felt comforting under his fingertips as he opened it, revealing the blank page. He took a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
Luna,
I've been sorted into Ravenclaw. It's strange because the hat said I could have been in Slytherin or Gryffindor too. But Ravenclaw feels… right. I think you would like it here. The dorms are high up in one of the towers, and the view is amazing. The common room is full of books and has this enchanted ceiling that looks like the night sky. You'd love it.
But it's not all good. Everyone keeps staring at me. Whispering. They don't know me, but they act like they do just because of the stupid scar. It's worse than I thought it would be. And Dumbledore... I saw him at the feast. There's something about him, Luna. He feels off. Like he's watching me, waiting for something. I don't trust him.
I hope you're okay. I miss you already.
Harry watched as the ink shimmered and disappeared, the spell connecting their journals activating. Moments later, Luna's reply appeared in her loopy handwriting.
Harry,
You're where you're meant to be. Ravenclaw sounds perfect for you. And don't worry about the whispers—they'll fade. People are silly that way. As for Dumbledore, dreamers like us see what others don't. Trust your instincts.
Remember to look at the stars from your tower window. They'll remind you of home.
Harry smiled softly, closing the journal and setting it aside. The stars outside did feel a little like home.
~
By morning, Harry had braced himself for what he suspected would be a long week. He wasn't wrong.
Everywhere he went, people whispered. Conversations hushed as he passed, and heads turned in his direction.
He'd barely gotten through breakfast that first morning when Ron Weasley intercepted him in the Great Hall.
"Oi, Harry!" Ron called, jogging over with a grin plastered across his face.
Harry barely had time to respond before Ron plopped down beside him uninvited.
"I've been looking for you," Ron said, his tone conspiratorial. "I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley."
Harry blinked. "Uh, hi."
Ron gave him a once-over, frowning slightly. "You should've been in Gryffindor, you know. What's wrong with you? Why'd you let the hat put you here?"
Harry stiffened, feeling his temper flare. "I didn't let the hat do anything. It put me where I belong."
Ron waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, don't worry about it. We'll sort it out. You'll still be my best mate and all, even if you're a bit... odd."
Harry stared at him, stunned by the sheer audacity. "I don't even know you."
Ron looked taken aback, but before he could respond, Hermione Granger appeared, huffing with indignation.
"Ronald Weasley! Leave him alone! He doesn't need you badgering him on his first week!"
Ron flushed but muttered something under his breath before walking away.
Harry exhaled sharply as Ron trudged off, feeling both bewildered and annoyed. The encounter left a sour taste in his mouth, and as he turned back to his plate, he noticed a few of his new housemates exchanging looks. A tall girl with dark curls leaned forward from across the table, her eyes alight with curiosity.
"That was… something," she said, her voice light but edged with amusement. "Gryffindors always act like they own the place, but it could just be a Weasley thing?"
Harry glanced up, uncertain how to respond. "I—well, I don't know. I've only known him for all of thirty seconds."
The girl laughed softly, then extended a hand. "Maya Byrne, third year. You're Harry, obviously. Welcome to Ravenclaw."
He shook her hand, grateful for the distraction. "Thanks. Nice to meet you."
"Don't mind him," chimed in another voice. A stocky boy with dark hair who was sitting to Harry's right gave him a sympathetic smile. "Weasley's one of those kids who thinks Gryffindor's the only house that matters." He paused before adding, "I'm Michael Corner, by the way."
Harry nodded, though he couldn't quite shake the irritation from Ron's presumptuousness. He felt like he'd been in Hogwarts for five minutes, and already people were telling him where he should be and how he should act.
"Do people always make such a big deal about houses?" he asked, glancing between Maya and Michael.
Maya shrugged. "Depends. Some people are really house-proud—especially Gryffindors and Slytherins. But most of us couldn't care less. I mean, it's just where you sleep and eat, right?"
"Exactly," Michael agreed, reaching for a piece of toast. "You'll see, my family have been Ravenclaws. We've got the best common room, and most of us are pretty decent."
Harry appreciated their reassurance, though he couldn't help but notice the lingering glances from other Ravenclaws at the table. They weren't being unfriendly, but he could tell they were still sizing him up.
"Alright, first-years!" Professor Flitwick's cheerful voice rang out, interrupting Harry's thoughts. The diminutive Charms professor was bustling down the aisle between the tables, a stack of parchment in his hands. "Gather round, please! Time to collect your timetables!"
Harry quickly finished the last bite of his toast and joined the cluster of first-year Ravenclaws gathering around Flitwick. The professor beamed up at them as he handed out the schedules, his energy infectious.
"Today's your first full day of classes," Flitwick said, addressing the group. "You'll start with Charms—my class, naturally—followed by Potions with Professor Snape, and then Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall after lunch, followed by Defence Against the Dart Arts with Professor Quirrell. A busy day, but I'm sure you'll do splendidly!"
Harry accepted his timetable, scanning the list of classes.
As the group dispersed, Terry peered over Harry's shoulder at his schedule. "Looks like we've all got the same lineup today."
Michael nodded in agreement. "Charms first. We'll like Flitwick; he's brilliant. Bit excitable, apparently."
"Excitable's good," Harry muttered.
The Ravenclaw first-years filed out of the Great Hall, following Maya's lead. As they climbed the staircase toward the Charms classroom, Harry listened as his classmates chattered around him.
"So, is it true?" asked a girl with brown hair and a nervous smile, falling into step beside Harry. "You're the Harry Potter?"
Harry resisted the urge to groan. "I suppose so."
The girl flushed, realizing how awkward her question had sounded. "Sorry. It's just—well, people talk. I thought you'd be taller."
Terry snorted. "Everyone thought he'd be in Gryffindor, too. Shows how much they know."
Harry appreciated the deflection, but the comment reminded him of Ron's words. "What's wrong with being in Ravenclaw, anyway?" he asked, his frustration bubbling over. "Why does everyone act like I made some terrible mistake?"
Maya slowed her pace from where she was guiding them, glancing back at him. "Because people love putting others in boxes. You're Harry Potter, so they expect you to be brave and daring and all that Gryffindor nonsense."
Harry considered that as they reached the Charms classroom. The Sorting Hat's decision hadn't surprised him, after all he's always valued knowledge over most things.
