Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The term carried on, the air growing crisp and cool. Summer tunics and light cloaks were exchanged for thicker wool and sweaters, and Harry found a particular liking for thick woven socks, scrunched and piled up on his shin. It didn’t get this cold in Surrey, but Harry found he didn’t mind the wind chill or gloomy weather. At least, he mused, the increased rain didn’t leave the grounds wet and muddy, otherwise getting to class would be even more of a nightmare than normal. 

An interesting change between the passing of September, and the soon coming and quick passing of October, was that despite the outer chill and the permanent gloom and coldness that seeped into every inch and corner of the Slytherin dungeons, the Common Room was not dank, or an utter pit of despair. Yes the air held a certain chill that was not normal anywhere else in the castle, but the roaring fire and fine upholstery fabrics on every piece of furniture led to a warmer feeling than anticipated. Plus, the entirety of Slytherin now wore sweaters and slacks— of wool or tweed or corduroy— and with the aesthetic of the dungeon, Harry found everything rather pleasingly put together. Not to mention, sitting on a velvet couch in front of the fire, thick socks and a soft sweater adorning Harry’s body, his aching leg soothingly numbed, and a warm cup of tea or cocoa in his hands, was a wonderful way to start the morning. The calmness, safety, quietness, of the Slytherin Commons was finally sinking into Harry. He wasn’t— well, he’s always on edge. He’s Harry Potter. The living, breathing,  Boy-Who-Lived, Savior-Of-The-Light, Cripple-Extraordinaire. There was no time, no place, no dimension when he could relax, if only for a bit. But Harry found the Slytherin Commons feeling a lot like what he thought home ought to, and in the subtle mornings he found tension seeping out of his shoulders. It was short lived but it was, well, it was nice.

The days petered on then. Harry was wrapped up and around in school work and his independent study. He finally finished his first book on Rune Theory, and although it took near short of 2 months to get through only one volume, Harry was rather proud. The book was thick, the pages worn down with time, and the vocabulary was— in his opinion— unnecessarily complex. It was made apparent to him why Runes were reserved for upper years. Still, Harry read and read and re-read. His notebook was filled with notes, and Harry made a list of Rune books he wished to buy so he could annotate in the margins. Rune’s was still complicated, and confusing, but Harry could finally say that he could explain the bare-threads that make up the area of magic if needed.

Hence, the weeks passed by in a slow lull of school work and socialization.

Every Thursday afternoon, when Nott and the rest of the Slytherin first years left for Flying, Harry hitched his way to the library. Early in the term he used the two hours for sullen research-- various books sprawled open on his table, his head buried halfway in his hand, his quill scratched dry with ink, but copious amounts of knowledge-- about wandlore, and potions, and various herbs, and ancient magical history-- they all surrounded him. He quite liked the study period- especially since it was all to himself. However, as the term carried on the productiveness of the free period… decreased.

It appeared that Hufflepuffs had 2-4 pm on Thursdays free. Naturally, that meant Justin and Abbott.

Hannah Abbott was, just like Nott said, soft-spoken and self-conscious. The first few times Justin and her approached Harry’s table, she would tuck a stray piece of blonde hair behind her ear three times, swish her foot to the side, link her hands behind her back and then in front of her and then back behind her back, and shift her weight. She always smiled at Harry, but the grin flickered on and off. Not in the sense of insincerity, but rather social awkwardness that said she didn’t know quite how long, or bright, or big, to hold the grin. Harry found the awkwardness charming, if a bit…. Repetitive. After their research session about a month ago on the off-topic Herbology question Hannah got from the Gryffindors, he found that the girl was smart, if shy, and they made good conversation. It was a wonder to him why she still seemed so self-conscious. But- well. That’s just some people, Harry supposes. 

Abbott was a good companion, though, and once Justin managed to knock the awkwardness out of her-- at least in this situation-- she opened up a lot more. Her voice was melodic and light, and on the occasions where she laughed it was like someone had gracefully pulled their hand across a harp. The girl was modest, Harry learned, much too modest, because for her being “half-bad at Herbology”, she sure knew her stuff. She wasn’t quite as passionate, or naturally inclined towards the subject like Longbottom, but Potter began to suspect that Longbottom held a certain genius to the course that was hard to recreate without a life study. 

On the off-note where talk shifted from school subjects or professors to extracurriculars, Abbott was surprisingly passionate about the want for a wide-variety of clubs at the school.

“It’s just,” she said one afternoon, her head tilted back, her face catching the incoming light from a window. Her hair was molten gold, her eyes a soft brown, and with the considering, careful look she gave towards the ceiling, Harry felt himself draw just a bit closer to the girl. 

“Hogwarts barely has any clubs.” She tilted her head back, a furrow between her brow, and her eyes shifted from Harry to Justin, to Harry, to Justin. “My father told me about how when he attended school there were a variety of after-school extracurriculars, but Hogwarts seems to have gotten rid of all of them!” Her lips draw together, her face wrinkling in disappointment.

Justin lifts his eyebrows. “You’re awfully passionate about this, Hannah,” he says, placing his quill down. Justin leans forwards, his arms braced on the table, and tilts his head. “Any particular reason?”

Hannah blows a stray strand of hair out of her face. She swishes her lips together then and stares back up at the ceiling. “I mean… it’d be nice to have something to do after school--”

“Other than the scathing quantity of essays and various homework's assignments?” Harry jokes. 

Abbott pauses and shoots him a playful glance. “We’re Hufflepuffs, Potter. We’re used to having to work-hard. But, I suppose, well…” Hannah’s sentence draws off. Justin doesn’t tap her, not like he did that day in the hallway, but rather lets Hannah take a deep breath in. She shifts in the wooden library chair again, her head tilting back down landing her gaze onto Justin’s and Harry’s faces. Her fingers fold together, playing with a thin silver ring.

“I suppose that’s part of it. We’re always working, and although it keeps us busy when there isn’t anything to do, it's awfully… well, boring. It’d be nice to be able to after-class meet up with people that share the same interests, I mean. I guess what I really want is the community of it all.”

Justin nods. He leans back in his chair, tilts his head again. One of his legs comes up to rest against the other, his foot propped on his knee. “I get that. At my old school, and Eton, there were various extracurriculars. My brother told me how much he enjoyed them.” Justin’s forehead furrows together ever-so-slightly. “It’s… odd,” he says cautiously, his eyes narrowed. His gaze flickers up to meet Harry’s. “It’s odd that Hogwarts doesn’t have any.”

Harry leans back. He presses his lips together and rolls a wadded up ball of paper across the table. “I think,” he speaks cautiously, voice low, “that perhaps Dumbledore just wants our houses to be the bits of community we have. McGonagall did say they would be our family before the sorting.”

“I suppose,” Abbott agrees. “It’s still weird though-- just a bit odd, I mean, don’t you think?”

“Definitely. Especially since Hogwarts seems to have gotten rid of any old clubs they had. Say, do you think we could make a club if we wanted?”

Something pulls at Harry’s mouth then. He gazes at Justin, who’s wearing that slightly-cocky, all-too-self-confident-for-an-eleven-year-old, and just a tad privileged, mischievous look. His eyebrows quirked upwards, his smile halfway to the side, and his eyes glimmering with something special. 

“I don’t know,” Harry mused, his voice not contemplative in the slightest, “that’d be awfully hard, don’t you think?”

