Chapter Text
The following is a fan-based work of fiction. Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling. Please support the official release.
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I need a place that will teach me Occlumency and Legilimency.
Step, step. Reach the end of the hall and turn around. Step, step.
I need a place that will teach me Occlumency and Legilimency.
Walk forward. Keep going. The room had better be listening.
I need a place that will teach me Occlumency and Legilimency.
When you’re doing something wrong, you need a way to keep it secret.
I need a place that will teach me Occlumency and Legilimency.
Imagine my surprise when I was dumped straight onto the Hogwarts express.
I need a place that will teach me Occlumency and Legilimency.
Will this thing just open up already?
I need a place that will–
The door to the Room of Requirement appeared.
Finally.
I stepped inside and found myself in a cramped room. Before me stood a crystal ball, held in a golden, four-legged frame. Its insides swirled with shimmering white sparks. It sat on a small table like a crouching toad, the maroon covering at its feet languidly reaching all the way down to the floor. On the wall directly behind the table hung a massive portrait which held an impossibly old man, dressed in robes you’d see in the Middle Ages.
“Who are you?” I asked him.
“I am Merlin,” the old man replied, stroking his beard. “And you want to learn Occlumency and Legilimency. And at such a young age, too!”
I frowned. Deeply. “That’s right. And that’s why.”
“Oh, relax.” The old man waved me off. “The room told me what you need. I’m a portrait; I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to.”
“Don’t you need to be able to cast Legilimens on me?” I asked.
“That would be the most effective method of teaching,” Merlin replied. “But we can make do. The crystal ball, you see. My picture frame is linked to it. Gaze into it, and you’ll be able to practice.”
I took a seat, got comfortable and…
“Not yet, boy,” Merlin replied. “First you must answer my questions.”
Slowly, I closed my eyes and inhaled through my nose, then exhaled. “If I wanted to share information, I wouldn’t be trying to learn how to protect my mind.”
“It will take but a moment,” Merlin replied. “It will help me to know what to expect. Now, why are you trying to learn this?”
I hissed my answer through gritted teeth. “I’m a muggle-born in Slytherin.”
The painted wizard had the audacity to just hum and stroke his beard.
“And I don’t want it getting out.”
“Nor should you,” Merlin replied. “Who is the head of your house?”
“Professor Severus Snape.”
He just hummed. Again. And stroked his beard. Again.
“I assume he’s aware,” Merlin idly asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Merlin replied. “Now, why do you want Legilimency?”
“I told you.”
“You told me why you want Occlumency,” Merlin rebuffed. “Why do you want its counterpart?”
Rubbing my forehead to try to massage away the headache, I answered. “I want to get into girls heads and figure out what makes them tick.”
His laughter echoed horribly in the small confines of this room. “Oh, that’s the truth, isn’t it? But it’s not the whole truth. What else are you after?”
“And how do you know that?” I asked.
Merlin just pointed at the Orb I was sitting in front of. “As I said, it’s connected to my frame. I’ve been using it.”
I groaned.
“Marvelous invention by the Room of Requirement, is it not?” He asked, smiling a half-smile while looking down at me with those painted brown eyes. “In truth, I hadn’t known it possible, but the room always finds a way.”
Ugh. “Fine. I want to see into my professors’ eyes and glean magical secrets they won’t tell us.”
“Which is the other reason you want Occlumency,” Merlin replied.
I gritted my teeth. “Yes.”
“And what are your goals in that area, hm?” Merlin asked. “Immortality?”
“The Philosopher’s Stone exists.”
“Quite right. Perhaps raising the dead might be your forte,” the old wizard speculated, arching an eyebrow and tilting his head. “No? Perhaps the allegiance of unsavory magical forces like Dementors?”
This was going to go on forever. “I want to master the Unforgivable Curses.”
“There it is,” Merlin said, clearly pleased himself. “Why?”
“Because I can,” I replied. “Can we get on with this? Time is wasting, and I still have homework.”
“One final request,” Merlin said. “What’s your thought process with this?”
My throat made a downright horrible noise to signal my irritation. “Consider, Merlin. I get jumped by a wizard. Imagine that we trade spells for a while, block and parry, swashbuckling with our wands and it’s super dramatic. Now imagine if I just use the unblockable killing curse.” I rolled my shoulders. “Imagine if a dark wizard is holding someone I love hostage. I can just hit him with the Imperius curse and make him tell me where they are.”
Then I shrugged. “And I guess being able to negotiate with Dementors wouldn’t be terrible.”
Merlin was giggling. “Well, as it so happens, I’m willing to teach you. Just recall that the easier something is, the more likely you are to do it. I believe there’s a muggle saying for this?”
“When all you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail?” I replied.
“Precisely. Avoid that, if you can,” Merlin replied before pointing at the crystal ball. “Now. Gaze into the crystal ball. We will begin with Occlumency...and you will have homework.”
Finally.
