Chapter Text
Harry Potter gazed around him with misty eyes. It wasn't because his eyesight was poor—after all, his glasses worked just as well as they had the day before—but because he was looking at things no human was supposed to see. Yes, Harry Potter was a special boy—let’s call it that, since he loathed the labels "weird" or "crazy" that people often hurled at him. His small, undernourished frame seemed to drown in the hand-me-downs of his cousin, Dudley Dursley, as he walked in the wake of Hagrid’s giant form down Diagon Alley toward Gringotts Bank. With every step, his gaze swept over bodies sprawled on the ground with wide-open eyes—visions that vanished a moment later, replaced by children running into Zonko’s Joke Shop.
Hagrid’s clearing of his throat made him turn back to the anxious man, who was waving him over with a forced smile. Harry quickened his pace, though not before catching a glimpse of wizards locked in combat—wands; fascinating things, he couldn't wait to get his own—and, of course, the scene vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He found himself wondering: why hadn't he gone mad witnessing all these horrific sights? Perhaps he had become desensitized, or perhaps he was mad in a different sense. Besides, he had long since made peace with his fate and accepted the reality that—as the Dursleys put it—he was weird, even by wizarding standards.
When he entered the bank, it wasn't the goblins that startled him. It was the figure of a dragon soaring up through the floor toward the ceiling, its mouth agape in a silent scream, as if yearning for freedom. For a few seconds, he stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide with astonishment. It was the first time he had ever seen a dragon! Clearly, an amazing adventure lay ahead of him; never before had his visions revealed anything quite so extraordinary. The image finally vanished at the edge of the ceiling, causing the damaged floor and roof to rumble and knit themselves back together.
His eyes darted to the warning:
'Enter, stranger, but take heed of what awaits the sin of greed. For those who take, but do not earn, must pay a heavy price in turn. So, if you seek beneath our floors for treasure that is not yours—Thief, you have been warned: beware of finding more than just treasure there!'
It seemed his future self had forgotten to read that warning one more time.
As he rode the cart toward the Potter family's Vault 687, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a dragon, its neck held fast by chains. Because the cart was moving so fast, he couldn't see it clearly. Yet, that brief glimpse was enough to fill him with sympathy for its wretched state. He wondered if he might eventually free the dragon out of pity—or for some other reason.
He hadn't even spent a full day in the wizarding world, yet he had seen so many fascinating things that he thought nothing else could possibly surprise him. He was dead wrong; seeing his family's vault made his jaw drop wider than a dragon's maw. Piles of gold stretched endlessly, towering like mountain peaks. And to think—this was merely the 'trust vault' his parents had set up for pocket money, not the main family vault!
Griphook, the goblin escorting him, handed him a small pouch with an infinite capacity. He considered taking only enough to cover his school supplies, but ultimately decided to fill it to the brim to avoid repeated trips to the bank. Once satisfied with the amount he had gathered, he accompanied Hagrid to retrieve a mysterious package on the Headmaster's behalf.
The object was kept in a dark, cramped vault filled with stalactites. Suddenly, Harry caught a fleeting mental image of a red stone, red eyes, and a purple turban; the vision made him shudder and step quickly away from Hagrid. The man seemed neither worried nor suspicious regarding the Headmaster's orders, regardless of how mysterious the vault and the retrieved package might be. Instead, he simply tied the pouch to his waist and headed toward the pub for lunch—a place where anyone could have easily stolen the package. Watching Hagrid with a furrowed brow, Harry could only shake his head. Perhaps his foolishness stemmed from his giant blood—who knew? It wasn't his concern. Besides, who was the adult here? Harry cast one last look at the fascinating wizarding bank before following the giant man once more.
After lunch, Hagrid took him to buy a trunk and school supplies, such as parchment and quills. As they walked, Harry asked numerous questions about Hogwarts, Purebloods, Half-bloods, Muggle-borns, and Dumbledore. From the conversation, Harry gathered that Hagrid’s absolute loyalty to the Headmaster made him biased. There was a strong element of subjectivity in his descriptions of the various houses—Slytherin in particular. Furthermore, Hagrid made Harry uncomfortable by repeatedly insisting that he was a true Gryffindor, just like his parents. Yet, it wasn't his parents who would determine his house, nor were they the ones who would have that old hat placed upon their heads. He knew. He had seen it—briefly—the moment he held the Hogwarts letter. He knew that the hat was also a tool that could help him avoid manipulation. At Madam Malkin’s, Hagrid left him on his own. There was already a customer inside—a boy about his age with hair so blonde it was almost white and a formal outfit that gave him an upper-class air—standing on a stool and being measured.
"Hogwarts first-year?" Madam Malkin asked, more out of politeness than anything else, since anyone could tell at a glance that he was a first-year.
Harry nodded.
Harry introduced himself to Draco Malfoy using only his first name, anxious about the implications of his surname—which, as it turned out, was not considered ordinary in the wizarding world. But his worry proved unfounded, as Malfoy was far too busy talking about himself to inquire about Harry. He let the blond boy ramble on about Hogwarts and various other topics, offering nothing more than the occasional nod in response. Madam Malkin cast an amused glance their way, as if she knew Harry was merely humoring Malfoy. After all, what harm was there in showing a little patience to an innocent child—one who would eventually lose that innocence in the cruelest of ways, such as being forced to kill someone?
Before long, Madam Malkin finished with the other boy and asked Harry to step up onto the stool to be measured. Harry watched the boy leave with a woman who had black hair and a streak of silver running down one side. Their eyes met briefly, instantly triggering a flash of memory: a middle-aged woman crouching down to whisper to him, "Is Draco alive?" The vision vanished as the shop door closed shut. When he turned his attention back to Madam Malkin, she was smiling good-naturedly, a measuring tape in hand. "Hogwarts uniform, dear?"
Harry nodded. "And could you find me some everyday clothes—the kind wizards usually wear?"
"Muggle-born?"
Harry shook his head. "Half-blood, but I was raised by my Muggle aunt and uncle after my parents died."
"Oh, you poor thing," she whispered, cupping Harry’s cheeks. Then, a broad smile spread across her face. Leave it to me—I'll make you look like a doll!
He tried not to roll his eyes and let Madam Malkin do her job. He trusted the woman's expertise, knowing he would likely return here in the future. Harry left the shop with a stack of formal and casual robes neatly folded in his trunk.