Hannah grins then, something big and bright and unrestrained. It makes her perfectly lined teeth glow, and her cheeks bunch up with dimples in the middle. “Good thing we’re Hufflepuffs, then,” she says before breaking out into girlish laughter and cheers. Justin joins in and Harry finds himself swept up in the comradery. Justin and Hannah definitely aren’t what he thought they’d be, but, at the same time, Harry thought his best bet in life was staying on the down-low, saving up, and disappearing from the Dursleys as soon as he was of age-- so, he guesses that his life isn’t what he thought it’d be either. In both cases, the surprise is welcomed. And sure, Harry’s mourning his 2 hour free period on Thursdays, but he finds it’s nice to have the connection-- to have the socialization. Hannah and Justin are Hufflepuffs. Harry doesn’t have to think of the convoluted ways they could be wording their sentences; of long, ancient, family histories that influence their every thought, and move, and motivation. Harry doesn’t have to weigh his words and his actions and the people in front of him-- he doesn’t need to be strong yet irrelevant like he must with Malfoy, doesn’t need to be painfully soft with his opinions like he must with Longbottom or Granger, and he doesn’t need to snap at them like he must Nott when the boy steps on his tail one time too many. Justin and Hannah are Hufflepuffs, and that means, in terms of friendship, they’re simple. And so, although the research time being lost is a very sad endeavor, Harry finds himself rather blase to the fact because Hannah and Justin are calm, and nice, and powerful in the long-run. And, after hard weeks of politically savvy negotiations and barely avoiding a duel with Malfoy, it’s refreshing. 

Weeks pass. Thursdays go by. Snape stares at Harry’s messenger bag, something wistful and simultaneously hateful in his eyes. He ignores Harry completely during Potions, going out of his way to do it, and Harry finds himself not minding. During Dinner, where Davis is now next to Nott and eating with the proper order of cutlery, Malfoy spews something about Harry using his ‘mud-blood mother’s bag’ and Harry calmly slips his wand out and makes Malfoy’s dinner spill all over him. Malfoy gapes and retaliates, but Harry leans into Nott to dodge the spell and it ends up hitting a Ravenclaw second year in the back. Much to Harry’s amusement, Malfoy is challenged to a duel. Much to Harry’s disappointment, Malfoy wins his duel. Nobody comments on Harry’s messenger bag besides for a “it’s a nice quality leather,” comment from Greengrass after that.

Nothing quite special goes on school-work wise: the course work is all rather dull and mundane spells and tasks. Harry reads the theory, then practices the spell if applicable, and then in his free time if he feels necessary he practices it without his wand, or without the words, or sometimes without both. 

On one particularly dreary Sunday, when the sky is pelting rain and the water of the Black Lake sloshes against the glass of the Slytherin Commons, unruly and wild, Zabini sits across from Harry near the fireplace. He sits down particularly regal-like in Nott’s usual place. One of his ankles cross over the other. His hands fold in his lap and a particularly placating smile stretches onto his face. 

“Hello Potter,” he says. Harry searches Zabini’s face— from his flawlessly smooth skin to his gleaming eyes. His hair is curled tight, but perfectly together, and his spine is ramrod straight. Zabini’s teeth are paper white. They gleam under the dim lighting of the Slytherin Commons.

“Zabini,” Harry greets cordially. He sets aside the book he was reading and shifts his body towards his visitor. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Zabini chuckles sweetly, but it's heavier than it should be and the grin that spreads at the end of it is something betwizing. “You flatter me, Potter,” Zabini says. “I was just wondering how your readings were going?” He lifts his eyebrow then. All of a sudden his regal, yet unsuspecting demeanor is shifted. An air of haughtiness, expectations, and thin judgement comes wafting out of Zabini. His eyes draw over Harry, to his book, back to Harry. Zabini’s perfectly pretty mouth drops from its smile, hiding those shining white teeth, and it presses into a placating line. There’s no joy, or disappointment, only meager attentiveness, waiting to see how the conversation turns, which way it twists, and from there Zabini’s mouth will either twist up with it, or turn down. 

Harry shifts in his seat ever so slightly. He’s not afraid of Zabini— no matter his natural skill or Nott’s warning. More so, Zabini intrigues Harry. With his accent that rears its head only when the boy is downright exhausted or infuriated, and that family business Harry can discern no information about in books— not to mention the way everyone walks away from the boy and his smiles if they’re smart— it’s only natural that Harry wants to see what’s behind the picturesque boy. He could try to break him to get the answer— chip and chip and chip at Zabini until the cracks spread and connect, like porcelain dropped from a hilltop, and await for the boy to fall apart: piece after piece, until the glass model is far too cracked, and shattered, and chipped, to withstand the world. Then Harry could sweep in, dust away the porcelain and the glass and throw the shards where Zabini couldn’t ever hope of getting them back from under the guise of help . He’d be reliant on Harry then, and Potter would get his answers and a powerful dependent ally. 

But some things are too beautiful to break, and tears don’t fit Zabini. The very notion of seeing the boy sob fills Harry with a sense of offness. A complexion that composed won’t do with red-rubbed eyes and a snot-filled nose. No, rather, Harry would like to see, and work, with Zabini as he is. Whole, perfect, and perplexing. He might be cracked like porcelain, but Potter prefers the idea of twisting and turning him like a puzzle until he unlocks. It will be more satisfying that way, too. And, although Harry won’t have the reliance of dependency that he would with the former method, the ability to have a conniving, honey-sweet and web-weaving Zabini as an ally is much more rewarding. 

“Course work is course work,” Harry shrugs. He adds a smile, then, to continue the pleasing tone of the conversation. Zabini’s eyes are much too critical right now for this to be a simple, school-mate check in and Harry would like to keep the conversation as civil as possible for as long as possible.

Zabini’s lips tweak up then. Clearly he’s pleased, or at least amused, but his eyes are no less critical nor narrowed. Hm. Maybe Zabini likes the chase then. He clearly wants something from Harry.

“I didn’t say school work, Potter-“ he chides, but there isn’t animosity. Not like there would be with Malfoy. Zabini’s tongue isn’t cold and lashing— at least, not right now— and instead it is hopelessly amused. Yes, that’s it. His smile isn’t one filled with joy, rather mirth.

It’s a little patronizing, Harry will admit. And although Harry would’ve normally gotten riled up, Zabini is far too interesting to make enemies with immediately. So, swallowing his pride which got stuck in his throat, Harry shoves his mouth into a smile.

Zabini’s grin broadened. 

“I know you’re something of a bookworm and was wondering how your reading went. If I wanted to know about school work, I would’ve asked Davis.”

Harry’s eyebrows climbed up at the mention of his newest connection. Zabini took note and tilted his head, his sweet smile just a tad bit more saccharine. No one commented on it, though.

“Is there anything interesting in those books of yours?” Zabini’s eyes darted over to the discarded cover. “I’ll admit, I’ve never taken reading as a form of leisure.”

Harry shifts his body towards the book. He grabs it, bringing it back into his lap. “There’s lots of things you can learn from books,” Harry says. “Plenty of knowledge and the likes.” His lips curl up. Pleasant is a pretense and it’s there but not in tone. 

Knowledge is Power echoes in the duo's head, and Zabini leans just a bit closer.

“But for leisure, Potter?” He cocks his head, an eyebrow raised once more as he considers the boy in front of him. “Malfoy busies himself with chess, Parkinson with fashion magazines, and Crabbe and Goyle with exploding snaps. Yet you’re immersed in an ancient library that must certainly strain your eyes. Just for… knowledge?” Zabini says this all perfectly nonchalantly in an almost unaffected tone. He’s winding off facts about other first years like they’re simply commonly known things— but Parkinson keeps her fashion magazines relatively hidden from anyone (she doesn’t want people to judge her as girlish or immature), and Crabbe and Goyle only play exploding snaps when Malfoy isn’t in the dorm-room. Zabini always disappears to who knows where— he’s not a common symbol in the Commons, although at the same time he isn’t scarce enough to become cryptic— and so the fact that he has such, seemingly innocent, yet all too telling, pieces of info is curious.