---
“I can’t believe that Potter.”
Draco Malfoy was pacing in front of the fireplace, arms behind his back, scowling at the flames as if that would do anything.
Wish he’d shut up, I’m trying to do my homework.
“Well, the dark lord did kill his parents,” Crabbe suggested.
Draco snapped at Crabbe, “I know that!”
“He was bullied by that muggle cousin of his,” Goyle added. “Wasn’t he?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Draco replied. “He should know the importance of having the right friends!”
I mean...he’s not wrong. And from his expression, Goyle agreed.
“Anyone familiar with history knows that you make friends with good allies, you don’t try to make friends into good allies,” Draco continued. “That’s profoundly foolish.”
A good point, but what he doesn’t see is that he’s not a particularly good ally. Surprisingly knowledgeable in History of Magic, though. Actively participates in Professor Binns’ lessons, which shocked me to my core.
He’s not like Hermione or anything, but…
“Just have to keep putting pressure on him,” Draco summarized, folding his arms over his chest. “He’ll swallow his pride soon enough.”
The gentleman hasn’t considered that the pressure is what’s pushing Harry away.
He caught sight of me looking at him, and his face turned sour. “What do you want, Sullivan?”
“You’re just a little loud, is all,” I replied, offering a genial smile. “No offense.”
“Whatever, half-blood, just try not to get any of your muggle on the floor,” Malfoy retorted.
I just shrugged and went back to my Defense Against the Dark Arts essay.
That was the story, of course, that my mom was actually a witch who emigrated from America and died when I was young. That, actually, was false. She was not a witch. But she did emigrate from America and she did tragically die when I was young.
Not that I really remember her all that well. Dumped straight onto the Hogwarts express. I know what she looked like and that we blew bubbles in the front yard once when I was five. Once. Or...that was the story.
Honestly, the dungeon felt like home, given how I spent the majority of my days at my computer in my previous life. Apparently, in this life I had done much of the same, given how pale my skin is.
Anyway, my essay for Quirrell was almost done. I was looking forward to Harry removing him from the school premises in...a few months or so? I don’t know, it hasn’t even been Halloween yet. Anyway, Quirrell was really annoying.
...then again, maybe I should be dreading Professor Lockhart coming by next year…
“Hello, Marcus.”
On the table plopped Daphne Greengrass, another first year. Platinum blonde hair, sharp blue eyes that were trying to stare into my soul or something. “What’cha doing?”
“Quirrell’s essay,” I replied. “You?”
She hummed. “I’ll get to it.” Her head tilted. “Eventually.”
Well, with that, I turned back to my essay. “I like to get homework done the day of.”
“I can see that.” After I didn’t respond for a moment, she continued. “So, I can’t wait for our flying lesson.”
I blinked. “Oh. That’s tomorrow.”
“I wish I could get on the team,” she said, her voice as longing as a child looking at a candy bar through a glass window. “I love Quidditch.”
“Are you good?”
“Obviously.”
“What position do you play?”
“Chaser. You?”
“Guy in the audience.”
She snickered. “Well, guy in the audience, you’ll get to watch us real wizards fly the pitch in a year when we try out.”
“Assuming they let you in,” I looked up from my essay to catch her eyes. “You know, because a lot of people in the house want to try out.”
“Well, what’s that you said at the opening banquet?” Daphne asked. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again?”
“Something to that effect.”
“That’s a muggle saying, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” She frowned in thought. “Muggle wisdom. What a novelty.”
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” I asked.
She hummed. “Eventually.”
I sighed.
---
The flying lesson went better than I had expected.
When we got told to give our brooms uppies, my broom easily and steadily rose to my hand. That was pretty cool. Same with Daphne, though it was nothing compared to Malfoy, who commanded that thing like he owned it, and Potter, whose broom snapped to his hand so fast it nearly took his arm off.
Right across from me, though, was a Gryffindor student that I didn’t recognize. Brianna Porter. Short black hair and brown eyes. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t in the books but...well, my theory is that maybe the other houses each got an extra student to balance out the addition to Slytherin.
But anyway, Neville Longbottom went up into the sky as per canon, fell down and broke his wrist, as per canon, and Draco got his hands on the Remembrall, as per canon.
Then Harry went up to go get it back.
Me, I was watching it all from my floating broom, because standing was annoying. But once Harry finished his dive-bomb and rolled out on the grass with the Remembrall in hand and got whisked away by Professor McGonagall to get conscripted into the Gryffindor Quidditch team
No one argues with McGonagall.
After that, though, the class was kind of boring while we were waiting for Hooch to get back, so I settled down on my broom for a little catnap.
“Hooch said anyone on their brooms would get expelled,” Blaise Zabini said, looking down critically with his dark brown peepers.
“Anyone flying on their brooms,” I reminded him. “I’m just laying here.”
He scoffed. “What ever you little half-blood. Just you watch.”
Oh, is he going to tattle? What is he, four?
