15 XV. A Quiet Peace

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Someone shook his shoulder - again - but it couldn't be Quirrell. The room was dim, and Harry was in the back. It wasn't possible to notice he wasn't paying attention to class from that far away. Which begged the question, who could it be?

Not to mention, it seemed urgent. There would be no reason otherwise to shake Harry's shoulder that forcefully. Curious, he exited his Mind Palace. As soon as he opened his eyes, the answer presented itself.

"What are you doing?" A boy hissed at him. His robes had Ravenclaw's crest adorning them, and his hair was a golden blonde, "Do you want Ravenclaw to lose points?"

Harry frowned, shrugging his shoulder off from the boy's grasp. It wasn't often that someone invaded his personal space like that, much less a complete stranger. He couldn't help but scowl, vexed.

"What were you even doing? Sleeping in the first class?" The boy, however, continued his bloody crusade. He even tried to shake Harry's shoulder again to get his attention.

"That's none of your concern," Harry said, shrugging off with vehemence the offending hand. The boy's expression turned venomous, but Harry was long past caring.

Reluctantly, he set his eyes on the front of the classroom, ignoring the scathing stare from the side. Next time, Harry decided, he would sit somewhere far away from the boy.

🙞 🙞 🙜 🙜

Filius Flitwick stood on top of a pile of books, his moustache as elegant as ever. His excitement seemed contagious, as even Harry couldn't help but anticipate the lecture. It was Charms, a subject closely intertwined with Spell-Craft.

Unlike DADA, the room was bright, the sunlight streaming through its arched windows. Moreover, Harry couldn't smell the stench of garlic anymore. Instead, the air had the scent of parchment. It elicited an inexplicable emotion of peace inside Harry.

"Hello, students! For those who don't know me," he paused, eyeing the Hufflepuffs in the classroom, "My name is Filius Flitwick, and I'll be your teacher for both Charms and Magic Theory classes."

The man didn't stall long and soon jumped into the lecture. Unlike Quirrell, however, Filius had the decency of not repeating the syllabus book's contents verbatim. Instead, he made examples and created conjectures. Sufficed to say, the lesson was very informative.

Of course, it wasn't enough to sate Harry's curiosity, and he felt compelled to raise his hand midway through the class.

"Sir," "-you can call me Professor, no need to be so formal." "Right, Professor, what constitutes the difficulty of a spell?" He asked.

Filius' moustache twirled, if that was even possible, and a radiant smile broke on his face, "Excellent question!"

The man then pointed his wand at a nearby book, chanting 'Wingardium Leviosa.' Instantly, the book lifted from the floor, hovering amidst the pile of tomes surrounding Flitwick.

"Tell me, if I were to, say, use this spell on a heavier object, would you say that I would have a harder time?" He asked Harry.

Harry didn't need much time to think about an answer, "Yes."

"And why is that?" That stalled him a bit.

Without a doubt, the heavier the object, the more difficult it was to cast Wingardium Leviosa. It was an intuitive assumption, but Filius wanted more than just that. The crux of the issue was why did weight affect the spell.

"Don't be disheartened for not knowing the answer. You will learn this subject later in Magic Theory," Filius smiled, "But I suppose I could give you a brief answer."

Holding a finger up, he quoted, "The more you meddle with nature, the more resistant it will become. That is the Second Law of the Fundamental Laws of Magic. It's what makes spells inherently more difficult and complex to cast."

"In Magic Theory, this year, we will only be discussing the First Law. However, if you still want to read a bit ahead, I suggest the other volumes of 'Magical Theory' by Adalbert Waffling."

And with that, he resumed his lecture.

Before long, it was time for Magic Theory, and the Hufflepuff students exited the room. They didn't share the class with his house, Ravenclaw. Instead, those who entered the room were the Gryffindors.

'So I share DADA and Magic Theory with Gryffindor on Mondays.' He summarised.

In the corner of his eyes, he noticed locks of chestnut hair amidst the crowd. A name gnawed from his memory, almost forgotten. Had it not been for the prior training in Occlumency, he wouldn't have remembered it.

Hermione Granger.

'She looks glum.' He couldn't help but note as he observed her.

🙞 Hermione Jean Granger | First-Year Student 🙜

Her head hung low, expression downcast. Even amidst the rest of her housemates, she felt isolated. Her anxiety clamoured in her heart, and she couldn't help but reminisce on the bad nicknames she already had.

Before Hermione could shut herself off from her surroundings, though, something irked her attention. Upon entering the room for Magic Theory, she felt two eyes settle on her.