And possibly a warning.

Harry shrugs again. Tilts his chin up. His glasses catch the fire edge and reflect the flames back. “You know what they say about knowledge. Can never have enough of it.”

“But you can’t learn everything from books, can you?”

Harry presses his lips together before remembering himself and relaxing his mouth into a subtle smile. “I have ways to cover where I’m short, Zabini.” 

Zabini’s smile broadens but its just miniscule— it’s barely a change to his cool exterior, really, and the increase doesn’t make the conversation seem kinder , nor his eyes happier, but it makes his teeth a little sharper and his gaze a bit more calculated in a good way. The grin, really, truly, has no strong conviction nor meaning to it, but it makes a world of difference. Harry feels that he’s passed a test of some kind, and a small trill of satisfaction curls in his chest. 

“As expected,” Zabini drawls quietly. His manners are more dramatic now, and he speaks like a diva. His eyes flutter to the side and it’s less savvy diplomat and more gossip aristocrat at an after party. His sharp grin drops to a pleasant neutral stance that pouts one minute and curls up the next. “Slytherins, and all that- always so resourceful.” His gaze sweeps back to Harry from the corners of his eyes. His mouth turns up and Zabini’s head completely follows.

Feeling daring— which, really, Harry should not feel— maybe he’s spending too much time with, well not Longbottom but rather Granger or Weasley— Harry cannot stop his head from tilting towards the general population in the Commons. “Well, only the good Slytherins.” 

Zabini follows Potter’s gaze to Malfoy and huffs. Harry can tell he’s holding back a laugh. Which— fair. Potter knows Zabini is often lively and charming, and his laugh isn’t necessarily rare, but in a winding conversation like this one it would seem abrupt and inappropriate.

Zabini leans back once more. He’s more composed now, his face sly rather than cooly curious. His hands unclasp and fall soft to his side. “I like how you think, Potter,” he says, the mirth from earlier finally slipping back into his tone like a subtle poison.

Harry shrugs. It’s for modesty now, rather than showing indifference. “I aim to please.”

Zabini lets a small smirk spread. “Well then,” he says. Zabini stands up, swift and smooth, and once more Harry is reminded of a river, continuous and mesmerizing and ready to shift with whichever way the wind blows.

Zabini tilts his head down just a bit so his eyes can look directly into Potter’s instead of just hitting the rim of his glasses. “I’ll leave you to your reading then,” he says, and then there’s a small sway and he’s carrying himself away from Harry. “Do tell me if you find anything interesting, though. And I’ll be sure to extend the courtesy.”

Zabini glides by. Harry’s gaze follows him, and it locks on Nott who’s standing against the Black Lake window. His shoulders pressing against the glass, his hard gaze trained directly onto Harry— or rather, it flicks to Harry, after the seat across from him is exited. Next to Nott, the water is rapid and dangerous— the waves splash and hit and the roaring storm fills Harry’s head up again since his company exited.

The stones at the Slytherin entrance rearrange themselves and peel away once Zabini says the passcode. They seamlessly and silently fold back together— even though the concrete should be grating and the stones grinding (it’s always better to have a silent entrance when able, and with magic it’s always able)— and once the wall is reconstructed, Nott is walking over.

The thing with Theodore Nott is that when he walks , he walks with purpose. His strides are long, his face hard, and despite just being 11, when he wants people to move, they move. Theodore’s thunder and with each crack from the sky his foot hits the stone floor. He’s wearing a soft sweater and his look is casual for Slytherin, but the warmth his outfit would suggest is completely negated by him himself. Nott’s neutral on a regular day— his face hard and indecipherable. But when Nott is annoyed or angered, there is a storm to be unleashed.

He plops into his seat ( where Blaise was sitting) and Harry offers a courteous smile (with eye creases and raised eyebrows and all), taps the edge of the table so a fresh cup of tea pops up, and gives that to Nott too. Then, he smushes back down into what is basically his couch now, his legs folding to the side of him instead of the formal stance of being on the floor, and pushes his glasses up.

“How are you on this fine day, Nott?” Harry questions, light and bright.

Nott’s jaw shifts. “What did Zabini want?”

“Nothing material, I assure you.”

Nott breathes out slowly, as if to not lose his temper. “I told you not to mess with Zabini.”

“He approached me.”

“ Potter.”

“What?” Harry shrugs. “It’s been 2 months already, Nott. Two months of not talking with someone you live with besides for the occasional ‘morning’ is quite the accomplishment.” Harry pauses and tilts his head to the side. His forehead scrunches up as his eyebrows draw together, considering something. “Do you think there’s a secret on how the silence lasted so long? Maybe then we employ the same method onto Malfoy? Get him to shut up a bit?”

Once more, Nott lets out an exasperated “ Potter.”

Harry grins. “I’m only joking, Nott. You and I both know Malfoy won’t shut up even if his lips are sewed shut.”

“You’re changing the conversation.”

“Astute observation.”

  Nott leans forwards, his arms braced on his knees. “I don’t mean to be— controlling-“ Harry raises an eyebrow in disbelief- “but Zabini is dangerous.”

“Zabini extended an olive branch. If he’s dangerous, he’s not dangerous to me.”

“The Zabini’s are dangerous. Period, the end. He may seem helpful, or whatever he offered- but he is still dangerous.”

Harry swishes his lips to the side. “Malfoy isn’t afraid of him.”

“Malfoy’s an idiot, like you said. There’s a reason I’m over here with you, not over there with him.”

Harry smiles, pleased with himself and satisfied. “So you won’t push me to associate with him? Since we both believe he’s an idiot, and all.”

Nott’s lips pressed together. “He still has political power.”

“He’s still a brat,” Harry murmurs, the words more in tune with a song than a regular spoken sentence. 

“Just-“ Nott leans back, his hands going palm down onto his knees— “We’re getting off topic again. Zabini. He’s dangerous.”

“ Why though? You’re telling me he’s dangerous, but besides for the murdered husband-scheme, I don’t know why. ” 

Notts lips press together and Harry leans back.

“And you won’t tell me. Exactly. So, until I get something other than that- which really shouldn't be a problem as I’m not marrying Zabini anytime soon- I won’t be disengaging myself. Besides, you wanted me to make connections.”

“Not with the wrong sort,” Nott shoots back. Harry scoffs. “We’re in Slytherin, we’re all the ‘ wrong sort’.”

Nott looks constipated for a second— his face screws together until it wrinkles and his hands tighten on his pants. “I can’t convince you?”

“No.”

The fight leaves Nott and he slumps downward. Harry grins, happy to have won. Clearly, Nott’s still: annoyed, against, anxious, about Zabini, but not so much that he’s willing to fight with Harry in the Common Rooms. That’s good. He’s becoming amenable now, even for how tough he’s being normally. 

“Pull out a book, Nott,” Potter advises, opening his own. “Enjoy your Sunday.”

A week from then, in an almost eerily similar situation, Harry is sitting on his couch in the Slytherin Commons. It’s a much calmer day, weather wise, and the Black Lake is languidly turning against the glass. Already, in the stark hours of the morning, a mermaid appeared- if only for a bit- before returning back down to deeper and darker water. The air is frigid and cool, but not quite the same burning cold that December and January will bring. Harry’s bundled up in his sweater- although the knit has fallen apart to have more holes than string, really. Still, it’s comfortable, and he’s happy.

Nott passes by then. He sees Potter, in his run-ragged sweater, sitting as close to the fire as he can without being burned. He turns around, back to the boy’s dorms.