Flitwick was already waiting inside the classroom, standing on a stack of books to reach his podium. He greeted the students warmly as they filed in, his enthusiasm lighting up the room.
"Welcome, welcome!" he chirped, clapping his hands together. "Today, we'll begin with the basics of wand work. A strong foundation is key to becoming a skilled witch or wizard!"
Harry took a seat near the middle of the room. He felt a flicker of nervous excitement as he pulled out his wand, eager to see what magic they would be learning.
The awkwardness of using a wand became apparent during this lesson. Flitwick had them practicing the Levitation Charm, Wingardium Leviosa.
Harry swished and flicked his wand as instructed, focusing on the feather before him. He felt the familiar hum of magic, but channelling it through the wand felt unnatural, like trying to breathe through a straw.
The feather shot into the air with explosive force, slamming into the ceiling and getting stuck in the rafters.
Flitwick looked up, startled. "Well! That's... enthusiastic!"
The class burst into laughter, but Harry's cheeks burned. He couldn't shake the feeling that his wand was more of a hindrance than a help.
~
The moment Harry entered the Potions dungeon, the air felt heavier, more oppressive. The stone walls seemed to close in around them, their damp coldness chilling him more than the September weather above. A low murmur of chatter filled the room as Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs took their seats.
Then Snape swept in, his robes billowing in the air. The classroom fell silent in an instant.
"Settle down," Snape commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow it carried effortlessly through the room. He made his way to the front, his black eyes scanning the class with a mixture of disdain and disinterest.
Harry felt those eyes land on him, and the disdain sharpened into something cold and deliberate.
"Ah," Snape said, his lips curling into a sneer. "Our new... celebrity." His voice dripped with contempt, and the word felt like an accusation rather than a title.
The room grew uncomfortably still. Harry could feel every set of eyes in the class darting between him and Snape. For a moment, he considered responding, but he realised that would only make things worse. Instead, he met Snape's gaze evenly, refusing to flinch.
Snape's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Harry felt the familiar rush of anxiety he'd grown used to over the years whenever adults tried to test him. But then he remembered his time with the Pritchards. Mr. Pritchard was a hobbyist potion-maker, and Harry had spent countless afternoons helping him brew remedies. He knew this one.
"Draught of Living Death," Harry said evenly. "It's a powerful sleeping potion."
Snape raised an eyebrow but didn't let up. "And where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
"In the stomach of a goat, sir." Harry replied without hesitation.
"And tell me, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"They're the same plant," Harry said, meeting Snape's glare head-on. "Also known as aconite."
A soft murmur rippled through the class. Harry could feel Michael shooting him an impressed look, and even the rest of the class looked mildly surprised. Snape, however, was not impressed. His scowl deepened with every correct answer, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"Let me make one thing clear," Snape said, his voice low and dangerous. He stepped closer, his dark eyes narrowing on Harry. "Fame isn't everything, Potter. You may have everyone else fooled, but I assure you, I am not so easily impressed."
Harry didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what he could say that wouldn't make things worse. Snape stared him down for a moment longer before turning abruptly on his heel and sweeping back to the front of the room.
"Today," Snape announced, "you will be attempting a simple potion: a Cure for Boils. Instructions are on the board. Do not waste my time with questions; everything you need is there. Begin."
There was a scrape of chairs as everyone moved to gather their ingredients. Michael leaned in close to Harry as they opened their textbooks.
"Well, that was... intense," he whispered, smirking slightly. "You really know your stuff, though."
Harry shrugged, still feeling the weight of Snape's scrutiny. "Just lucky I read about it before."
Michael raised an eyebrow as he fetched his cauldron. "You'd better hope that doesn't make Snape hate you even more."
Harry didn't respond, but he suspected Michael was right. As they prepared their ingredients, he noticed Snape prowling the room, his sharp eyes darting over their work.
"Careful with that, Michael," Harry warned as Michael nearly added the porcupine quills too early. "It says to take the cauldron off the heat first."
Michael blinked at the board and sighed. "Good catch. Thanks."
Meanwhile, the Hufflepuffs at the next table seemed to be struggling. Harry recognised one of them as Hannah Abbott, whose blonde hair kept falling into her eyes as she chopped her ingredients. Her partner, a round-faced boy named Ernie Macmillan, looked even more nervous than she did.
"You're supposed to crush the snake fangs first," Anthony whispered to them, pointing discreetly at the instructions. Hannah flashed him a grateful smile.
As the potion-making progressed, the room filled with the sound of bubbling cauldrons and the occasional hiss of steam. Harry found himself slipping into the rhythm of the work. Measuring, stirring, and timing each step came naturally to him, and for a while, he almost forgot about Snape's looming presence.
Almost.
"Five points from Ravenclaw," Snape's voice cut through the room like a whip. Harry looked up to see the professor glaring at Michael, who had apparently spilled some crushed snake fangs onto the table.
"Sorry, sir," Michael mumbled, quickly cleaning up the mess.
"Sloppiness will not be tolerated," Snape sneered. "And you—" he turned to another student, who had just finished stirring her potion clockwise instead of counterclockwise. "Did I not make it clear to read the instructions?"
She flushed, but she didn't let Snape rattle her. "Yes, Professor. I'll fix it."
By the time Snape reached Harry's table again, his potion was nearly complete. The liquid in his cauldron was the pale green colour described on the board, and it gave off a faint, herbal scent. Snape leaned over, inspecting it with a critical eye.
"Hmm," he said, his tone begrudging. "Barely adequate."
It wasn't exactly praise, but Harry took it as a win.
"Potter," Snape said suddenly, his voice low enough that only Harry could hear. "A word of advice: you may think yourself clever now, but arrogance is a dangerous thing. It has brought down wizards far more talented than you."
Harry looked up, startled by the venom in Snape's words. For a brief moment, he saw something flash in the professor's eyes—something that looked almost like hatred. Before he could respond, Snape straightened and moved on to the next table, his robes billowing behind him.
What the hell is his problem? Harry thought.
The rest of the lesson passed in tense silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of steam or clatter of glassware. When class finally ended, Harry felt a wave of relief as he packed up his things.