"Harry!" Hagrid called out, striding quickly through the crowd while carrying a cage containing a snowy owl. "Happy birthday, Harry!"
Hedwig! A smile spread across his face as he finally met his pet owl. He felt as though he had always owned Hedwig, yet he hadn't known Hagrid would be the one to give her to him. "Thank you, Hagrid," Harry whispered as he took her out of the cage and hugged her. Hedwig seemed to know him already; she perched on his shoulder and stayed there quietly.
"Smart bird!" Hagrid exclaimed with a laugh as they walked toward Ollivander's shop.
The moment he locked eyes with the old man, some magnetic force compelled him to reach out his hand. The man spoke his name with a gentle familiarity: "Mr. Potter—at last! It feels like only yesterday I saw your parents walk into my shop." His choice of words made Harry realize that Ollivander, too, possessed a special gift like his own—the ability to see the unseen. "Come... come... which is your wand hand?"
"My right hand."
Then began an endless search. "Curious," the man whispered as wand after wand failed to suit him. Suddenly, he spun around and hurried to a deep corner where boxes were stacked, retrieving one. He opened it slowly in front of Harry, inviting him to take it. As his fingers touched the object, his eyes rolled back, and energy swirled around him in a glow of green and gold. "Curious! Truly curious. Your wand is holly with a phoenix feather core. I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. The very same phoenix gave two feathers—one for each of two different wands. One is in your grasp, and the other is the one that inflicted this scar," he whispered, touching Harry’s wound. "I expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. After all, *he* did great things, too. Terrible, yes. But great nonetheless."
Voldemort. The man was talking about Voldemort. The thought sent a shiver of ice down Harry’s spine. He didn't protest when Hagrid hurriedly ushered him out of Ollivander’s shop; his pale face was proof enough that the name remained a source of dread for most wizards.
He saw a multitude of possibilities whenever he opened his eyes—longing for things he didn't yet possess or feeling regret over mistakes he hadn't yet made. The upside was that he could avoid bad outcomes. Yet, there were times when, no matter where he turned, misfortune would still befall him. Like his time with the Dursleys: his only choices were being punched or kicked—two options that hurt equally. That was precisely why he returned to Diagon Alley after Hagrid left him at Number 4, Privet Drive. With his wheeled trunk and a pouch of money in his pocket, Harry made his way to an inn in Diagon Alley—Witchcraft Boussra, a hotel located near Gringotts. After renting a room, Harry opened his trunk and unpacked, lingering to stroke the high-quality fabric of his clothes—a luxury he had never known before. Harry bit his lip and buried his face in the garments. There was no sound; only the trembling of his back betrayed the fact that he was weeping. He felt a mix of sadness—at experiencing for the very first time what other children took for granted—and relief that he could finally loosen the Dursleys' grip on him.
The next day, Harry came down for breakfast wearing his new blue silk tunic. He sat at a table in the hotel cafeteria, observing his surroundings. Although there were few hotels in the wizarding world—and none as luxurious as their Muggle counterparts—Harry personally preferred the magical ones because, well... magic. The dining hall featured a classic theme, complete with self-adjusting seats and napkins that folded themselves; not to mention food that would instantly appear if you simply called out its name from the menu. As he shoveled large chunks of meat into his mouth, his eyes scanned a *Daily Prophet* article about his upcoming enrollment at Hogwarts. Fortunately, no one knew what he looked like, so the story contained no photograph—only a description based on speculation. Some details were accurate, like his eye color or his signature Potter hair, but the description of him as tall and charming was wide of the mark. In reality, Harry was practically a dwarf compared to others his age.
Just then, a spark of electricity—what he now recognized as magical energy—made him look up. His eyes locked with those of a young man walking in with a stride that forced everyone to step aside. What astonished Harry most was the stranger's height; standing over six-foot-one, he practically filled the doorway as he entered. Muscles rippled beneath his expensive shirt and a black cloak that reached only mid-thigh, leaving a gap that revealed his strong, long legs. Even the fabric of his trousers couldn't conceal the movement of those muscles. When the young man turned his way, Harry froze under the piercing gaze of familiar, dark eyes. The magical sensation vanished as the stranger looked away. Harry recognized that nameless face! It had appeared in his dreams time and again—sometimes in the background, but often right by his side. Even though the vision didn't clearly reveal the voice or the body, there was no mistaking that gaze!
Harry set down his spoon and stood up as the young man moved out of the room. They would meet at Hogwarts, he was certain. If it was meant to be.
Because it *was* meant to be.
Since staying at Witchcraft Boussra, Harry had spent his time learning about the wizarding world. He bought and read numerous books—especially those about himself—so he could understand the wizarding world's opinion of the "Boy Who Lived." It turned out he was the last of the Potters, a family of ancient noble lineage, even though there were no kings or queens here. That concept belonged to Muggles and had vanished after wizards separated themselves from the Muggle world. Consequently, the twenty-eight oldest noble families had become the primary political force, a group that included the Potters. The Potter line carried the blood of the ancient, extinct Peverell family, ever since the last Peverell descendant, Iolanthe Peverell, married the Potter heir, Hardwin Potter. No wonder there was so much family wealth in the bank—not to mention the valuable heirlooms.
He also delved deeper into Pureblood society and the prejudices against Muggles that stemmed from the witch hunts. He didn't want to blindly accept the local prejudices without understanding them. While he felt that most Purebloods' views were irrelevant in the modern age, he could sympathize with them, knowing full well just how dangerous Muggles could be. He spent his time devouring books—a luxury the Dursleys had never allowed him—and nurturing the intellectual side of himself that had long been neglected. Fortunately, his trunk had infinite capacity; he could even climb inside via a staircase to arrange his books on the shelves within. "I love magic," he whispered, stroking his potions textbook. He enjoyed potions; it reminded him of cooking—one of the few skills he had acquired from the Dursleys. He hoped to start experimenting with real potion ingredients soon.
Driven by this interest, he returned to the apothecary to purchase higher-quality ingredients. The potion shop was fascinating enough to make up for the stench of rotten eggs and garbage. It wasn't that the shop was dirty; it was simply because they sold all manner of strange potion ingredients—bottles of herbs, dried roots, and glowing vials lining the walls containing things that squirmed; bundles of feathers, shards of fangs, and a raven wired to the ceiling. There were even rare items like the unicorn horn he had noticed when he first visited with Hagrid—a horn freely given by a unicorn (20 Galleons)—and bee eyes (5 Knuts a scoop).