When Nott appears again, it’s with an emerald cable knit clutched in his hand. He pivots firmly in front of Harry, his body just obstructing Harry's direct path to the fire, and his mouth tilts down into a frown. A protest dies on his lips, though, because Nott-- gruffly-- shoves the sweater into Harry’s hand, turns around, and sits on his couch like normal.

Harry glances between the sweater in his hands, bundled up yet inexplicably soft, to Nott-- who’s nonchalant like normal, his face gruff and impartial, like normal, and his body language firm and cold and disciplined, like normal-- and then back to the sweater, and back to Nott, and he repeats the cycle once more for good measure. After turning a page of his book (Nott’s book, that is) and reading about half-way down, he finally lifts his head. For the past minute it has just been the flames dancing back and forth, and the soft roar that accompanies that, filling the air in between them as Harry finds himself emotionally confused. Nott tilts his book down, so the top of the page is pointing at his chest, not the ceiling-- a sign of giving his attention to Harry-- and jerks his head towards Potter.

“Put it on, now,” he says, and then the book’s back all the way up.

Harry’s eyebrows draw together-- “Why-?” he starts, but the sentence dies on his lips because the very notion that Nott- Nott, who is cold and steel and old, ancient text-- is giving him a sweater, of all things, seems ridiculous. 

Nott shakes his head. “You can’t wear the same, destroyed sweater all the time. It’s bad for Slytherin’s house image. Besides, you looked like you were freezing.” He mutters the last part and turns a page and Harry has to ignore the buzzing feeling in his stomach when he slips off his old sweater and puts on Nott’s. The knit is warm, and soft, and must be magically charmed because Harry feels 10 times warmer than he had before. A tendril of something soft, and kind, and too vulnerable festers itself in Harry’s stomach and he stares resolutely at his book to ward the feeling away. Still, a smile tugs at his lips, and he tugs it back down and curls back up. It’s lovely.

(But, good Merlin, now Harry has to figure out how to repay Nott for something so simple, yet sentimental. And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Nott’s not sentimental. In fact, Theodore Nott and sentimental don’t even share an overlap anywhere in the world. That means it carries more weight than say if Longbottom or Justin gave Harry their sweater. That’s expected. That’s in character. But Nott is completely out of the blue, right now, and although Harry is warm, he is incredibly suspicious and perturbed. How can he repay Nott equally? He can’t be in the boy’s debt, but what will get him out of it?)

Harry wears the sweater when he meets with Granger, Longbottom, and- begrudgingly- Ron, in the library later that day. Thoughts of Nott are still on his mind, and when he sits down and pulls out a new book-- it’s on the Wheel of the Year, something he’s utterly enthralled by, yet there seems to be barely any material about (as it is, Harry’s spelled the dust jacket shut to look like his charms book-- something Potter’s read back to cover multiple times, by now-- in order to avoid any questions)-- his thoughts shift from Nott to Zabini to Nott again. There’s the occasional curiosity about Davis, as well, but it’s not in the same scope of Harry’s thoughts on Nott and Zabini and so it’s easily pushed to the back.

Now, here’s the thing with Granger:

Harry likes the library, and he likes his books, and he likes his companions. Still, sometimes he’ll lose himself in his head. After all, even with his and Zabini’s conversation being a week old, there’s still much to dissect. His wording was ever so careful, after all. But Granger doesn’t care much for when someone’s thinking instead of reading, and so interrupting the steady stream of:

He said ‘ you can’t learn everything from books, can you’, is Zabini referencing himself? Or something else? It’s likely himself- or his family, more-so-over…

With a grating: “ Potter,” which is drawn out and long and utterly irritating. “You must pay attention to your books,” Hermione badgers, her face turned frustrated. “You won’t be able to perform well after all and then you’ll fail.”

And Harry has to breathe in, deep, steady, calming breaths, and then say: “I got it, Granger,” without much attitude because otherwise Weasley will throw himself at Harry. It’s actually odd- Granger’s and Weasleys relationship. Harry has heard Weasley bad mouthing the girl outside of class, and yet he’s with her in the library, and sitting with her in the Great Hall. But, well, Gryffindor politics isn’t something Harry can immerse himself in, for the time being, so he pushes that thought out of his mind and focuses on another. 

“Good,” Granger says with a sharp nod. “We have a test in Charms coming up soon, so we must study, because, well, Flitwick is nice, but we’ve only had one or two major tests since the school year started and with the holidays starting soon the course is likely to pick up in difficulty. It doesn’t seem too bad- from what I read in the course book, but that’s not to say that the questions won’t get harder, or wordier, and the practical may demand more from us then simply displaying the spell once since our magical cores are developing further; it’s imperative that we study so we don’t fail, so that means we can’t space out.”

She says that all in one, very long breath, and Harry has to resist the urge to bang his head on the table. Weasley doesn’t seem to have any qualms about visibly, drastically, rolling his eyes.

Because, well, Granger is a complicated person-- Harry will admit that. But everyone has their thing. Everyone has their key characteristic that someone can automatically tell by meeting them just once. And the thing with Granger is that. Well-
She’s utterly annoying. Harry may resent judging people by first appearance or interaction, but he can’t help his judging when it’s true. He doesn’t know whether Granger’s insecure and trying to compensate, or simply a boastful arrogant girl-- she’s in Gryffindor, so it would fit-- but whatever the core issue is, the manifestation is a rule-obsessed, strict, no-nonsense, long-winded annoying girl. There’s potential in Granger, and Potter sees it and accepts it-- and she is the best in their year-- and so Harry will remain trying to be friends with her. But, Merlin, does she make it hard. 

It’s not only Harry that feels that way, too. Longbottom has said, when it’s just him and Harry together, that Hermione’s sentences make it difficult to get a word in. What Potter hears in the halls from Weasley about Granger is mainly that she’s boring, hasn’t got any friends because no one can stand her, is an honest to Merlin nightmare, and is a nosy know-it-all. The girls in her year seem to share the same opinion, seeing as how it’s Harry with her right now in the library and not them.

And it’s not just her sentences. It’s everything about her.

Early in the year, when Harry started reading a different potion book then the one from class Hermione called him out saying that he: “really shouldn’t go to other sources, because the school knows best- obviously- that’s why Hogwarts is number one, and so we should trust the books they put on the course-work list because otherwise they wouldn’t be there.”

After that, when Hermione got excused from Flying due to falling off her broom and fracturing her arm-- something Pomfrey fixed easily, but still required Granger to sit out of the lesson for-- and Hermione saw Harry in the library laughing with Justin and Abbott, he got an earful about how he was “wasting precious study time; and it’s awfully rude to disrupt the quietness of the library for everyone else. Couldn’t you have gone somewhere else, Potter?” Nevermind the fact that the Great Hall-- which is far too open for a Slytherin to sit with two Hufflepuffs in-- and library are the only inter-house places in Hogwarts. Well, besides for the various ancient rooms in the dungeons that people carve as their own. That’s on a person to person basis for who’s allowed.