"Well, that was fun," Michael said dryly as they left the dungeon. "Snape really has it out for you, doesn't he?"
Terry nodded, shaking his head. "No kidding. What's his problem?"
Harry hesitated. He couldn't shake the feeling that Snape's hostility was personal, though he had no idea why. "I don't know," he admitted.
As they climbed the stairs back to the main floor, the Hufflepuffs caught up with them. Hannah Abbott gave them a shy smile.
"Thanks for pointing out the instructions," she said to Anthony. "I don't think we would've managed without you."
"No problem," he replied, grinning. "We first years have to stick together. Even if we're helping the competition."
Hannah laughed, and even Ernie managed a small smile. "We're not much competition," he said. "But thanks anyway."
As they walked towards transfiguration, Harry found himself feeling lighter.
The Transfiguration classroom was bright and orderly, the rows of desks arranged with precision to match the stern face of Professor McGonagall, who stood at the front, her lips pressed into a thin line as she surveyed the arriving students. The morning sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows that danced across the polished wooden floor.
Harry, still buzzing with unease from Potions, slid into a seat near the middle of the room, flanked by Michael and Terry. The Hufflepuffs entered shortly after, Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillan among them, their earlier nervousness replaced by a cautious optimism.
"Welcome to Transfiguration," McGonagall began, her crisp voice cutting through the chatter as soon as the last student took their seat. "This is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back."
Harry straightened in his seat, already sensing that this was a subject McGonagall took as seriously as Snape did Potions, though without the hostility.
McGonagall flicked her wand, and the chalk at the board began to write, her voice flowing in tandem with the neat script. "Transfiguration is the art of changing the form or appearance of an object. Today, we will begin with something simple: turning a matchstick into a needle."
At a wave of her wand, small wooden matchsticks appeared in front of every student. "The incantation is Vera Verto. Proper pronunciation and focus are essential. Now, watch closely."
She raised her wand and pointed it at a matchstick on her desk. With a sharp and deliberate flick, she intoned, "Vera Verto." The matchstick shimmered and morphed into a gleaming silver needle.
"Your turn," McGonagall said, stepping back to observe. "Be patient, and concentrate."
The room filled with muttered repetitions of the spell as the students tried their hand. Harry stared at his matchstick, suppressing the urge to sigh. He'd mastered this years ago when he first began exploring wandless magic in secret with Mrs. Figgs books. Still, he raised his wand like everyone else, muttering the incantation under his breath.
"Vera Verto," he said softly, trying to focus on the wand. In truth, his mind did all the work. With a faint shimmer, the matchstick transformed smoothly into a needle.
"Not bad, Harry!" Michael whispered, grinning as his own matchstick wobbled slightly but remained stubbornly wooden.
Harry forced a small smile. He didn't want to stand out too much, but it seemed inevitable. McGonagall swept past his table, her sharp eyes glancing at his needle and a small smile tugging at her lips.
"Well done, Mr. Potter," she said, her tone measured but not unkind. "Precise work. Keep it up."
"Thanks, Professor," Harry replied, trying to sound casual.
Michael groaned softly beside him. "How'd you get it so quickly? I can't even get mine to twitch."
"Just... focus," Harry said, trying not to sound dismissive. "Picture it in your mind before you say the spell."
In front of him, another Ravenclaw was biting her lip, glaring at her matchstick as though sheer willpower might force it to change. Her wand moved in quick, frustrated jabs as she muttered the spell. "Vera Verto! Come on!"
Meanwhile, the Hufflepuffs were having mixed success. Hannah Abbott managed a halfway transformation, her matchstick turning into a warped, silvery object that resembled a misshapen needle. Ernie Macmillan, however, was muttering the incantation so softly that his matchstick didn't even budge.
"Speak up, Ernie," a student called across the aisle. "The spell needs confidence!"
McGonagall's voice cut through the noise. "Miss Bones, you are not wrong. Clear pronunciation is essential. Keep at it, Mr. Macmillan."
Harry noticed McGonagall giving him the occasional glance as she moved through the room. He wondered if she suspected how easily he'd managed the task, but she said nothing, focusing instead on offering advice to the struggling students.
By the end of the lesson, only a handful of students had succeeded in semi-transforming their matchsticks. McGonagall surveyed the room, her expression stern but not unkind.
"Good effort, all of you," she said. "Transfiguration is a difficult subject, and it will take time to master. For homework, I want you to practice this spell for at least fifteen minutes every evening. Dismissed."
As the class filed out, Michael nudged Harry. "You make this stuff look easy. Seriously, where'd you learn to do that?"
Harry hesitated, then shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess."
Padma rolled her eyes. "Right, because luck turns matchsticks into perfect needles."
Before Harry could respond, Hannah Abbott caught up with them. "That was amazing, Harry," she said shyly. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone get it on their first try."
Harry felt his ears heat up. "Thanks, but it's not that impressive."
"It is to me," Hannah insisted. "I barely managed anything."
Ernie, trailing behind her, gave Harry an appraising look. "Maybe you should tutor the rest of us," he said, only half-joking.
"I think Harry's got enough on his plate," Terry said with a grin.
They headed to lunch together, the chatter about the lesson helping to ease Harry's lingering nerves.
~
The first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson was held in a gloomy classroom that smelled faintly of damp stone and strongly of garlic. Professor Quirrell stood at the front, his turban tilted awkwardly on his head.
Harry settled into his seat near the back, wary of the man's nervous stutter and darting eyes. As Quirrell began his lecture on basic defensive spells, Harry's scar gave a sharp, sudden throb.
He winced, pressing a hand to his forehead. The pain wasn't overwhelming, but it was strange and persistent, like a warning.
"Something wrong?" Terry Boot whispered beside him.
Harry shook his head. "I'm fine," he murmured, though his scar continued to ache throughout the lesson.
Quirrell demonstrated a simple Shield Charm, his hands trembling slightly as he performed the incantation. When it was Harry's turn to try, the pain in his scar flared again, distracting him. His first attempt at the charm fizzled, drawing a sharp bark of laughter from a Slytherin at the front.
Gritting his teeth, Harry focused his magic through his wand and tried again. This time, the shield flickered into existence, a pale blue shimmer that rippled in the air.
"V-Very good, Mr. Potter," Quirrell said, though his smile seemed forced.