He couldn't forget the moment he first met the Potions Master. He had accidentally bumped into the man's back, too engrossed in examining the unicorn horn. The man had spun around instantly, his dark eyes narrowing sharply. Harry had to crane his neck upward to meet that dark, scrutinizing gaze. His aunt and uncle were of average height, yet it seemed that even in the wizarding world, he was surrounded by people with giant's blood.
The man’s lips curled in a sneer of distaste—an expression that would have sent anyone else running for their lives in terror. But not Harry. Not after seeing that glimpse of the future: sitting there, cradling the mysterious man as the light of life faded from his eyes. Not when he could still feel the warmth of blood seeping between his fingers as he pressed against that neck wound. Overcome by a sudden wave of grief, tears began to roll down his cheeks. Gasping, the man moved quickly to grip his shoulders. "Potter!" he exclaimed.
But Harry remained shaken, sobbing uncontrollably. The man glanced around in a panic, especially as several heads turned curiously in their direction.
"Potter!" He stooped until their eyes were level, his grip on Harry’s shoulders iron-tight. "Pull yourself together! Stop crying!" Harry gasped, trying to compose himself as his nose ran. "Why are you crying!?" The words came out in a hiss—the sort of sound an ordinary person wouldn't make at an eleven-year-old. Yet Harry felt neither fear nor anger; nothing could eclipse the sorrow he felt at having watched the man die in his arms. This man mattered—Harry could sense it.
As Harry calmed down and blinked away the tears, he met the man’s dark, smoldering gaze—and smiled. "Potter! Have you lost your mind!?" the man hissed in frustration at Harry’s inexplicable expression.
Harry simply nodded. "What is your name, sir?" He reached out to tug at the man’s sleeve. The man looked taken aback.
He narrowed his eyes. "I am the Potions Professor at Hogwarts. You will address me as Professor Severus Snape—or 'sir'!"
"Professor Snape," Harry whispered, testing the name on his tongue. Then, he smiled.
"Have you calmed down?" Harry nodded. "Did you lose the person who brought you here?" Harry shook his head. The man narrowed his eyes. "You came here alone? Why did you come alone?"
"I wanted to buy better ingredients than the standard student-grade ones I’d already purchased, sir..." He looked surprised when Harry whispered, "I like Potions..."
"Hm..." He narrowed his eyes further, as if realizing Harry had deliberately answered one question to divert attention from the other. But the man didn't press the issue; instead, he simply stood up, turned, and walked away. After a few steps, he said without looking back, "Come along, I'll show you!" Without hesitation, Harry followed him with a light step. He reached out to grasp the man's sleeve, causing the man to glance down and frown, though he didn't shake off the grip. The odd pair made their way through the potion shop, trailed by curious gazes—especially from those who knew exactly who Severus Snape was. Many of them were former students who had experienced his sharp tongue and temper firsthand.
The Potions Master walked him back to the Leaky Cauldron, assuming he was heading home to his Muggle life. But once the man had left, Harry slipped away again, making his way toward Witchcraft Boussra.
On the morning of September 1st, before eleven o'clock, Harry stood nervously in front of the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace. Tom, the bartender, smiled and gestured for him to proceed. "Remember, say it clearly: 'King's Cross Station, Platform 9 ¾'."
Harry tossed the Floo powder—watching the hot flames turn green—and stepped inside. He took a breath, coughing slightly on the ash, then shouted, "King's Cross Station, Platform 9 ¾!" in a voice that was hoarse yet clear and strong.
Before he could even blink, Harry was flung out, spat out by the fireplace. He instantly shielded his head to protect it from the hard stone floor. It wouldn't be funny if tomorrow's *Daily Prophet* headline reported Harry Potter's brains splattered all over the pavement on his first day of school. True, his body had landed on something hard, but it wasn't the ground. As he looked up, his gaze traveled higher and higher—and higher still—to meet a familiar face that made his jaw drop. Eyes darker than any he had ever seen stared back at him. He froze, realizing exactly who the young man was. Rough, calloused hands steadied him; he knew he was standing before a predator.
"You alright?" a low baritone voice asked as the man tugged at Harry's hair to get his attention. Harry shook his head and tried to pull away, but a large hand held him fast. "No one walking you there?"
Harry shook his head. "I'm an orphan, sir."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Salazar... You're tiny. You'd get swallowed up by the crowd," he remarked—a comment Harry met with a solemn nod, as if acknowledging a serious problem. The young man blinked, studying Harry appraisingly, before finally grabbing him by the waist and hoisting him up into his arms. "Can't have you getting lost, then. I'll walk you to the train."
Harry’s hands, having landed on the man's muscular shoulder, openly stroked the muscle with a look of curiosity. The young man raised his dark eyebrows. It was certainly an unusual sight, especially given the height difference—and the fact that the person carrying Harry wasn't exactly known for gentleness or kindness.
"Flint?" A group of older students stared at them in astonishment. Flint—so that was his name. "What are you doing with the kid?"
"Hm..." He still didn't put Harry down. Nor did Harry stop stroking that shoulder in awe. What did Flint eat to get so big? He knew Flint was an older student, but not even every adult could rival his height. "Come on. The train's about to leave," his friends called out again.
Ignoring them, Flint asked instead, "First-year?"
Harry nodded.
"Where's your trunk?" Harry reached for the pendant around his neck—a miniature trunk. "Smart." Then, without putting him down, he carried Harry onto the train, followed by his friends, who watched with speculative gazes. It was odd; they seemed too wary to say anything.
"What's your name?"
"Harry..." then, close to Flint's ear, he added, "Potter."
The young man raised an eyebrow. "Marcus Flint. Slytherin Quidditch Captain."
Marcus opened one of the compartment doors, causing the three occupants—clearly first-years—to turn around in surprise. They looked back and forth between Harry and Flint.
Slowly, the young man set him down, lowered his head, and whispered, "I hope to see you again in Slytherin." Then he pushed Harry inside and shut the door firmly.
He turned to the three first-years. "Hi?" he said, waving.
"Hi." One of them shifted to make room for him. "My name's Sue Li."
"Harry."
"Terry Boot."
"Mandy Brocklehurst."
"Um... was that your relative?"
Harry shook his head.
"An acquaintance?"
Harry tilted his head, then shrugged. His three new companions exchanged glances, but Harry ignored them and picked up a book instead.