...I would comment on the irony of a racist black boy, but it’d go over his head. A dumb wizard, too, which is supposed to be an oxymoron.
Anyway, a few minutes into my nap, Madam Hooch returned.
“Madam Hooch, Sullivan was flying on his broom!” Zabini said, obviously pointing at me.
“He was just lying there!” That was Hermione. What a legend.
“Sullivan!” Madam Hooch snapped. I looked at her, and she continued. “Did you move from that spot while on your broom?”
I hummed. “Might’ve drifted a bit to the left…”
She waved it off. “That’s alright. Now stand up, we’ve got some time to make up, now listen closely.”
“But Professor, you said–” Zabini began hotly.
“Did your parents never teach you hyperbole, Zabini?” Madam Hooch’s hawk-like eyes focused on the dark-skinned first year as if he were a sizzling steak.
...I miss Texas barbecue.
Madam Hooch continued. “Or do I have to add explaining turns of phrase to my flight lessons?”
Zabini got red in the face. “N-no Madam Hooch.”
“Well, that’s settled, then!” Madam Hooch said. “Now that all our feet are planted firmly on the ground, we will continue this next step. Sullivan, since you seem to understand this part, you might demonstrate the hover for the rest of the class, yes?”
Rats. “Yes, Madam Hooch.”
---
You have to wonder how Mr. Riddle controlled the Dementors like he did. Well, seemed to. He can’t have just bribed them, could he have? Had to be more to it.
I always went to bed late. Of course, late in Hogwarts meant three or four in the morning. We were required to study the stars every Wednesday at midnight, which meant that breakfast for us always started at around ten or so. Class at eleven.
Didn’t think it was a good idea to be in bed first. Wanted to avoid any unpleasant surprises. Sometimes, I wound up falling asleep in the common room, just to throw them off.
Breakfast, meanwhile, was a full English. Delicious, obviously. Even the beans.
Somehow.
I hate beans.
House-elves, man. They know their stuff.
But as I was perusing my copy of A History of Magic, which did include a chapter on Voldemort and Harry Potter. Speaking of which, Harry was sitting at the table opposite me, chatting with Ron and Neville. My observation was rudely interrupted when Draco sat across from me, staring at me while Crabbe and Goyle flanked him.
I put the book down. “So, how can I help you, Draco?”
“You’re a muggle.”
“Am not.”
“Raised by Muggles, I mean,” Draco corrected, waving it off.
“Yeah.”
“So you can explain why Harry Potter let himself get sorted into Gryffindor,” Draco surmised.
“Which part? The part where muggles think judging people by bloodlines is evil, or the part where muggles idealize equality between people?” I asked.
Draco let out a breath. “I see. And he really believes that?”
“He probably wonders that about you and pure-blood supremacy,” I idly noted.
“But surely he has eyes,” Draco said.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “So, I’d focus on proving Purebloods are better,” I said, looking around the table at Hermione, who was studying at the end of the Gryffindor table with an open book in her hand and three more at her side. “Like, by getting better grades than Granger.”
“Oh, come off, it,” Draco retorted, dismissing my point with a wave of his hand. “Grades aren’t everything. Surely Potter knows that.”
I shrugged. “You want him to see that Purebloods are better. That’s a way to prove it.”
He groaned, and tapped the side of the plate before him, causing an English breakfast to appear. “So, he’s just mental.”
“I suppose.”
“Whatever. When we’re finally allowed to join the Quidditch team, we’ll all show him,” Draco speared a tomato on his fork. “You’ll be trying out next year, right Sullivan?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“That wasn’t a request,” Malfoy replied, glaring. “You managed the hover so effortlessly, you took a nap on your first ever time on a broom. That’s not normal. We’re going to need better fliers if we want to prove our superiority, don’t we?”
“What makes you think I care?” I asked. “It doesn’t affect me or my plans going forward. Potter can think whatever he bloody well pleases.”
“We are talking about the most famous wizard in modern history,” Malfoy rebutted, eyes wide with outrage. “And he’s snubbing us. That affects all of us, you half-blooded fool. Imagine not being able to get a job with actual prestige because Potter gave it to his Weasley lackey. Or worse, the mudblood Granger.”
Oh. This is some high-society social game. No wonder Malfoy’s obsessed.
“Now. You’re going to try out next year,” Malfoy said. “And you’re going to do your best. And maybe I’m wrong, maybe there’s better fliers than you and you’ll be able to sit it out. But I doubt it.”
“Or what?”
“Or Crabbe and Goyle get upset. And no one wants them to get upset. Especially not me, they’re my friends.”
I groaned. “Fine.”
“Good.”
He went back to his breakfast. I had finished mine, and went back to my book.
...maybe that’s how Voldemort kept control of the Dementors.
Besides, I need to get outside anyway. I guess.
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Author's Note: First story here on Ao3. Hope you enjoy!
Until the next time!
~Fulcon