As the class ended, Harry packed his things quickly, eager to escape the unsettling room.
The rest of Harry's first week at Hogwarts passed in a blur of lessons, staircases that seemed to move just to confuse him, and endless whispers wherever he went. The attention was exhausting, but Harry did his best to ignore it, focusing instead on his classes and his new maybe friends in Ravenclaw.
By Friday evening, he found himself sitting in the Ravenclaw common room, staring out the window at the darkening sky. Michael and Kevin were nearby, their heads bent over their Charms homework. Anthony was arguing with Padma about the correct wand motion for a Lumos charm, while Terry Boot tried to mediate.
For the first time all week, Harry felt a small sense of peace.
~
Harry had found a small, hidden alcove tucked away behind a tapestry depicting a group of witches embroiled in a heated game of wizard's chess. It was a quiet, out-of-the-way spot where he could write in peace. The alcove had just enough room for a cushioned bench and a small ledge where he could set his journal. The light from the enchanted ceiling in the nearby corridor cast a soft glow, giving the space a peaceful atmosphere.
Pulling the journal from his bag, he prepared to write in it. The blank pages shimmered, and moments later, Luna's neat, looping handwriting appeared.
Luna.
I finally found some time to write. It's been a whirlwind of a week—Hogwarts is amazing, but it's also overwhelming. There are so many people, and everyone keeps staring at me like I'm some sort of exhibit. I'm still getting used to the wand... It's strange having to push my magic through it when I'm so used to doing things on my own. Some spells work, but others come out... well, let's just say too well.
How are you? How's Flick? Has he been behaving himself, or is he still slithering into places he's not supposed to?
Harry,
I miss you already. The house feels much quieter without you here every week, though Flick has been keeping me company. He's very curious about everything, especially the little bells I've strung by the windows to keep the Wrackspurts out. I think he likes the sound they make when the wind blows. He keeps flicking them with his tail.
The old snake has stayed in her nest, just as she said she would. She seems quite content there, but I think Flick misses her. I'll use your portkey to go visit her with Flick when I can.
I'm glad you're finding Hogwarts amazing, but I'm sorry about the stares. They'll get used to you eventually—or they'll find something else to talk about. People often whisper about me, too, but I don't mind so much. It's like a song you're not meant to hear, but it doesn't stop the music from playing.
Tell me about your first week. What's it like in Ravenclaw? Have you made any friends yet?
Ravenclaw's nice, actually. I wasn't sure what to expect, but the common room is incredible. It's got a ceiling that looks like the night sky, and the view from the windows is stunning—you can see all the way to the Forbidden Forest. My dormmates are decent, too. They're smart, obviously, but not stuck-up like some people might think.
We've had a few classes already. Charms was interesting—I managed to levitate a feather, but the wand made it shoot up so fast it got stuck in the rafters. Flitwick thought it was funny, though. In Transfiguration, I snuck in a bit of wandless magic because I didn't think the wand would cooperate. No one noticed, I think but I did feel like I was cheating somehow.
Defence Against the Dark Arts was... strange. The professor, Quirrell, is a nervous wreck. The classroom smelled like garlic, and my scar started hurting during the lesson. It's never done that before, and I don't like it.
How's the garden? Did the gnomes come back, or did you manage to keep them out this time?
Your common room sounds beautiful. I can almost picture it! I'm glad you like your dormmates. It's good to have people to talk to, especially when you're in a new place.
Your Defence class sounds odd. Garlic? Maybe he's worried about vampires. Or perhaps he just likes the smell. Either way, I don't think it's normal for your scar to hurt. Maybe the professor is carrying something dark around him—some people do without even realising it. You should be careful.
The garden is doing well. The gnomes came back once, but I convinced them to leave by hanging some shrunken apple cores on the fence. They think it's a warning from a territorial Bowtruckle.
Flick tried to eat one of the cores, but I stopped him in time. He's very cheeky.
I've been thinking... Maybe I should write you a letter, pretending we met over the summer. That way, when I get to Hogwarts, no one will think it's strange that we're best friends already. What do you think?
That's a brilliant idea. If you write to me now, I can show the letter to my dormmates if they ask. They'll think we became friends in Diagon Alley or something. It'll explain why we already know each other so well when you get here.
You're clever, Luna—using apple cores to trick them into thinking there's a Bowtruckle around is pure genius. I don't think I would've thought of that.
As for my scar... you might be right about Quirrell carrying something dark. There's just something off about him. His voice makes my skin crawl. I'll be careful, though. I always am.
I haven't had much time to explore the castle yet, but I've found a little nook behind a tapestry that's perfect for reading and writing. It's quiet, and no one's found me here yet. I feel like it's my little secret.
I wish you were here, though. It'd be nice to have someone who actually understands me.
I think everyone should have a secret nook. It sounds lovely. I hope you've brought some good books with you. Have you been to the library yet? I imagine it's marvellous—rows and rows of shelves, each one brimming with possibilities.
I'll write the letter tomorrow. I'll say we met in Diagon Alley at Flourish and Blotts while looking at books, and we decided to keep in touch. I'll even mention Flick. No one will suspect a thing.
I wish I was there, too. But we'll be together soon enough. In the meantime, remember; just because you're different doesn't mean you're wrong. Some people don't understand things they haven't seen before, but that doesn't make those things any less true.
Keep writing to me. It helps, doesn't it?
It really does help. It's like having a piece of home with me.
I miss you.
I miss you too.
Harry smiled as he closed the journal. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he felt truly grounded. Luna had a way of reminding him who he was and what really mattered. Tucking the journal back into his bag, he leaned against the cool stone wall of the alcove, letting out a long, contented sigh.
~
A couple of days later, Hedwig brought him a letter from Luna that included a fake reminder of how they met in the summer and how she was ever so glad to meet him that day. It seemed people weren't as nosy as he thought they would be. He got a few glances, but nobody asked him about it.
~
The first month at Hogwarts passed in a whirlwind of discovery, whispered rumours, and moments that left Harry both amazed and overwhelmed. He'd spent much of his time juggling an endless list of firsts—first classes, first house points, first spellwork—but it was the quieter moments that stuck with him the most. Between dodging Ron Weasley's persistent attempts to buddy up to him and Hermione Granger's pointed questions about how he mastered spells so quickly, Harry found solace in the company of Neville Longbottom.