After staring at his book for a long time without absorbing any information, Harry looked out the window. A red car hovering beside the window before vanishing into the sky made him chuckle. He sighed; had he been sorted into Gryffindor, that was the sort of thing that would have happened. He would have faced absurd adventures alongside his two best friends. He didn't want to think about the other, darker, and more dangerous adventures—because no matter which house he ended up in, that kind of adventure would follow him anyway.
His visions had given him plenty to consider, especially regarding the Golden Trio. While he would certainly gain genuine friendship, the risks involved were far greater than if he were in another house. Moreover, he loathed the expectations people would place on him if he joined the House of the Lion. He would rather go unnoticed than be worshipped as a hero. He bit his lip. Staying in the background was crucial for survival. It wasn't that he didn't realize being the center of attention was unavoidable, but Harry wanted to minimize it as much as possible. And that wouldn't happen if he joined Gryffindor.
Suddenly, the door opened, and Hermione stood in the doorway with Neville Longbottom. In another possible timeline, Neville Longbottom could have swapped roles with him as the Boy Who Lived. Seeing Neville looking so small and timid made Harry observe him with curiosity, causing Neville to hide behind Hermione. "Has anyone seen a toad named Trevor?"
They all shook their heads.
Hermione glanced at his book. "Oh! You're reading a potions book! I've already read all the books on the list. My favorite is *A History of Hogwarts*! My name is Hermione Granger, and this is Neville Longbottom." "My favorites are Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. My name's Harry, and this is Terry Boot, Mandy Brocklehurst, and Sue Li." The three of them looked surprised to learn that Harry already knew their names. "Why don't you ask a prefect for help? They could help you *Accio* it."
"*Accio*?"
Harry shrugged. "You know, the *Accio* charm—for summoning objects."
"Oh!" All five of them looked surprised. Hermione nodded. "I'll take your advice. Come on, Longbottom." Before leaving, she turned back briefly and said, "We'll be there soon; you'd all better change into your robes."
He was grateful that Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley hadn't found him.
Their train came to a halt just as a whistle blew. The first-years followed Hagrid toward the dock where several boats were moored. Before he could head over, someone suddenly grabbed his arm, and once again, he found himself face-to-face with Marcus Flint.
"Hold on tight; nobody wants the hero of the wizarding world drowning after being dragged into the lake by a giant squid." The first-years nearby stared in wide-eyed fear, and a Gryffindor prefect named Percy Weasley shouted a warning to Marcus Flint not to bother the "ducklings." Marcus just smirked, gave Harry's hair a gentle tug, and left as quickly as he had arrived. "He's so tall," whispered Terry Boot.
"And huge!" exclaimed another.
"I heard he's got troll blood."
"Hush! Don't you know? That's Marcus Flint from Slytherin. Even his fellow Slytherins don't dare mess with him."
While listening to the chatter around him with one ear, Harry watched the way Marcus walked—like a predator making everyone step aside; some even jumped out of his way. Harry knew that kind of confidence didn't come easily or cheaply—especially with a physique like Marcus's, which resembled that of a professional rugby player.
The boats began to glide across the lake. In the distance, Hogwarts Castle loomed majestically, as if aware that nothing could rival its beauty. Harry smiled at the place he would—eventually—come to regard as his first true home.
"Ah, thank you, Hagrid," said a middle-aged woman with silver hair pulled up in a tight bun, dressed in wizarding robes reminiscent of a medieval scholar. She exuded an air of stern discipline, her serious expression and piercing gaze causing Neville to shrink back. "My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. You will wait here in an orderly fashion until it is your turn to be sorted."
"I heard we have to fight a troll," whispered Ron Weasley, sparking a commotion between the Malfoy and Weasley factions. Harry stepped three paces to the side to avoid them, earning raised eyebrows from his three friends. He knew the three of them would end up in Ravenclaw, yet even now, their reactions were strikingly similar!
They entered the Great Hall in a procession. When the Sorting Hat began to sing, Harry sang along. Those around him looked at him strangely—especially Hermione; oh, Hermione, with her strictly logical mind. But Harry paid them no heed; he was too busy swaying and softly singing along to the tune that had been humming in his head for weeks, clapping loudly the moment the hat finished.
Before the sorting began, Dumbledore issued warnings about the Forbidden Forest and the dangers of the Whomping Willow. Naturally, he also warned against entering the third-floor corridor. Harry had no intention of interfering with Voldemort's plans. Besides, without Harry's intervention, Voldemort wouldn't be able to retrieve the object anyway. Once again, he stepped back from manipulating events.
Then, the sorting began.
"Hannah Abbott!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Hermione Granger!"
"GRYFFINDOR!"
"Neville Longbottom!"
"GRYFFINDOR!"
"Harry Potter!" Whispers and stirrings rippled through the hall. Harry, still humming the Sorting Hat’s song, stopped swaying and looked up. His eyes met those of the Potions Master once more. "Harry? Harry Potter?" his friends whispered, glancing around—perhaps searching for that signature messy hair. As Harry stepped forward, a dreamy smile still playing on his lips, the whispers grew louder, filled with astonishment and curiosity. "Is that Harry Potter?"
As the hat touched his head, he spoke in a clear voice that rang out through the hushed hall: "Hello, Sorting Hat."
"Oh, hello, Mr. Potter. Truly fascinating, what lies within your mind."
"Hmm... hmm... go ahead, Sorting Hat. Though I think I know where you’re going to sort me."
"Yes. Yes. A truly unique mind." And just as in the vision where it had sorted him into Gryffindor, the hat took a long time to decide. He knew it was weighing two main houses—assuming what he had seen or heard muttered was true. Yet, Harry was confident the hat would place him in the house that truly aligned with his mission.
"Hmmm... your mind is far older than your years. Especially in how you grasp the situations around you. That makes you a perfect fit for Slytherin. Yes, I think you belong in... SLYTHERIN!" Ah...
