Location: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and WizardryTime: First Week of Term
Day One – Breakfast
The Great Hall buzzed with morning conversation. First years clustered nervously at their house tables, comparing schedules and trading stories about their first night in the castle.
At the Slytherin table, Harry sat alone at the far end, away from the main group. His mask remained firmly in place, a subtle genjutsu making it appear as though he was eating normally. In reality, he'd already eaten before dawn—alone in an empty corridor near the kitchens.
A few seats down, Draco Malfoy held court with Crabbe, Goyle, and a cluster of pure-blood children.
Draco (loudly): "—and my father says Potter's supposed to be some kind of hero. Doesn't look like much to me. Won't even show his face."
A few students glanced toward Harry. He didn't react, continuing to flip through a textbook on Transfiguration theory.
Pansy Parkinson: "Maybe he's horribly scarred. Or cursed."
Blaise Zabini (thoughtfully): "Or maybe he just doesn't want anything to do with us."
That, at least, was closer to the truth.
Across the hall, Hermione sat with a group of Gryffindor girls who were chattering excitedly about their first Charms lesson. But her eyes kept drifting toward the Slytherin table—toward the boy in the mask who sat like an island unto himself.
She'd tried to catch his eye twice since the sorting. Both times, he'd simply nodded politely and walked away.
Potions – Double Period with Gryffindor
The dungeon classroom was cold, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of sulfur and brine. Professor Snape swept in like a bat, his black robes billowing behind him.
Snape: "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron… though some of you might surprise me."
His eyes swept the room, lingering on Harry for just a moment longer than necessary.
Snape: "Potter."
Harry looked up calmly.
Snape: "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Several students shifted nervously. Hermione's hand shot into the air.
Harry's voice was quiet, steady. "The Draught of Living Death. A powerful sleeping potion."
Snape's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his dark eyes—surprise, perhaps.
Snape: "And where, Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Harry: "The stomach of a goat. It's a universal antidote for most poisons."
Snape (coldly): "What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Harry: "They're the same plant. Also called aconite. Highly toxic."
The dungeon had gone silent. Even Draco looked impressed—and annoyed.
Snape stared at Harry for a long moment, then turned sharply.
Snape: "It appears fame isn't everything. Five points to Slytherin. Don't expect favoritism."
He stalked to the front of the class and began assigning partners. Harry was paired with Blaise Zabini, who eyed him with cool curiosity.
Blaise (quietly): "Where'd you learn all that?"
Harry: "Books."
Blaise: "Right. Books."
They worked in silence. Harry's movements were precise, methodical—measuring ingredients with the kind of focus that came from years of meditation and chakra control exercises. His potion simmered a perfect silver-blue by the end of class.
Snape examined it without comment, then moved on.
Lunch – The Approach
Harry sat outside near the edge of the Black Lake, a book on Defensive Theory open in his lap. He wasn't actually reading—his mind was running through kata sequences, visualizing taijutsu forms he'd need to practice later.
Footsteps approached.
"You're hard to track down."
He glanced up. Hermione stood a few feet away, arms crossed, looking both determined and slightly nervous.
Harry: "I prefer it that way."
Hermione: "I wanted to thank you. Properly."
He closed the book. "For what?"
Hermione: "You know what."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Harry sighed quietly.
Harry: "You don't owe me anything."
Hermione: "I know. But I'd still like to be friends. If you'll let me."
Harry studied her—her earnest expression, the way she held herself like someone who'd been underestimated her whole life. Something in him softened, just slightly.
Harry: "Why?"
Hermione: "Because I think you're lonely. And I think you don't have to be."
It was such a simple, honest answer that Harry didn't know how to deflect it.
He gestured to the grass beside him. "Sit if you want."
She did, pulling out her own book—a copy of Hogwarts: A History.
They read in companionable silence until the bell rang for Transfiguration.
Slytherin Common Room – Evening
The common room was a study in green and silver, lit by the eerie glow filtering through the lake. Students clustered around the fireplace, gossiping and completing homework.
Harry entered quietly, heading straight for the dormitory stairs.
Draco (calling out): "Oi, Potter. Where've you been?"
Harry paused on the first step, not turning around.
Harry: "Out."
Draco: "You know, you're part of Slytherin now. You could at least pretend to care about house unity."
Harry (calmly): "I'm here to learn. Not to make friends."
Draco (sneering): "Typical. The great Harry Potter's too good for the rest of us."
Harry turned slightly, just enough for Draco to see his eyes—sharp, cold, and utterly uninterested.
Harry: "Think what you want."
He climbed the stairs without another word, leaving Draco fuming and the common room buzzing with whispers.
In the dormitory, Harry drew the curtains around his bed, sealing them with a minor privacy charm he'd learned from a library book. Then he pulled out his journal and began sketching seal diagrams by wandlight.
Around him, his housemates talked and laughed. But Harry remained apart, a shadow among snakes who didn't understand what kind of predator had joined their den.
Outside, the castle settled into night. And somewhere in the darkness, a boy with red eyes trained in silence, preparing for battles no one else knew were coming.