There was something grounding about Neville's calm presence. They shared many quiet conversations, both boys preferring calm moments to the chaos of the wider school.
One cold afternoon, Harry wandered into the greenhouses after Herbology, looking for some peace before lunch. The warmth of the room and the scent of damp earth reminded him of warm days in the forest where he practiced with his snakes. Rows of plants stretched out before him, some with vivid flowers, others strange and spiny.
Near the back, Neville crouched by a table of potted plants, intently examining the leaves of one. His head was bent, and he didn't seem to notice Harry's arrival.
"Neville?" Harry called, stepping closer.
Neville startled slightly but then smiled when he looked up. "Oh, hi, Harry. Didn't hear you come in."
Harry crouched down beside him, peering curiously at the plant. Its thick, waxy leaves shimmered faintly in the sunlight streaming through the greenhouse glass.
"What's that one?" Harry asked.
"Valerian," Neville said, his fingers brushing gently over the leaves as though they were made of glass. "Professor Sprout said we might use it in Potions soon. Thought I'd get a closer look."
Harry smiled. "You're really good at this stuff."
Neville flushed, looking down at the plant. "My gran says I spend too much time in the garden, but I don't know... Plants just make sense to me. They don't talk back, they don't judge you... They just grow if you take care of them."
"I get that," Harry said softly, his mind wandering back to the quiet afternoons he used to spend planting vegetables and coaxing wildflowers to bloom.
They lapsed into a companionable silence, Neville carefully inspecting the underside of a leaf while Harry reached out to touch one of the nearby flowers. It was a simple daisy-like bloom, but the moment Harry's fingers brushed its petals, a faint pulse of energy ran through him.
Unconsciously, Harry's magic stirred. The flower perked up, its petals unfurling wider and brighter, as though reaching for sunlight. Neville noticed immediately.
"Whoa," Neville whispered, his eyes widening. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" Harry asked, pulling his hand back quickly, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"That flower—it just... it looked droopy a second ago, but now it's standing straight up."
Harry shrugged, trying to play it off. "Maybe it's the sunlight. Or maybe it's just the magic in it?"
Neville didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. They returned to their plants, and Harry made a mental note to keep his magic in check. He'd spent years hiding it—especially his elemental abilities. Earth magic, in particular, had always been tricky to control. Plants, soil, and even the very air seemed to react to him when his guard was down.
As they moved to a different section of the greenhouse, Harry continued to ask Neville about the plants. The boy lit up, talking about magical herbs and their properties, his shy demeanour replaced by excitement.
"Hey," Harry said after a while, "do you want to compare schedules later? Maybe we could hang out after classes or study when we both have free time."
Neville's face brightened. "Really? That'd be great! I don't have many friends yet and I'm not very good with magic."
"Me neither," Harry admitted with a grin.
They left the greenhouse together, heading back toward the castle for lunch. What Harry didn't notice as he stepped out was the subtle change in the plants behind him. Flowers that had been half-closed now bloomed fully, their colours more vibrant. Leaves that had sagged in the heat seemed to lift, as though refreshed.
Neville paused in the doorway, glancing back at the greenhouse. His eyes widened as he took in the transformation. He looked at Harry's retreating figure, a mixture of awe and curiosity in his expression.
Neville didn't say anything, but he promised himself one thing: he wouldn't tell anyone.
The rest of the week flew by in a blur. Harry fell into the rhythm of classes, finding some easier than others. Charms, Astronomy and Transfiguration came naturally sometimes, much to Hermione's obvious frustration, while History of Magic left him feeling drained.
Potions remained tense, with Snape's pointed glares making Harry feel like a cauldron on the verge of exploding. Yet, he managed to keep his head down, relying on the knowledge he'd picked up from Mr. Pritchard to stay ahead.
Herbology, however, became one of Harry's favourite classes. There was something satisfying about working with his hands, the dirt beneath his nails a familiar comfort. He and Neville often worked together, and Harry quickly realized just how much his friend knew about magical plants.
One evening, Harry sat with Neville by the lake, their books spread out in front of them as they attempted to tackle their Astronomy homework. The sky above was painted in shades of orange and purple, the first stars beginning to twinkle.
"…there's too much to learn all at once," Neville said, closing his book with a sigh.
"Agreed," Harry admitted with a chuckle. "But I think we'll get there. Eventually."
Neville nodded, his gaze drifting to the water. "You're lucky, though. You seem to pick things up so fast. Spells, potions... even Professor McGonagall seems impressed."
Harry hesitated. "I've had some practice before," he said carefully. "But I'm still learning, just like you. And tell that to Snape."
Neville smiled faintly, then looked down at a cluster of wildflowers growing near the water's edge. "You know," he said quietly, "I've seen flowers bloom after you touch them. Like in the greenhouse."
Harry froze. "What are you talking about?"
Neville shook his head quickly. "Nothing bad! It's... I think it's amazing. But don't worry—I won't tell anyone."
Harry studied Neville's earnest expression, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thanks," he said after a moment. "I don't really understand it myself, but...my magic reaches out to the earth, and it answers. I appreciate you keeping it between us."
"Of course," Neville said firmly.
As they sat in companionable silence, Harry glanced at the flowers Neville had been looking at. They seemed brighter, their petals catching the fading light in a way that felt almost magical.
~
Harry's newfound routine of visiting the library didn't go unnoticed. Each time he entered, he felt eyes on him. At first, he assumed it was just the usual staring from other students—the Boy-Who-Lived phenomenon—but soon he realized the gaze was specific.
It was Draco Malfoy.
The blond Slytherin never approached him, but Harry would often catch him glancing over with a furrowed brow and a contemplative expression. It was almost as if Malfoy was trying to puzzle something out about him.
One afternoon, Harry was returning a book on advanced charms to the shelves when he turned and found Malfoy standing a few paces away.
"Potter," Malfoy said, his voice hesitant.
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the lack of hostility in his tone. "Malfoy."
Malfoy's lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked as though he wanted to say more. But after a moment, he simply nodded and walked away.
Harry watched him go, frowning. Malfoy wasn't acting like the spoiled brat he'd been told to expect.