Harry removed the hat and placed it into the hands of Professor McGonagall, who—like the rest of the hall—remained frozen in shock. Harry blinked, a smile still gracing his lips, as a roar of applause gradually rose from the Slytherin table. He knew the Sorting Hat’s decision had stunned everyone; who would have guessed that the child of a lion would turn out to be a cunning snake? Yet cunning was more vital for survival than bravery—especially when one was close to a snake hiding within a lion's guise. The first step was to break free from the web of manipulation. "Hello," Harry greeted Malfoy, who finally ordered his two hefty cronies to make room for him. Several people nearby introduced themselves. Harry looked back at them with a smile and a distant, dreamy gaze. It was likely this reaction that sparked the whispers questioning his sanity; he even faintly caught a derogatory murmur—"maybe the Killing Curse made him a bit mad." But Harry didn't mind. He had chosen this House, fully aware of what he was getting into.
His wandering gaze swept the area and settled on Marcus Flint, who was devouring his meal as if nothing around him mattered. Sensing the stare, Flint looked up, and their eyes locked. A smirk played on his lips, though he didn't notice the people beside him flinching away. Ah... truly interesting. Harry could see why Marcus Flint kept appearing in his visions. Being near him, it seemed, would never be dull.
Much like Marcus Flint, everything about Slytherin was intriguing—even the common room. It was certainly damp and dark, being located in the dungeons, yet the sofas and tea tables arranged around the fireplace, the antique tables with their luxurious chess sets, and the golden-hued chandeliers lent it an air of sophistication. It was a far cry from the Gryffindor common room, which was awash in red and cluttered with toys, blankets, snacks, and scattered teen magazines.
As the Prefect made announcements and Professor Snape, the Head of House, explained the rules, Harry stood among the group of first-years, his gaze drifting and his body swaying as he hummed the Mermaids' song in his mind. He was certain he would hear that song during his fourth year. "Potter!" Harry stopped swaying. "Are you listening?"
"Yes, Professor Snape..." he said softly and politely. The man narrowed his eyes but made no further comment.
"Remember! I will not tolerate pranks or bullying in this house! Slytherin matters stay within Slytherin walls! Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" they all chorused.
Unlike the Gryffindor dormitories in the high tower, which were flooded with sunlight, the atmosphere in the dungeons was far darker—well, naturally. Yet, what made it interesting was the touch of luxury that reflected the lifestyles of most house members. The dormitory was also much more spacious than the one in Gryffindor (a welcome change); instead of sharing a room with five or six others, he shared it with only two: Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy. Clad in new pajamas—gown-like and made of material as smooth as silk—Harry lay on the softest bed he had ever experienced. Yet, sleep eluded him; his body remained on high alert in this unfamiliar territory. He tried to sleep—he really did—knowing that tomorrow marked his first day. But he kept tossing and turning restlessly under his blankets.
Sighing, Harry decided to go down to the common room. Perhaps the fireplace would help him sleep. When he arrived, he found plenty of older students gathered there, either playing games or reading.
"What are you doing out of bed this late, Potter?" A familiar, cold voice caught his attention.
"Are you homesick?" another voice chimed in, followed by the laughter of his friends.
"Oh, give it a rest; you were homesick in your first year, too. I remember walking you to Professor Snape while you were crying—and you cried even harder when you faced him." That comment drew laughter from the others.
Harry smiled at the banter being exchanged. He stood there in new pajamas that seemed to swallow his small frame. His eyes swept the room, searching for the source of that familiar voice amidst the crowd. He spotted him sitting there with a folded Quidditch magazine in his hands. His gaze shifted from the magazine to Harry, then he snapped his fingers as if to say, *Come here.*
His feet moved before his brain could catch up, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of Marcus Flint. Everyone stopped talking and watched. Seemingly oblivious to the attention, Marcus pulled him onto his lap. The position placed Harry’s head slightly higher, and he could feel the muscles of the arm resting on the back of the sofa against his own back. Everyone froze, eyes wide. One student even kept pouring tea into a cup until it overflowed without realizing it—a sight that amused Harry but also left him bewildered. However, his attention was soon captured by curiosity regarding the solid chest beneath his hands.
He asked innocently, "How did you get so big?" He heard the sound of someone choking in the distance. He saw Marcus’s crooked smile, which gave him a dangerous air—a smile that made him all the more attractive.
"Don't you want to go back to your room?" "Hm..." Sleep no longer seemed like such an appealing option once he felt what was beneath his head. When he grew up, Harry wanted muscles like that, too. He felt his hair being gently tugged, but he ignored it. He let out a wide yawn.
"Potter?" one of the girls asked. "Are you all right?"
The arm wrapped around his waist tensed. Harry looked back at the girl in confusion. Of course he was all right; he wasn't sick. Then, he glanced curiously at Marcus Flint. But there was no answer there—only a cold stare that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. That look wasn't directed at him, but rather at the girl. Harry didn't want that look turned on him; it was terrifying. It seemed he wasn't the only one who felt that way, judging by the audible gasp. A heavy silence fell over them.
Then, a deep, sharp voice broke the quiet: "Why don't you try closing your eyes and sleeping? Come here." He pulled Harry back against his shoulder. Oh! It was so comfortable and warm. He wished his pillow felt just like that.
Harry yawned, shifting slightly to find a comfortable position. Marcus conjured a blanket and draped it over Harry, covering him up to the crown of his head; Harry drifted off to sleep, enveloped in a masculine scent.
After a while, once everyone was certain Harry was fast asleep, one of the students spoke in a serious tone, "Flint. He's a first-year..."
Marcus raised an eyebrow and chuckled softly, his voice sharp as he said, "You speak as if I were a criminal." They all exchanged nervous glances. Instantly, a wand slid into his hand.
With nothing more than a whisper—"*Silencio, Crucio!*"—and a flick of his wand, Marcus sent the student collapsing to the floor, screaming soundlessly. Had there not been wards and sound-dampening spells in the room, such magic could never have been performed at Hogwarts. Even Snape knew about it and turned a blind eye, provided he didn't witness it firsthand; Slytherins knew full well to keep their secrets within the house walls. The scene finally came to an end after a few moments. A look of satisfaction played across the face of the person most feared in Slytherin House—second only to Professor Snape. Not a Prefect, nor Malfoy, but Marcus Flint. Indeed, every now and then, they needed a reminder of who Flint was—and the consequences his name carried.
"Don't forget who you're judging, Max," Marcus whispered, examining his wand while keeping his voice low so as not to wake the sleeping Harry. Then, he stood up and carried the Wizarding World's hero away without a backward glance, leaving the common room in a state of silence and fear.
When Harry woke the next day, he felt the surface beneath him was too hard to be a proper bed. Yet, it wasn't unpleasant, for he was warm. Warm? The realization made him blink himself fully awake; he discovered that half his body was draped over Marcus.