However, when Harry only hinted that he was assembling one such room to try to brew and create more leg-numbing cream so he wouldn’t have to go to Pomfrey so often, Granger gave him another long tirade. “Potions is very dangerous, that’s why Professor Snape has us all two to a cauldron and is watching so closely-- although perhaps his desire to see mistakes is more malicious than cautionary, but that’s not the point; you have to trust the Professors at Hogwarts, Potter. I heard that Dumbledore the greatest wizard of our time, and there are rules like no students brewing alone and no secret hideouts for a reason; we can’t just ignore those rules, after all…”

So- yes. Granger is long-winded, and utterly exhausting, and perhaps a stuck-up rule-abiding prick. That’s not coming from a place of hate, granted-- Harry doesn’t hate Granger, not like how Malfoy sneers whenever her name is posted as top ranking or when she gets Gryffindor house points for her good behavior. Rather, Granger exhausts Harry to no end. He wants to work with her. He wants to be able to have intelligent conversations with her. Harry wishes he could sit back and talk with Longbottom and Granger like how he talks with Justin and Abbott. He wants to have the same scholarly relationship that he has with Davis, and the same scholarly conversations he has with Nott, with Granger. The girl has the brains for it, and she’s cunning enough to keep up, but the path to get there is so winded that Harry’s ever doubting that he’ll actually see his wishes through. 

Still though. Slytherin is the house of ambition, resourcefulness, and determination. Harry will get that level of comradery with Granger, even if it takes a fuck ton of work. 

Maybe Justin and Abbott have been rubbing off on him too much. 

So, a smile is pressed into place. Harry turns his head down, returns his gaze to his text. His finger brushes along the edge of Nott’s sweater. He begins to read:
Samhain is one of the four Greater Sabbats among Wiccans. Samhain is typically considered as a time to celebrate the lives of those who have passed on, and it often involves paying respect to ancestors, family members…

The week passes and then October ends. Harry finds its Halloween-- and that, sadly, wizards seem to celebrate the holiday the same as muggles. Too many years of ‘Halloween’ being filled with Dudley and his motley crew chasing Harry around the beat him up and kids using masks to disguise themselves from Potter when they hurt him left the holiday with a brittle sense of pain in Harry’s chest. It’s forever tainted, and the fact that it’s the night Harry’s parents died only cements the fact. 

When he wakes up and sees that the Slytherin Commons has jack-o'lanterns and the like, the first thing Harry grabs onto disintegrates in his touch. Which is unfortunate really, because Harry grabbed onto the book Nott was lending him and now the pages are but ash at his feet. So that’s thing number two he has to repay Nott for, and that leaves him feeling even more sour than normal.

It’s a Friday, which means Potions. For shame, really, because Snape is looking far too longingly and hateful at Harry’s messenger bag. Really, Potter would’ve preferred to have Charms, because he knows Professor Flitwick would invite him into his office afterwards for tea and a cookie or two. Flitwick has been doing that lately-- inviting him in, giving him a few extra spells or particular tidbits about his mother. It’s lovely and heartfelt and makes Lily Evans feel like a person. 

Harry also has 2 hours of History of Magic after Charms, so missing the first 10 to 15 minutes is more than satisfactory.

Nott curses him under his breath for the fact that Harry gets to be late and he can’t, of course. Justin just throws his head back and laughs. 

In Potions Snape had them brewing Pompion Potion-- something completely ridiculous, yet Harry was already jotting down the recipe in his notebook. The potion, once ingested, turns someone’s head temporarily into a pumpkin. And, although that seems simple enough, Harry is already bursting with questions.

Does it kill someone? Or, is the change quite like self-transfiguration? Can the spell be varied to turn it into other vegetables? Who invented it and why? Is it able to be turned into a gaseous solution instead of a liquid-- then Harry would be able to make vials of it and throw them during a battle; it’d be an ingenious option for a multi-person duel or attack… Actually, now that Harry’s thinking about it…

“Earth to Ravenclaw,” Nott mutters under his breath, his shoulder knocking into Harry’s just so. Potter rolls his eyes and knocks back. 

“Back to planet Earth with me?”

Harry’s lips press together and he turns towards Nott. “You have such ingenious words that just fill me with wisdom. How did you think of that? No, really! How did you?”

Nott scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Alright, I get it.”

The Pompion Potion turns a red, so Nott adds in the sliced foxglove. Harry maintains stirring clockwise as the rose color gently simmers down to a creamsicle orange.

“Look at thing One and Two over there,” Nott says, his head tilting subtly in their direction. Harry’s head turns just so that he’s able to see.

Weasley’s at the cauldron, with Granger next to him-- interesting. Usually Granger’s with Longbottom and Weasley with Finnigan-- but it seems they’ve flip-flopped. With how Longbottom’s face is looking pale and his cauldron an unusual yellow, that might’ve not been for the best. 

Anyways, at Weasley’s cauldron, Granger’s mouth is open mid-tirade. She’s saying something with a stern look, her hands on her hips, and Weasley looks practically furious. Only the threat of Snape, looming just two tables in front of them, is enough to keep the red-head from going off. With the rate his cheeks are matching his hair, though, it’s not telling whether the idea of Snape’s detention is even enough to deter the boy.

“Hm,” Harry hums thoughtfully and turns back to their own potion. It’s becoming just the right shade of orange, now. It should only need a few more minutes at most.

“Just ‘hm?’” Nott prods. “You’re Gryffindors are fighting. Don’t you want to resolve that before something bigger breaks out?”

“Again Nott, I’d hardly call them my Gryffindors” Harry refutes. “I mean, Longbottom, alright. I’m working on Granger-- remember how I said that Weasley didn’t have tact but Granger does?”

Nott tilts his head to the side. “I vaguely recall that.”

Harry sighs and presses his lips together. “Yes, well, it seems I was mistaken. The girl’s bloody bossy and nosy.”
Nott’s eyebrows lifted up. “Did you just say bloody, Potter?” He shifts his head to the side rapidly. “That’s a rather bad word for such a young gentleman.” Nott leans closer, so his head’s right above Harry. He scrunches his face up just so:
“You best retract that statement before Malfoy hears.”

Harry glances up at Nott. “Is he too childish to hear something like that? Not that I’d be surprised.”

But Nott shakes his head. “No, no. The tosser’s simply too fair. He’d say it’s ‘ruining him’ and complain that a half-blood was poisoning his mind or assaulting him or something on that spector.”
Harry tuts. “Shame. I’ll have to make note to curse near him more often.”

Nott grins in response.

Their potion has turned the correct shade of orange, so Nott cancels the heating spell under the cauldron. Harry grabs a vial and hands it to Nott, who fills it with their brew and labels it. Nott walks it up to the front of the class instead of Harry-- mainly because Snape took a liking to sneering at the boy and grilling him whenever Harry was within 5 feet. 

“Uh oh,” Nott mutters under his voice once the class ends. Weasley immediately peels off from Granger and flocks towards Finnigan and Thomas. His face had been turning a brighter and brighter shade of red, and it appears the volcano’s finally bursts. 

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” Weasley blabbers as he, Dean Thomas, and Finnigan walk right past the duo. Harry and Nott have taken a liking to walking towards the back of the flock exiting whatever class they're in. It’s easier with Harry’s crutches, and also gives them a good view point of everyone else. As Weasley storms past, too wound-tight in his tirade to notice just how loud his voice has got or how close he is to Harry and Theo, Nott raises an eyebrow towards Harry. Potter stops for a second so he can shove him in the arm, and then they continue onwards and watch the burning ship that is the conversation in front of them.

“She’s just so controlling. The whole time she was nagging me and nagging me. Like, do it yourself!” Weasley’s shoulders actually hunch up at that. “She’s a nightmare, honestly,” He says with blind resignation and anger. Next to him, Finnigan shoulders his bag and Dean opens his mouth to say something. They don’t get to, though, because the aforementioned girl herself has finally made her way through the hallway. Only, Granger’s face isn’t shoved into her books or mid-paragraph, rather, there’s a gleam and a sparkle and Harry realizes belatedly that the girl is crying.

She pushes past everyone, right through Ron and Finnigan, in fact, and out of the corridor. Everyone stops walking.

“Er,” Finnigan starts. “I think she heard you, mate.”