Weird.
~
The Great Hall had been transformed into a scene straight out of a wizarding fairytale. Hundreds of floating pumpkins bobbed above the tables, their carved faces flickering with eerie, magical light. Bats swooped and darted across the enchanted ceiling, which mimicked the stormy night sky outside. The smells of roasted pumpkin, treacle tart, and spiced cider filled the air, and the chatter of students mingled with the soft sounds of enchanted instruments playing in the background.
Harry sat at the Ravenclaw table, surrounded by his housemates, enjoying the festivities. Padma was telling him about a particularly tricky riddle the common room door had given them that morning, and Terry was trying to balance a spoon on the tip of his wand.
But despite the cheerful atmosphere, Harry couldn't shake an undercurrent of unease. All week, Ron Weasley had been pestering him relentlessly. Every time Harry turned a corner or entered the Great Hall, Ron seemed to be there, demanding answers about the night his parents died.
And tonight was no exception.
"Oi, Harry!" Ron's voice called out across the hall. Harry sighed, already dreading the interaction. Ron made his way over from the Gryffindor table, an obnoxious grin plastered across his face.
"What do you want now, Ron?" Harry asked, keeping his tone as even as possible.
"You're just going to sit there, aren't you?" Ron said, ignoring Harry's question entirely. "Pretending like you don't owe me—or anyone—an explanation."
"An explanation for what?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, don't play dumb," Ron snapped, his voice a little too loud. A few heads turned in their direction. "The night your parents died! You were there, weren't you? What happened? How did you survive?"
Harry felt his temper flare. He leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice low but firm. "I don't owe you anything, Ron. Least of all details about something you know nothing about. I was one years old, what do you think I would remember!" His voice raising at the end.
"Honestly, Weasley," Padma Patil said, cutting through Ron's tirade with a sharp tone. "Don't you have your own table to sit at?"
Ron turned to her, his ears red. "I wasn't talking to you!"
"Well, you're standing at our table, bothering our housemate," Terry Boot chimed in, crossing his arms. "So maybe you should leave."
"Harry doesn't owe you anything," Padma added firmly, glaring at Ron.
"And for someone who keeps whining about him not being in Gryffindor, you're not acting very brave," Anthony Goldstein said with a smirk. "Maybe it's time you let it go."
Ron's face went from red to crimson. "You lot don't understand—he's supposed to be in Gryffindor!"
"No, he's supposed to be exactly where the Sorting Hat put him," Michael said, his voice calm but resolute. "And that's Ravenclaw."
"Go bother someone else," Padma said, dismissively waving her hand as if Ron were a particularly annoying fly.
By now, several other Ravenclaws were watching the scene unfold, their gazes cool and unimpressed. Harry couldn't help but feel a small swell of gratitude toward his housemates for sticking up for him.
Fred and George chose that moment to intervene, each of them grabbing one of Ron's arms.
"Come on, Ron," Fred said, his grin sharp. "Time to head back to Gryffindor before you embarrass yourself even more."
"Too late for that," George muttered, shaking his head as they dragged their fuming brother away.
As the Weasleys retreated, Padma turned to Harry with a small smile. "You all right?"
Harry nodded, grateful for her and the others' support. "Thanks. I owe you."
"You don't owe us anything," Terry said, shrugging. "That guy just needs to learn when to shut up."
"Exactly," Padma agreed, tossing her long braid over her shoulder. "Stick with us, Harry. We'll look out for you."
As the feast continued, Padma continued her conversation with Lisa and Terry.
"I heard something earlier," she said.
"What did you hear?" Lisa asked.
"About Ron and Hermione Granger," Padma said. "Apparently, the two had a bit of a... disagreement in Charms today?"
Harry groaned inwardly. "What exactly did you hear?"
Padma hesitated before replying. "Just that she corrected him in class, and he said something that made her cry. Lisa told me she's still in the first-floor bathroom. She hasn't come out all evening."
Harry was about to reach for some dessert when Professor Quirrell burst into the Great Hall, his turban askew and his face pale as a ghost.
"Troll!" he gasped, clutching the edge of the staff table for support. "Troll in the dungeons! Thought you ought to know..."
He collapsed in a heap, sending the hall into chaos. Students screamed and scrambled to their feet, and the teachers leapt into action. Dumbledore raised his hands, and his voice rang out above the noise.
"Silence!" he commanded. The hall fell quiet. "Prefects, lead your houses back to your common rooms immediately. Professors, follow me to the dungeons."
As the Ravenclaw prefects began ushering their housemates out of the hall, Harry felt a tug on his arm. He turned to find Ron Weasley glaring at him.
"We have to go find Hermione!" Ron said urgently.
"What?" Harry said, pulling his arm free. "Why would we do that? The troll is in the dungeons."
"She doesn't know!" Ron hissed. "She's still on the first floor—Parvati said so. We have to warn her!"
Harry shook his head. "I'm not running out there with a troll, Ron. If you're so worried, tell a teacher."
"Oh, so you're just going to let her get hurt?" Ron spat, his voice dripping with accusation.
"I'm going to tell someone who can actually help," Harry said firmly. Without waiting for a response, he strode over to Professor McGonagall, who was issuing instructions to a group of Gryffindor prefects.
"Professor," Harry said, catching her attention. "Hermione Granger is on the first floor. Someone needs to get her before the troll does."
McGonagall's eyes widened briefly, but she nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Potter. I'll see to it once the troll is dealt with. Now, back to your common room."
As Harry turned to leave, he couldn't help but glance at the Slytherin table. The prefects there were attempting to lead their housemates out of the hall, but Harry knew the dungeons were the last place anyone wanted to go with a troll on the loose.
"Wait," he said, turning back to McGonagall. "Should the Slytherins really be going to the dungeons? It's not safe. Wouldn't it be better for everyone to stay here until the troll is caught?"
McGonagall hesitated, her sharp mind clearly weighing the options. Before she could respond, one of the Slytherin prefects stepped forward.
"He's right, Professor," the prefect said. "The common room is too close to the dungeons. It'd be safer to stay here."
After a moment's consideration, McGonagall nodded. "Very well. Slytherins, remain here under the supervision of your prefects."