His emerald-green eyes widened as he took in the contours, muscles, and scars of the other boy's body. Yet, far from making him look bad, the scar only complemented his appearance, serving as a testament to a physique sculpted like a god’s. Dark, thick hair trailed down to the six-pack abs that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Harry studied the relaxed expression that had smoothed away the usual furrows on his forehead. One arm was bent beneath his head, revealing hard, defined muscles. As a fellow male, Harry hoped that one day he, too, would possess such a physique. After all, there was still plenty of time for him to grow.
Trying to shift his gaze to something more appropriate, Harry looked at the man's black hair; usually meticulously styled, it was now tousled in a way that made him seem more human. Marcus Flint didn't fit the conventional mold of handsome, yet there was no denying his masculine allure—the kind that made women’s knees go weak, or so Aunt Petunia claimed regarding the athletic actors she watched on the telly. Harry gasped as a large, calloused hand stroked his back, drawing him into the gaze of a single, open dark eye. "Done staring?"
Harry’s cheeks flushed.
Marcus yawned and shifted their bodies; resting his head on his massive arm, he turned to face Harry. His large palm cupped Harry’s waist, keeping him from rolling off the bed. His eyes remained fixed on Harry as he spoke, "First class starts in an hour; you’d better get ready if you want time for breakfast."
"You aren't going down?"
"I don't eat breakfast."
"Why?"
Marcus pulled his pillow over his face. "Sleep."
Silence settled between them.
"Flint?"
"Hush. Don't bother me," came the sleepy reply.
"Flint!" Harry tapped his arm.
"Hm?" he mumbled irritably.
"I don't know where my room is..."
Marcus sighed. Then, with a snap of his fingers, Harry's uniform and bag appeared. Still keeping his face buried under the pillow, he pointed, "The bathroom is over there."
"You have a private bathroom, too?!"
"Just because I'm the Quidditch team captain."
Oh! Yet another privilege Slytherin had that the other houses didn't.
"You can take a bath in there," he muttered after a moment.
Still with his face under the pillow, Marcus listened to the sound of the shower turning on. Then, he rolled over to go back to sleep. Before long, he felt damp fingers touch his cheek. But he kept his eyes closed. "Flint. Are you sure you aren't coming down?"
"In an hour. I'm skipping breakfast."
"At least don't forget to shower."
Marcus ruffled his hair without opening his eyes and made a shooing gesture. Soon after, he heard the door close.
His roommates excitedly asked where he had disappeared to. When Harry told them he had slept in Marcus Flint's room, his friends were stunned. Seeming unable to believe it, they glanced at the upper-year students, only to see them nodding with serious expressions. Seeing the innocent, confused look on Harry's face, Malfoy explained what kind of person Flint was. Apparently, his name was feared by most purebloods. He should have been in his final year at Hogwarts, but after failing his N.E.W.T.s, he had to repeat the year. It wasn't because he was stupid—everyone knew his magic was incredibly powerful and he excelled at practical work—but he cared only about Quidditch, and that came at the expense of his studies. They said he was even more intense than the Gryffindor captain, Oliver Wood.
The description of his character—dangerous, hot-tempered, cruel, and so on—made him sound like someone to be avoided. But Harry didn't see any of that in Marcus. Besides, if he did have a temper, it was only directed at people who truly annoyed him. That prompted Malfoy to exclaim, "That’s exactly the point! He’s *always* annoyed."
Harry disagreed, so he simply shrugged and went back to his meal.
Harry noticed the first difference in Potions class compared to how things would have been had he been sorted into Gryffindor. Snape didn't call him a celebrity, yet he still gave quizzes for which Harry had prepared the answers before the questions were even fully asked. There was even a moment where he answered before the man had finished speaking, simply because he was too eager. The only familiar sights were Hermione raising her hand as if trying to touch the ceiling, and Gryffindor steadily losing points. In truth, Hermione could have won back those lost points had she been called upon to answer; unfortunately, Snape preferred to pick Slytherins (Harry and Malfoy) instead—a common occurrence in the joint Slytherin-Gryffindor Potions class.
He ran into Marcus again at lunch. The boy no longer looked like the living dead. Marcus was never late for his first class, but he skipped breakfast just so he could sleep a few minutes longer—a habit common among Slytherins. He wasn't academically inclined, yet that didn't stop him from achieving top marks in practical magic, proving he was a powerful wizard who simply couldn't be bothered to read the theory.
Yet, those around him acted as if he were far more intimidating than the average student; a mere hiss from him could cause spoons to drop or people to choke. Harry noticed this, of course, but ignored it since it was never directed at him. In fact, the other boy’s annoyed expression would shift into a wide grin whenever he saw Harry. Sensing nothing amiss, Harry sat in the empty spot beside Flint—a seat no one else dared to occupy.
Harry didn't notice heads turning with a mix of horror and awe, especially when he reached for a piece of meat on Marcus’s plate because his own arm was too short to reach it. Marcus simply raised an eyebrow before sliding the platter of turkey closer to Harry. "Anything else?"
"Pumpkin juice, please..." he replied. "Thanks..."
Marcus watched him eat, occasionally brushing away the stray locks of hair that fell over Harry's eyes. "You need a clip." Harry just shook his head. "To keep the wound covered..." Marcus responded only with a raised eyebrow.
That night, clutching a pillow, he knocked on Marcus Flint’s door. The young man opened it shirtless, water still dripping from his hair and a towel draped over his shoulders; the Slytherin Quidditch team had evidently just finished practice.
Dark eyes swept over Harry from head to toe before Marcus wordlessly pushed the door wider to let him in. Half-asleep, Harry barely registered being scooped up and placed onto the bed within seconds. When Marcus climbed in, he shifted Harry onto his chest, wrapping muscular arms around his waist to keep him from falling. Harry didn't question this protectiveness or find it odd; his vision always showed him the same thing, and he knew he was safe whenever he was with Marcus.
It happened every night, rendering his own bed useless. Besides, if he slept here, he could use Marcus’s bathtub and avoid the communal showers. He wouldn't have to queue for the bathroom. Naturally, it didn't take long for gossip to spread through the Slytherin dormitory that he was constantly spending the night in Marcus Flint’s bed. No one dared to comment to Marcus’s face, but it was a different story for Harry—a first-year with none of the political backing or magical prowess of the older students.