Weasley’s face is hardened and concerned. His lips are drawn down, his eyebrows drawn together, and his face creases. He stares off where Granger exited from in regret, but then his mouth is swishing to the side. He shrugs uncomfortably. “So?” He asks, his voice lower and softer than before. “She must’ve noticed she’s absolutely bonkers.”

Nott leans down then. His breath ghosts Harry’s ear and leaves goosebumps on his neck. “Your children are fighting,” he sing-songs.

“Oh bugger off, Nott.”

Friday continued on, with only mild gossip. Harry heard from Longbottom in between breaks that Hermione hadn’t shown up to any afternoon classes, which was so unlike the academic obsessed girl, and no one could find her in the Common Room or Library. Harry wasn’t overly concerned, mainly because Granger didn’t seem like the type to want people to see her cry. He’s sure she’ll show up eventually and no, Nott, Harry isn’t going to go ‘look for her’. 

Other than Granger, nothing quintessential happened. Parkinson found two upper years snogging in the Astronomy wing. Why Parkinson was in the Astronomy wing was a mystery, but one Harry wasn’t inclined to solve.

Four 5th year Ravenclaws apparently played hooky the entire day and skipped all their classes so they could fuck around with some muggle technology. One was a half-blood and her mother had sent her a radio. The only problem, however, is that magic and technology don’t mix, so the signal was fizzing out. The four of them, then, spent the entire day (and the previous night, apparently) researching spells and tweaking the mechanics of the radio. They ended up using runes somehow, along with a couple of spells, to get the muggle-machine to respond to magic. 

They spent the entire day listening to the Monster Mash.

Once Nott heard, he badgered that Harry needed to be with ‘like minded people’ and that he should go join them.

The only other gossip Harry heard was that the Weasley Terrors-- accordingly, Ron Weasley's twin older brothers-- had a prank planned.  Harry made a note of that in his journal, but didn’t dwell on it. 

Night came around and everyone was prepared to go to the feast. Only, Harry hung back, still sitting on his couch across from the fire.

“Not in festive spirits, Potter?” Malfoy chided, his voice as abrading as nails on a chalkboard. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled after the sentence.

Harry raised a cool eyebrow. “I don’t tend to celebrate on the anniversary of my parent’s death, Malfoy.”

The blonde scoffed and rolled his eyes. He swept out of the Common Room, his entourage on his heel. Harry made a dull-note that Bulstrode was now with them. 

Once the majority of the Common Room filtered out, Nott turned from where he was leaning against the wall. “Really?” he quizzed, an eyebrow peaked high up. “You don’t seem the type to be sentimental about things like that?” Nott narrowed his eyes and Harry shrugged. It was slightly humorous that Nott thought he lacked the decent compassion to not want to celebrate on the anniversary of his parents-- that the boy thought Harry was cruel enough to have indifference towards the date.

But the funnier part is that it is true.

See, don’t take Harry wrong. He cares for his parents in some capacity, but the emotions are so mixed and mingled, tangled with a severe detachment brought on by the Dursleys, that Harry can’t make himself feel sad or even slightly remorseful about the day. Rather, his skin crawls when thinking about entering the Great Hall, the Halloween decorations on full blast. Harry hates the holiday, and he hates the decorations, and all he wants to do is have a nice evening.

So, obviously, no Halloween Feast. 

“There are some things you don’t know about me, Nott,” Harry answers lightly. Nott scoffs and begins to walk towards the Slytherin expansive bookshelf. “Ain’t that the truth,” he mutters to himself, his eyes widening with the words before settling back down into indifference. 

Harry turns around, his back twisting and letting out an ill creak that soon cracks, and focuses on Nott. “Aren’t you going to the feast?”

Nott gives a huff and laughs to himself. “And leave you and all your crazy alone? I think not, Potter.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No,” Nott says wistfully, with just a tad too much mirth, “but I need you in one piece and still at Hogwarts. Leaving you alone will certainly get you injured at least.”

“Do you really distrust me that much, Nott?”

“I distrust the Ravenclaw in you and that notebook of yours very much.” 

Nott spins around. His stare is glass shards and flashing lights. Harry’s pinned by it. Most of all, though, he’s pinned by Nott’s sentence. The ending is disarmingly honest. Nott has never said anything about Harry’s notebooks. Potter thought it was some sort of unspoken rule, but it seems that- if it was- it’s broken now. For Nott to acknowledge Harry’s notebook, but more so that what’s in it might be dangerous, that what he’s collecting might be dangerous-- it’s a level of trust and honestly previously unknown. 

“Alright,” Harry concedes, settling back into the couch. He turns around and leans back. “I’ll ask the house-elves to deliver us food, since we’re not going.”

Nott nods and the conversation settles.

It doesn’t settle for long, of course, because what is Harry’s life if not for one problem after problem. 

The duo decided that, although reading and eating by the fire was a lovely way to spend the evening, with everyone being in the Great Hall for dinner there were certain avenues they could explore that, otherwise, were not open to them.

Or Harry realized they could explore, more specifically.

After 10 or so minutes of leading Nott through the castle, the other boy finally couldn’t keep the silence.

“Where are we going, Potter?”

“The third floor,” Harry replied cheerily.

Nott stopped walking to stare at Harry. “You mean the off-permits corridor that you might die if you go into?”

“Key word being ‘might’, ” Harry emphasized, “but, yes.”

“You’re bloody mental,” Nott said incredulously, but instead of turning back he just took out his wand.

Harry looked back towards the taller boy with a hint of approval. “And you’re coming along with me.”

Nott scoffed. “I said it before. Someone has to keep you alive.”

The duo continued along the corridor, their wands out. They kept quiet, although the consistent click, click, click, click of Harry’s crouches against the floor perhaps ruined the effect. As the boys were drawing near to the corridor, they exchanged a weighted look- only for:
“Is that Snape?” Nott questioned, his eyes narrowing to discern the dark clothed figure. Harry raised his eyebrows and peaked his head around the corner. Indeed, there was the tail-end of their Potions professor, his black cape billowing as he stormed down the hall. Tipping his head just a bit more out of the corner, Harry’s gaze caught on the end of a certain professor’s turban,

“ With Quirrell, ” he murmured to himself, thoughts of a too-inconsistent stutter and an imposing eyes always caught on Harry during lessons swarming in his head. The sentence was heavy and languid with magic on Potter’s tongue. Theodore didn’t seem to notice it was said at all.

The duo turned back to each other, exchanging a small glance.

“We’re not turning back now, are we?” Nott asked, almost rhetorically. Harry resisted the urge to laugh.

“You doubt my determination?”

Theodore sighed-- a full, true sigh. His chest heaved down, the air exhibiting his mouth fully audible. An almost disappointed look appeared on his face, though it was shortly exchanged for an exasperated one instead. “No,” he said- eyes drawn towards the ceiling. He readjusted his grip on his wand, “but I wish you were. Bloody Slytherins.”

“Bloody Slytherins,” Harry said in agreement, a nod accentuating his sentence. Then he turned and continued on. 

They had gotten no more than 10 steps into the corridor, each one cautious and as quiet as can be due to the close-proximity to two Professors, before they heard a scream. Potter’s head whipped to the side. Nott was calmer. He merely raised an eyebrow and turned.

“We’re following the sound of screams, aren’t we?” He asked, almost rhetorically. By now Nott’s voice was heavy with disquiet and tonally bland. His words were flat and short and the side-gaze from the corner of his eyes that landed on Harry portrayed nothing but.

“Of course we’re following the screams, Nott,” Potter responded, his voice oddly composed. He spoke as if the answer was obvious, and as if any other answer was idiotic. “Who do you take us for?”