The Slytherins looked relieved as they settled back into their seats, some shooting Harry a grateful look. Harry returned to the Ravenclaw group, relieved that at least one potential disaster had been averted.
The night descended into chaos as the professors dealt with the troll. It wasn't until much later that news began to trickle back to the students. Hermione Granger had been found in the first-floor bathroom, unconscious and covered in blood. She had been bludgeoned by the troll's club and was now in the hospital wing, her condition uncertain.
Padma relayed the news to Harry and the other Ravenclaws in a hushed voice, her expression grim.
"I heard she was trying to hide," Padma said softly. "But the troll found her. If the professors hadn't arrived when they did..." She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
Harry felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't been too friendly to Hermione, and now she was lying in the hospital wing because of a situation he might have been able to prevent.
He shook his head, no there was nothing he could have done. The troll was supposed to be in the dungeons anyway, so how did it reach the first floor so fast? That just didn't add up.
The castle felt heavier that night, as if the shadows had grown deeper and the corridors colder. Harry resolved to be more cautious, more aware of the people around him. After all, Hogwarts was a place of magic, but it was also a place of danger—and the events of Halloween had made that painfully clear.
The morning after the troll incident, the Great Hall was buzzing with hushed whispers and half-heard rumours. News of Hermione Granger's injuries spread like wildfire through the student body. Harry sat at the Ravenclaw table, poking at his porridge, half-listening to the snippets of conversation around him.
"They say she had to be taken to St. Mungo's," Padma whispered to Terry, her brow furrowed in concern.
"Is it really that bad?" Terry asked, lowering his voice.
"Worse," Padma said grimly. "I overheard Professor Sprout saying she was unconscious when they found her and barely breathing."
"She's just a first-year," Anthony Goldstein muttered. "That troll could've killed her. What was it even doing on the first floor?"
Harry's spoon clattered into his bowl. He glanced up at his housemates. "The troll was supposed to be in the dungeons, wasn't it?"
Padma nodded, her expression thoughtful. "That's what Quirrell said. But trolls don't exactly sprint between floors, do they? It doesn't make sense."
Michael Corner leaned in, a curious look on his face. "Do you think someone led it there?"
"Why would anyone do that?" Terry asked, incredulous. "That's insane."
"Maybe not if they wanted a distraction," Harry said quietly.
The table fell silent as everyone stared at him.
"What are you saying, Harry?" Padma asked carefully.
"I think Quirrell might've been lying about the troll being in the dungeons," Harry said, his voice steady but low. "If the troll was already on the first floor, then the question isn't how it got there—it's why Quirrell said it wasn't."
Anthony's eyes widened. "That's... actually a good point."
"But why would he lie?" Terry asked, frowning.
"I don't know yet," Harry admitted, "but it doesn't add up. Trolls are slow and stupid. There's no way it could've made it from the dungeons to the first floor without someone helping it. Especially with the stairs."
"Maybe we should tell a professor," Padma suggested.
Harry shook his head. "We don't have any proof. Besides, what if they already know and aren't telling us? We should keep this to ourselves for now."
The others nodded reluctantly, their curiosity clearly piqued.
Later that evening, Harry retreated to his hidden alcove behind the tapestry on the fifth floor. With the warmth of a small lantern by his side, he pulled out his two-way journal to write to Luna.
Hey, Luna. You won't believe what's been going on here.
Hello, Harry. Are you all right? I heard there was a troll at Hogwarts.
Harry smiled faintly.
I'm fine, but one of the first-years got really hurt. She had to be sent to St. Mungo's.
That's awful. Is she going to be okay?
I think so, but she's still unconscious. The thing is, there's something weird about the whole situation. The troll was on the first floor, but our Defence professor said it was in the dungeons. Trolls don't move that fast, so I think he was lying.
There was a long pause before Luna replied.
That sounds very suspicious. Do you think he was trying to distract everyone?
That's what I think. But why would he need a distraction?
Maybe he wanted to sneak somewhere without anyone noticing. Or maybe he's hiding something.
Like what?
Secrets, of course. Everyone has them.
Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head.
You always make things sound so simple.
Simple doesn't mean wrong, Harry. Be careful, though. People who hide things don't like being found out.
~
As the weeks passed, rumours about the third-floor corridor began to circulate among the students. It started with whispers from older students, but soon even the first-years were talking about it.
"Apparently, there's a monster up there," Michael said one evening as the Ravenclaws gathered in their common room.
"A monster?" Terry echoed, raising an eyebrow. "You mean like the troll?"
"Worse," Michael said ominously. "Someone overheard Dumbledore telling the prefects to keep everyone away from the third-floor corridor. They say it's guarded by a three-headed dog."
Harry's head snapped up from his Charms homework, his eyes wide. "A three-headed dog?"
Michael nodded. "That's what I heard. Why?"
Harry's face lit up with excitement. "That's incredible! Three-headed dogs are straight out of Greek mythology—they're called Cerberus. They're supposed to guard the entrance to the underworld."
Padma laughed softly. "Leave it to Harry to get excited about a dangerous magical creature."
"It's fascinating," Harry insisted, his mind racing. "If there really is a three-headed dog up there, it must be guarding something important."
"Like what?" Anthony asked, leaning back in his chair.
"I don't know," Harry admitted.
His housemates exchanged wary glances.
Later that night, Harry eagerly wrote to Luna about the rumours.
Luna, guess what? There's a Cerberus at Hogwarts!
Really? That's amazing! Have you seen it?
Not yet, but I think it's guarding something on the third floor. It reminds me of Cerberus from Greek mythology.
The guardian of the underworld. Do you think it's guarding something magical?
It has to be. Why else would Dumbledore keep it there?
Be careful, Harry. If it's guarding something, it's probably not something you're meant to find.
That's what makes it exciting. I really just want to see the dog though.
Just promise me you won't get eaten. I'd miss you terribly if you were.
Harry smiled, her whimsical words a comfort.
I promise.
~
By the time December arrived, the castle was abuzz with gossip. Hermione Granger's transfer to St. Mungo's had only fuelled speculation about the troll incident, and the mystery of the third-floor corridor added another layer of intrigue.