A few fools, thinking Marcus Flint had gone soft, tried to torment Harry. They made him enter the Great Hall without shoes, vanished his uniform, and ruined his textbooks. Harry, having anticipated this treatment because he had foreseen it, simply hummed cheerfully as he walked barefoot. Professor Snape asked why he wasn't wearing his uniform in the Great Hall—was he forgetful or mad?—only to be met with a warning throat-clearing from the Headmaster. Everyone was startled when Harry answered innocently, "But Professor, my uniform is hiding. I couldn't find it even after counting to a hundred."
"Uniforms don't play hide-and-seek, Potter!"
That was when the entire hall shuddered with an aura of rage and danger. Everyone turned toward a corner of the Slytherin table, where Marcus Flint sat with a shattered goblet in his hand. Professor Dumbledore watched the scene with twinkling eyes and a hidden smile, while everyone else held their breath, feeling the intensity of that anger. It was shocking—truly shocking—when Marcus strode toward Harry like a raging bull (accompanied by a gasp from McGonagall) and scooped him up into his arms.
"Marcus Flint! Put me down!" Harry’s face turned beet red as he was carried through the hall, exposed to so many watching eyes.
"No. Let's go find your things."
"I can walk myself!" Harry protested as Marcus carried him out of the hall.
"Not barefoot. Remind me to teach you the *Accio* charm." The hall doors slammed shut with a boom, leaving the room in stunned silence. Among those who stood motionless, one or two took deep gulps of water, fully aware of what awaited them.
If a scream echoed from one of the secret underground chambers that night, Harry was fast asleep and unaware of it. Besides, the pillow he was clutching smelled just like Marcus. From then on, no one questioned Marcus Flint’s protective attitude.
Yet, there was no denying that many wondered why Marcus Flint had become so protective of Harry so quickly. It remained a mystery even to Marcus himself. Harry, however, saw it as nothing out of the ordinary; it was simply the behavior he had always observed, even before they had actually met.
Although there was clearly no sign that Marcus Flint intended to harm him, some older students still warned Harry about the dangers associated with the Flint name. More than five people had spoken to him about it, including Draco. "You need to understand, Harry, just what kind of purebloods the Flints are. Even among us, the name strikes fear. Some even say Gideon Flint raised his son to be a destroyer. Do you think a physique like that is normal for a wizard? He’s like a monster—you have no idea how many victims he’s claimed during Quidditch matches!"
Harry was slightly offended by the use of the word "monster." Yet, far from being frightened, he found himself even more curious about Marcus on the Quidditch pitch. After all, wasn't he the team captain?
That curiosity drove him to sneak out after hours to watch the Slytherin team practice. Yes, *sneak* out—because only those with special permission were allowed to leave the castle after 4:00 PM. Harry watched as the team members soared high above him, tossing the Quaffle back and forth and trying to score as many goals as possible, while others practiced hitting Bludgers. He could hear Marcus shouting instructions to the players. A large board in the middle of the pitch, near the stadium entrance, indicated that they were working on strategy. Some team members who were still warming up kept a watchful eye out for spies; they nodded when they spotted Harry but allowed him to stay and watch the practice. Suddenly, a winged golden ball zipped past Harry and circled his head, making him spin around to follow it. Instinctively, he reached out and caught it in his cupped hands. A loud *ping* rang out from the scoreboard, signaling that the Snitch had been caught. Everyone came to a halt in mid-air. Marcus batted a Bludger hard away before stopping to look at Harry.
The captain glided swiftly toward him, coming to a smooth stop before dismounting. "Potter!"
"Hi, Flint," he said, waving.
A strong wind whipped at their scarves and hair. "Do you want to get sick standing out here in the cold?" he asked gruffly, though he flicked his wand, instantly warming Harry up.
"Thanks..."
"Hm... have you ever ridden a broom?"
Harry nodded. "I just had my first flying lesson yesterday." And because he had stopped Draco from bothering Neville—and thus hadn't had the chance to save the Remembrall—he hadn't made the team.
"Know the rules of Quidditch?"
Harry nodded again.
"Want to give it a try?" he asked, holding out a Nimbus 2000.
"Oh!"
"Take it," said Flint.
Grinning, Harry released the Snitch and mounted the broom, shooting upward in pursuit of the winged golden ball. He heard laughter in the distance. It was a feeling he had missed—that sensation from his dreams of piercing the clouds and slicing through the wind at high speed. He missed his Firebolt. But the Nimbus 2000 wasn't bad, either. Harry reached out, moving as fast as his broom, and snatched the Snitch. A burst of laughter escaped him, surprising even himself. When he descended and set his feet on the ground, a wide grin was still plastered across his face.
"Harry Potter!"
"Potter!"
"We've found a Seeker!"
"Potter," Marcus’s voice made him turn. "Come with me." Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry rooted to the spot before finally following him. His heart pounded as Marcus led them down to the dungeons—specifically, to the corridor where the Slytherin Head of House resided. Marcus rapped loudly on the door three times; before opening it, he said, "Wait here."
Harry shifted restlessly while he waited. After a few minutes passed without the sound of angry shouting or crashing ornaments, the door to Professor Snape’s office—which also served as his private quarters—swung open. Marcus pulled Harry inside and ushered him before Professor Snape, who was seated at a desk buried under stacks of parchment, a quill in hand.
"Two points from Slytherin for breaking curfew," Snape said after a moment, causing Harry to bite his lip. "I hear you have a knack for catching Snitches—even when you aren't on a broomstick, Mr. Potter."
"That, or the Snitch just likes me, sir," he replied cheekily. His smile slowly faded as he took in Professor Snape’s expression. "Sorry, sir."
"Indeed," Snape said, his face remaining impassive. "Mr. Flint, as team captain, has asked me to grant you permission to join the team as Seeker, Mr. Potter."
"Really?" Harry exclaimed, beaming at Marcus.
"But nothing has been decided yet. Besides, first-years aren't allowed to own broomsticks."
"Yes, sir..." he whispered dejectedly. In any case, he wasn't sure Snape would be willing to bend the rules the way McGonagall had.
"However, there is no rule against playing Quidditch." Harry gasped. "As for the broomstick, it seems Mr. Flint has a solution."
Marcus nodded. "No one said a first-year couldn't borrow one."
Harry’s eyes went wide; he truly hadn't seen this coming. He had assumed that by preventing the confrontation between Draco and Neville, he had thrown away his chance to make the team in his first year. Fate, however, has a funny way of working things out.