“People who value our lives?”
Harry tsked and the corner of his mouth drew up. “Self-preservation is a Slytherin trait.”

“Why do I feel like you’re about to work your way around that?”

“But~” Harry drew out, much to Nott’s disagreement, “so is determination.”

Nott breathed in, his chest rising with the motion, and then breathed out so slowly Harry almost asked if he was calming himself down. Let it be known that Nott was just taking a very big, very long, very exuberant sigh. “To the screams then?”

“To the screams.”

The screams led to the girls loo, believe it or not.

Harry wrinkled his nose as he entered. The pipes were broken, and bits of sewage leaked in. The floor was wet, water was leaking everywhere, and each step into the room sent tiny little splashes that soaked the bottom of Nott’s and Potter’s robes. Harry’s crutches were wood, and although they were varnished, against the wet floor it was difficult to stay stable. He made a mental note to look up waterproofing spells later.

Nott held back near the door, his eyes tracing upwards. There was a lump of a beast-- something 10? 12? Feet tall. It looked like a mountain-- a solid piece of rock, gray and jagged and dull, and it was eroded down until it resembled the vague-ish shape of a man. Its shoulders were stubs, sharp and prickly, protruding outwards from the body. Its head was almost dwarfish to the rest of it, with two beady eyes that couldn’t seem to focus on anything in the room. Its skin was like a popcorn ceiling, and although mostly granite gray, dulled pieces of green popped up now and then-- in the crock of its neck, and its knees, and near its hands. It almost looked like moss to an extent, though this beast was anything but natural. 

Its knees were knobs, all janky and crooked looking. They pointed in, the edges too sharp, and the shape itself not quite smooth enough to be called a circle. The legs were thick and straight- they were the only uniformed thing in the beast’s autotomy, it seemed. They were easily 3 times thicker than any tree Harry had seen-- minus the Whomping WIllow-- although they were un-proportionally short. The feet attached to them were also jagged, nasty things-- the nails sharpened and oblique, yellow but turning brown and green with mold. Its arms stretched down from its boulder shoulders,  the fingertips ghosting the floor. One was a foot or two longer than the other, and the shorter loosely grasped at a gnarled tree branch, which vaguely resembled the shape of a club.

“An ogre?” Nott questioned, his brow drawing inwards. “However did it get here?”
Harry tried to take a step forwards, only for his crutch to slip. He cursed to himself quietly and shuffled until he was against the wall. From there he peered up at the foul beast, his eyes catching on the rotting parts protruding from the body. “Intriguing,” Harry muttered. “I guess that’s what we’ll have to figure out,” he addressed to Nott.

Another scream pulled their attention. 

The boys glanced over. Against a stall that was partially beaten in-- now that Harry really looked at it, the bathroom was ruined. The stalls were smashed and discarded, the metal warped beyond recognition. The lighting fixtures hung down at wrong angles, the suspended beams holding them up tilting and swaying ever so precariously. The lights flickered on and off. Parts of the sink were smashed away, the porcelain cracking and breaking and leaving a flowing river onto the floor.

Harry blinked and focused on the girl. She was scrambled up against the door, her legs pulled tight to her chest. Her wand was in her hand, although she didn’t seem to be casting anytime soon. Her uniform was wrinkled, her robes sopping, and her hair frizzy. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face flushed but often ashen. And she was--

Oh. She was Granger.

So this is were she disappeared off to. Harry would have to inform Longbottom. He’d be relieved.

The troll grunted. The bat swung unwieldy towards Granger and the girl let out another shriek and tried to scoot away.

Or, maybe not.

“Granger?” Harry questioned, projecting his voice across the bathroom so he’d be heard through the chaos.

The muggleborn's head whipped towards him. Her sleeve came upwards, and Hermione tried to wipe away some of the tears that had accumulated. It didn’t work. Her sleeve was sopping wet from being on the floor. “ Potter?” she questioned, her voice wobbly and uneven. 

Nott raised his eyebrows. He turned to Harry. “ Really?” he questioned, “ Granger?” 

The girl’s attention snapped to Nott. It was hard to see him past the troll, but she got the bare sighting of the tall boy with a Slyterhin robe.

Hermione’s head whipped back to Harry.

“Who’s this Potter?” she yelled.

Nott’s face dropped to something almost offended. “You haven’t told Granger about me?”

Harry’s lips pressed together. He glanced towards the (ruined) ceiling. “Can we not have social hour right now? I’ll introduce you once this--” Harry moved to take his hand off his crutch, but the running water stopped him. Instead, he opted to lean his weight against the wall and lift the whole crutch up for a brief wave before settling it back down--”is all over.”

On cue, the troll rumbled again and stalked forward.

Granger let out another scream.

Nott rolled his shoulders. “Alright then,” he said. “You want to or should I?” he asked Harry. The boy shrugged. 

“You might as well.”

Nott nodded. His mouth moved but before the incantation left his lips he glanced over towards Granger. Subtly adjusting his stance, Nott called out almost in a bored tone of voice: “Arresto Momentum.”
True to magic, the spell took a hold. The troll- which had been raising its club to bash Hermione’s skull in- was almost completely frozen. Arresto Momentum wasn’t made to stop something in its entirety, rather to slow it down. Troll’s were slow creatures naturally, though, and so to the effect it was almost completely frozen.

Harry tilted his head and hummed.

There were a plethora of spells he knows, just not a whole bunch he’s practiced. Thinking back to his mother’s books however, Harry settles on a particular charm.

He tilts up his wand and “ Stupefy.”

The Stunning Charm is usually a fourth or fifth year spell. It’s notably difficult to cast, although-- like riding a bike-- once you get it, you can cast it like it’s second nature. The spell’s a bit more jagged than it should be, the magic shooting out of Harry’s wand like a lightning bolt rather than a uniform line. It hits its target though, and although the troll doesn’t fall over, it does permanently stop moving and its eyes roll back.

Nott’s lips tilt down in a considered look. He hums and gives a small nod to Harry.

Granger, seeing the troll’s completely stopped, scoots a bit back. When it doesn’t move, she scoots back more. When it doesn’t move after that, Hermione stands up. She grabs at her wand, clutching the wood with a white knuckled grip. Her hands go to her robes, smoothing out the creases, to her top, and back to her robes. Her feet splosh in the water as she makes her way over to the boys, trying her best to avoid any contact with the troll. Her shoulder knocks into one of the troll's hands as she’s walking. A shiver runs through her and Hermione stills, but the troll doesn’t react.

When Granger is in front of the boys it’s properly awkward. Nott joined Harry near the wall, so they’re all standing there in a club. Granger pulls at her skirt and sweater again and nervously her hands flitter to her hair before going to rub at her eyes. Her hands drop down and form fists. She looks like she swallowed a rock.

“I- uh,” she says, and for once she’s speechless.

Nott and Harry exchange a look.

Potter breaks into an awkward, hesitant, but friendly smile. “Don’t worry about it, Granger,” he says, trying to let his voice be as kind as possible. Usually he’s monotone with Granger-- it wouldn’t do to be monotone right now.

“You- you saved me,” Hermione continues on, the words starting to build up. The one hand that isn’t gripping her wand is fisting at the fabric of her skirt. “I-- you saved me from the troll. I-- thank you.”

Harry grins again. Nott stays silent by his side.

Granger turns. “And I- thank you too,” she says to Nott.

Theo nods. “Theodore Nott.”
“Hermione Granger.”

Harry turns his head back to the troll. “And now that you’re all acquainted…”

He takes a step forwards, slips a little, and rights himself back up. Harry uses the wall and an odd gait to make his way to the frozen creature. He glances up at it, considering something.