Ron continued to pester Harry whenever he got the chance, but Harry avoided him as much as possible. Hermione's absence had left the Gryffindors in an awkward position, and Ron's loud complaints about Harry only made things worse.
"Did you hear Weasley going on about Harry again?" Padma asked one evening as the Ravenclaws gathered in the common room.
"Of course," Anthony said with a roll of his eyes. "He's obsessed."
Harry groaned. "I wish he'd just leave me alone."
"Don't worry," Padma said reassuringly. "He's just jealous. You're doing great in classes, and you're in the best house. He can't stand it. And everyone blames him for Granger getting hurt."
As the term drew to a close, most students prepared to leave for the holidays. Harry obviously decided to stay at Hogwarts, eager to spend more time exploring the castle and uncovering its secrets. His housemates wished him a happy Christmas, promising to bring him back treats from home.
~
The Yule holidays arrived with a dusting of snow that blanketed the Hogwarts grounds. Most of the Ravenclaws had left for home, their common room feeling eerily quiet without the usual hum of conversation and the crackle of the fireplace surrounded by eager students. Harry found himself alone in his dormitory apart from a few older students who kept to themselves.
While Harry enjoyed the solitude, he quickly realised one glaring downside: Ron Weasley had also stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays, along with his twin brothers. Avoiding Ron had become something of an art form for Harry, who had little patience for the boy's persistence and poorly veiled curiosity about the night his parents died.
The first week of the holiday break was a challenge. Every time Harry stepped into the Great Hall, Ron seemed to materialise, as though he had an uncanny knack for finding him.
One morning, as Harry sat alone at the Ravenclaw table, enjoying a quiet breakfast, Ron appeared with a plate piled high with sausages and toast.
"Harry!" he called, sliding onto the bench across from him.
Harry inwardly groaned but kept his expression neutral. "Ron."
Ron leaned forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. "So, about that night—you know, with You-Know-Who and your parents."
Harry's grip on his fork tightened. "I don't know, Ron. I was a baby."
Ron frowned as if this answer didn't satisfy him. "Yeah, but you must've heard something. Dumbledore hasn't said anything? Or McGonagall?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business," Harry said flatly, standing up and grabbing his plate.
Before Ron could respond, Fred and George appeared, dragging their brother away with identical grins.
"Give it a rest, Ronniekins," Fred said cheerfully.
"Yeah, leave the poor bloke alone," George added. "He's not your personal gossip column."
Harry shot the twins a grateful glance before slipping away.
With the castle mostly empty, Harry decided it was the perfect time to work on his magic. While he had been doing well in classes, his wand still felt foreign in his hand. Some spells came out perfectly, but others were overpowered, a testament to the raw magic he hadn't yet learned to fully control.
Harry wandered the castle for hours, searching for a secluded spot where he could practice without interruption. On the fourth floor, he found it: a small, empty classroom at the end of a quiet corridor. The room had tall windows that let in the pale winter light, but no portraits adorned the walls, and the hallway outside was eerily silent.
"This will do," Harry murmured, closing the door behind him.
Over the next few days, Harry spent hours in the classroom, working on controlling his magic. He started with basic spells, focusing on how much power he funnelled through his wand.
"Lumos," he said, holding his wand steady.
The tip of the wand glowed softly, the light dim and manageable. He tried increasing the flow of magic slightly, and the light grew brighter.
"Okay," Harry muttered to himself, "not too much."
When he felt confident with simple spells, he moved on to more complex ones.
"Wingardium Leviosa," he said, pointing his wand at a crumpled piece of parchment.
The parchment floated into the air, wobbling slightly before he steadied it. Harry grinned, pleased with his progress.
But not all attempts were smooth. One afternoon, while practicing the spell again, he accidentally funnelled too much power into his wand. The parchment shot up to the ceiling and stuck there, spinning wildly.
Harry groaned, waving his wand to bring it down. "At least it's not a feather this time."
After a few days of wand practice, Harry realised he had neglected his elemental magic.
Determined to learn more about elemental magic, Harry made his way to the library. The towering shelves were a comforting sight, and the faint smell of parchment and ink filled the air.
Harry scoured the shelves for anything on elemental magic, pulling down books with promising titles and skimming through their contents.
"Control and Flow of Magic," he muttered, flipping through the pages of a particularly old tome. "Elemental Manipulation… that sounds useful."
Hours passed as he read, jotting down notes and practicing mental exercises described in the books. While he found valuable information on elemental magic, he had no luck finding anything on Parselmagic.
"Figures," Harry muttered, setting a book aside. "It's probably considered too dark to keep in a school library."
Still, he made a note to keep searching.
By the end of the first week of the holidays, Harry felt more confident in his abilities. His wand work was improving, though he still preferred the freedom of wandless magic. His elemental magic was coming along as well, the flame and water feeling like old friends he was finally getting to know again.
Sitting by the window in the fourth-floor classroom, Harry gazed out at the snowy grounds, his breath fogging the glass.
"It's strange," he murmured to himself. "I've only been here a few months, but it already feels like home."
That evening, Harry wrote to Luna in his two-way journal.
Hey, Luna. How's your holiday going?
It's quiet here without you. Flick says hello. He misses you.
Harry smiled.
I miss you both too. Hogwarts is quiet, but I've been keeping busy. I've been practicing my magic, and I found a room where no one can bother me.
That sounds wonderful. Have you made any new discoveries?
A few. My wand work is getting better, but I still prefer wandless magic. It feels more... natural.
That's because it's yours, Harry. A wand is just a tool, but your magic is part of you.
Harry paused, her words resonating with him.
You always know what to say. I've also been practicing my elemental magic. It's still as strong as it was a few months ago.
That's incredible! You'll have to show me when I come to Hogwarts.Don't forget to rest, Harry. Even the strongest wizards need sleep.
Harry chuckled, closing the journal with a smile.
As Christmas approached, Harry wandered into the Great Hall one morning to find the professors and a few older students decorating a massive tree. Professor Flitwick hovered in the air, placing delicate ornaments on the highest branches, while Hagrid wrestled with a string of fairy lights.
"Morning, Harry!" Hagrid called, waving a massive hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Hagrid," Harry replied, smiling.
"Fancy helping with the tree?"
Harry nodded eagerly, grabbing a box of ornaments and helping place them on the lower branches.