Harry threw himself at the startled captain; had it not been for Marcus’s quick reflexes, Harry might well have injured them both. That wasn't all, though. Had Harry seen just how tense Severus Snape’s face had been while awaiting Mr. Flint’s reaction—and how shocked he looked once he saw it—he surely would have burst out laughing. But he was busy wrapping his arms around the captain's neck, exclaiming, "Thank you—really. Thank you, Flint." Instead of tossing Harry aside or saying something nasty, the young man simply stood still, holding him up so he wouldn't fall. Once he sensed Harry had calmed down, the captain set him back on the ground.
Realizing his behavior in front of a professor had been rather improper, Harry said, "Er... sorry, Professor Snape."
Too stunned for words, the Potions Master merely massaged the bridge of his nose and waved a hand, dismissing them. A few minutes of dealing with Potter was more than enough. Sighing, he watched the two boys walk away; Marcus Flint maintained his usual stony expression, yet his hand rested on the back of Harry Potter, who was striding along cheerfully. It seemed the rumors were true. Severus Snape let out a dramatic sigh.
Naturally, news of Harry Potter making the team spread like wildfire through the Slytherin common room. Draco surprised him with a sincere congratulation. Harry had expected Draco to be angry, but the blond boy simply gave him an odd look and said, "I’m not talented enough to make the team in my first year—besides, I’m aiming for a Chaser position." The world had turned upside down. But Harry’s surprise faded when he heard Draco add, "Still, not being on the team doesn't stop me from asking my father to buy the Slytherin squad the latest broomstick models. Perhaps that’ll even guarantee me a spot when tryouts open in our second year." Ah, that was the Draco Malfoy he knew.
Fortunately, unlike the Gryffindors, the Slytherins knew how to keep their mouths shut. That didn't stop them from flashing triumphant grins, however—as if they had already won the House Cup—drawing suspicious glances from everyone else.
Suddenly, Harry Potter became popular in the Slytherin house. Everyone liked him all of a sudden—even the children of Death Eaters. It seemed they were willing to overlook the name "Potter" for the sake of the Quidditch Cup. Well, it was no surprise that Slytherin was known as the house of the cunning.
Joining the team meant spending a lot of time with Marcus Flint. They never really had heart-to-heart talks—that wasn't Flint's style—but he possessed a hidden patience, especially when it came to listening to Harry’s rambling. He also had a knack for appearing out of nowhere whenever Harry was walking alone; he was like a ninja! Take this moment, for instance: Harry was walking along the boundary between the Forbidden Forest and the safety of the Hogwarts grounds when Marcus suddenly appeared behind him and grabbed the back of his uniform robes.
"Flint!"
"What are you doing walking alone near the Forbidden Forest, Potter?"
"I'm not alone!" Harry said, pulling Marcus’s arm toward the woods.
"Do you want to get punished?" Marcus hoisted him onto his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes.
"Flint!"
"Stop shouting in my ear."
Harry squirmed until his body was level with the captain's head.
"Do you trust me, Flint?"
Marcus narrowed his eyes.
Harry pointed toward the forest. "Take me there."
"Do you want to get yourself killed?"
"Pleease," Harry said, cupping the captain's cheeks. "Please?"
Marcus sighed but carried them inside. "I’m not taking you all the way in."
"Mm-hmm," Harry nodded, wrapping his arms around the captain's neck and resting his head on his shoulder. After a while, Harry asked him to stop and put him down. Marcus complied without a word, though he kept a wary eye on his surroundings, as if sensing something there. Moments later, a unicorn emerged from behind the trees. The soft glow of its body illuminated the pitch-black darkness of the Forbidden Forest. Harry locked eyes with the creature before they slowly met in the middle. Marcus gasped as Harry gently touched and stroked its muzzle. The unicorn nuzzled against Harry’s body.
He turned back and held out his hand to Marcus.
"No."
"Flint..."
"No."
"Please?"
"Potter," he hissed, "do you realize I can't get close to them?"
Harry frowned but still held out his hand. "Being a dark wizard doesn't mean you're tainted. If that were true, they wouldn't come near you—but look?" He tilted his head toward the unicorn grazing on the grass nearby. "Unicorns know it’s all about intent. If your heart is true, you aren't tainted—even as a dark wizard," he explained stubbornly.
"You don't understand. When you perform dark magic, it’s a matter of intent. You can't do it without intent. The intent to kill, to damage, to destroy!"
Harry rolled his eyes. "As if you’ve actually done all that."
"You're stubborn, Harry." Then, slowly, holding his breath, Marcus stepped closer. "If it kicks me, I’m going to kill you, Potter."
Ignoring the warning, Harry reached out and placed his hand on the unicorn's muzzle. "Who says you're tainted..." he teased.
"Everyone but you," Marcus muttered flatly.
Harry snorted. "Unicorns don't believe that." In a gentle tone, his emerald eyes captivating, he added, "Dark magic, light magic, or even the magic in between—none of it is inherently evil, Marcus. Don't blame the magic; blame the person."
Marcus gasped. He leaned his head against the unicorn. "I'm not a good person, Harry."
"I know. But I also know that not every part of you is evil. Just like everyone else. There’s good and bad in everyone. If you don't believe me, just ask the unicorn."
When Marcus turned to look at Harry, a rare smile graced his face. It wasn't a smirk or a wry grin, but a small, genuine smile—and Harry took it as a victory.
They sat there for a long time, surrounded by the unicorn family. Flint listened as Harry spoke to them, as if believing his words were truly understood. Marcus Flint was used to chalking it up to one of Harry Potter’s many oddities. But what made him wary was the warning in the boy's words. "Please. You have to get away from here. Go deep into the forest if you must, or seek the protection of the centaurs. The coming nights will be dangerous for you. Something evil is coming—something that won't even stop for the purity you possess. Warn the others. Warn them!" he whispered, answered by the neighing of the unicorns. Then, as if understanding the urgency, the magical horses galloped as fast as they could into the deepest part of the woods. Harry Potter sat there with a distant gaze and a sad smile, as if he had witnessed the crushing weight of the world. In moments like these, Marcus suspected he might be part seer.
"It’s getting dark. We’d better head back, Potter."
"Harry."
"Hm?"
"Harry, please."
"If you call me Marcus."
Harry’s smile had never been wider.