“Nott,” he calls over. 

Theodore walks over to Harry.

Potter points upwards. “Troll whiskers can be used as wand cores.”

Nott tilts his head down, mutters something that sounds eerily like: “Of fucking course they can be,” and glances back up. He raises his wand, his lips forming syllables but the word spoken is so quiet that Harry doesn’t pick up on the incantation.

One by one the whiskers are plucked off the face. Nott gingerly brings them down into Harry’s opened hand. In the end there’s about 50 of the short, thin pieces.

Harry contemplates asking Nott to get an eye for him, or the troll’s tongue, and he even considers dissecting it like a frog in a muggle classroom. He’s sure someone somewhere has a use for troll parts, and it would be interesting to see if it has any effects on potions or merit to study. However, a sniffle in the corner reminds Potter that Grangers here and the girl would surely not take to something so brutal.

Harry walks back to Hermione with Nott. He shoves the whiskers into his trouser pockets before she can see.

Granger’s face is no longer tear-streaked, though her eyes are still red-rimmed and when she speaks her voice is a bit raw from all the screaming. “What was that for?” she asks, but her voice is demanding or bossy like it was previously, instead it’s a bit wobbly and a tiny bit assertive, but all Harry hears right now is the lostness and instability. 

Harry smiles again. “I just wanted to see how the spell took hold. It’s a bit advanced and I wasn’t sure if it was going to work.” He shrugs, and if he had a free hand Harry would be rubbing at the back of his neck, sheepishly.

“Oh,” Granger says, short and sweet. “Listen I-” she starts, stops, and then closes her mouth. Harry feels his brow draw together, but a knock to his shoulder by Nott reminds him of why Granger’s here in the first place.

“Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes dart up to meet acid green.

“You can say what you want to say.”

Hermione’s mouth flickers down, but sure enough it’s pulling open. “You’re supposed to let teachers handle things like this,” she mutters, one hand going upwards to rub at her arm.

“The teachers weren’t here,” Nott points out. “Would you prefer we left you to the wolves-- or, troll?”

“No- I!” Hermione jumps in, “I just mean you didn’t have to help, but you did, and for that I’m thankful- if a bit relieved, and I’m saying that although you shouldn’t have helped because it’s the teachers jobs to deal with… rogue trolls, and we’re all just first years and you both could’ve gotten horribly injured or even killed, and maybe even expelled, and if that’s not a horrible fate I don’t know what is but--” Granger’s mouth snaps shut mid rant. She takes a breath and opens it again. “I just mean, that’s to say, I’m trying to express that I’m thankful for your help.”

“Of course Granger,” Harry says. “Like Nott said, we weren’t going to leave you to the troll.”

Granger's smile is shy at first, but soon it broadens and Harry is automatically reminded that she is a Gryffindor.

“ What is going on here?” A new voice says. Harry turns his head to find McGonagall in the doorway, her arm braced out with her wand and an aghast look on her face.

“There was a troll, Professors,” Harry answers almost dumbly, his arm sweeping out to the side to gesture to said troll. 

“I can see that Mr.Potter,” McGonagall answers shortly. “But someone must explain to me what you three are doing here and how that troll was stopped!”

Before Harry can open his mouth, Granger steps forwards. 

“It's my fault, I went looking for the troll and thought I could handle it.... If Potter and Nott hadn't come and found me, I'd probably be dead."

Nott’s eyes slid over to Harry’s.

McGonagall’s nose flared. “Why Ms. Granger,” she started out, shaking her head, “Although I applaud your bravery, you should have informed a teacher. As you said, you could have died.”
Granger dips her head bashfully. “Yes Professor. And I’m so sorry for my actions… if I just had the forethought before then we wouldn’t be in this mess, and for that I am remorseful.”

McGonagall shakes her head some more and talks about responsibility. After getting a short answer out of Nott on how they stopped the troll, however, she ushers them off the bed. 

The trio exits the bathroom, oddly victorious. Harry’s not surprised they stopped the troll, rather he’s surprised McGonagall didn’t take away 100 points from Slytherin or something like that. 

The trio is silent along the first corridor. When they turn down the second Granger speaks up. 

“I did mean it. I really am thankful.”
“I know, Granger,” Harry answers. “You lied to a teacher. You disrespected authority. That speaks volumes.”

Hermione turns her face, her cheeks heating up. Her hands clutch at her robes and pull at the fabric. “I was-”

“Yes?”

Hermione’s lips pressed together. “What were the spells you used? We haven’t been taught them yet. Potter, you said the one you used was… advanced.”

Harry smiles and satisfaction curls in his chest. “We haven’t been. Nott and I like to study on our own.”

Granger stews in silence for a moment and Harry can’t help but prod.

“Aren’t you going to tell us off for un-moderated spell-practicing?”

Hermione’s lips swish to the side and she ducks her head. “I think… I think I’d like to learn them. With you- if you don’t mind, I mean.”

“So that’s a no on the telling of us off?”
Granger bites her lip. Her hands twist the fabric of her outfit. “I don’t-- I mean, I still think the rules in Hogwarts are there for a reason and should be respected; it’s to keep people safe, and really first years ought not to be practicing spells on our own-- it can be quite dangerous. However… the spells you used weren’t offensively harmful, rather defensively in this case, and I suppose that if you both are able to do them… then I could learn as well…”

Harry tilted his head back. “You don’t have to rationalize, Granger.” A pause. “I’ll tell you when we’re practicing next.”

Hermione’s face lights up at that and Harry smiles. This is going splendidly.

“I should pull off here,” Granger says, “Gryffindor tower is this way.”

“Night then, Granger.”

“G’night Granger.”

Hermione nods, “Night Nott, night Potter,” and peels away. The two Slytherins walk in silence for a moment more.

“That went just how you wanted, didn’t it?” Nott says first, breaking the ice. The hallway is eerily quiet now, except for the clicking of Harry’s crutches.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t plan on running into a troll or saving Granger but--” Harry shrugs his shoulders-- “all things considered, it’s definitely turning out better than I expected. This might be a speedrun to getting Granger to be bearable.”

Nott huffed. “Yes, well. We still have to see how that goes.”

The Slytherin dorms are oddly active when Harry and Nott arrive.

Older years are milling around the place, and there are multiple glasses of butterbeer-- and some of something stronger-- all around. Harry thinks he sees a couple different barrels with taps, but they’re too obscured by the upper-years to really get a good look at them. Potter guesses it’s not a wonder that the older students are having a party- it’s Halloween, and it’s a Friday, and although Slytherins always are on guard and most of the time interactions between one another are for some kind of political gain, Slytherins are still human, and teenagers want to have parties. What’s more surprising, however, is that when Nott and Harry enter the first year dorm room, Zabini is up and ready to leave. Harry glances at him.

“You’re going to the upper year party?”

Zabini shrugs with his lips tilted up. “You amuse yourself with books, and I amuse myself with parties.”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “And will you be allowed?”
Zabini tilts his head. Draws his eyebrows together. Pouts his lips. Still, his eyes are too vindictive for anything innocent to radiate through. “And who do you think will stop me?”

Potter shrugs, decides he’s too tired, and wishes a good night to Zabini. After changing and showering (trull and ruined bathroom leave quite the bad smell) he collapses into his bed, spells the curtains shut, and goes for his newest Runes book before his hands are drawn down. He reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out Lily Evan’s history book. It leaves something heavy in his chest and a rock lodged in his throat and when he turns the page the sound’s sharp in his ears. Harry breathes out a shuddering breath and gets to reading. 

If his curtain was opened, he’d see Nott leaving for the party as well.