Almost as if pressure over her shoulders, it felt like something was peering over them, observing. Immediately, she was startled, eyes surveying the class.

It didn't take long for her to find the source. A boy stared at her, his amber eyes strangely intense. Strawberry hair blended in with their colour, and his neck craned slightly to the side.

Konrad, she remembered the name distinctively. It was an unusual one, but it suited the boy. There was something off about the way he behaved. Not to mention, for some odd reason, he reminded her of the birds she would often see perched on her bedroom's window in the morning.

He soon averted his eyes, and Hermione noticed that class was about to start. She had to sit somewhere, but there were no seats that she wanted to take. Her housemates Parvati and Lavender had made fun of her large teeth. She'd heard them giggling about it that morning in the Common Room.

Hesitantly, she eyed the strange boy again. There was an empty seat to his side, and the boy was, if anything, quiet. She could work with silence. After all, it couldn't be worse than the gossip mill in Gryffindor.

She braced herself, clamping down on the creeping anxiety. And, without much fanfare, she sat beside Konrad. Instantly, silence set in between the two of them. However, she didn't feel awkward, unlike their first interaction. If anything, it was even comfortable.

"Ink..." The boy suddenly said, startling her, "Do you need more of it?"

Then he pointed at her almost empty inkwell.

"Ah-!" She hadn't even noticed her shortage of ink. Though, it wasn't surprising considering how many pages of content she had written that day.

Thankfully, the boy didn't wait for an answer. He settled his inkwell between them, gesturing that she could use it.

"Thank you." She said, abashed.

Then, once again, the silence settled in. Against the best of Hermione's judgement, however, she found herself wanting to ask him a question.

"What is the next class in your timetable?" She finally muttered.

He blinked, staring at her, "There are no more classes after this one."

"Ah-! Yeah, right, I forgot," The fluster she had worsened, and she suddenly had the urge to shove her head down in the dirt.

"I will go to the library," He said, pretending he hadn't noticed her blunder. It was an olive branch, and she accepted it with as much grace as she could still afford.

"Oh- me too." She said, then hesitation crossed her face, "Can I-"

"Yeah, no problem. We can go together." He said, and both went silent.

There was no need for anything more to be said. The silence was comforting, and the company felt pleasant. Hermione would even go as far as saying that she could get used to it.

🙞 Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore | Supreme Mugwump 🙜

It was morning, his favourite time of the day, and the smell of tea hung in the air, pleasant to his nostrils. If that wasn't enough, new students had also joined Hogwarts. It all indicated a perfect day. And, yet... It didn't feel right.

The tea had something different about it - unlike all other days before - and the sun felt distant. His clothes didn't quite wear the same, beard odd on his face. Something had shifted in its place, put out of its supposed path.

His Phoenix lighted the room alongside the sunshine, but Albus could tell that Fawkes wasn't his usual self. The magical bird was a sensitive creature, and it could notice something was wrong in the air. Foul.

Ever since the day the Blood Wards had broken, something had changed. The worry that Albus felt for Harry's whereabouts wasn't just that. It had never been simple. He just hadn't realised until then.

He eyed the mirrors in his office, feeling as if watched from beyond the glass surfaces. The corners between the walls didn't seem as empty as before, an odd presence suddenly aloft. Worst of all, however, he couldn't understand why.

Suddenly, his door opened ajar, and Fawkes immediately cried out in distress. His song became weak, frail. Sybill Trelawney entered the room, her hair a gossamer of strings.

Professor for Divination in Hogwarts and adept in Seer abilities, Sybill was the one to foresee the prophecy of the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry, who was destined to be the Dark Lord's enemy.

Dumbledore didn't quite believe in prophecies, but he preferred to err on the cautious side when it concerned Fate. It was common knowledge, after all, to never meddle with that which was written onto the stone.

'One often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it,' An old friend in the East once told him. Said friend was never wrong in a single prophecy.

"Sybill-" He instantly stopped, however, staring at her.

Her eyes were bloodshot, and a single red tear rolled down her left cheek. In her hands, she held a ball with swirling mist inside. It was shattered, wisps of smoke escaping through the cracks. Her limbs trembled, and her mouth hesitated to speak.

"I can't see it." She finally said, whispering, "Everything is disconnected- jumbled."

"It isn't right." Her eyes then turned manic, now wide open, "Nothing is going the way it should."

"Sybill, please, take a seat-"

"Albus," Fawkes went quiet at her voice, and so did he, "I can't forsee anything anymore. It all has gone quiet."

A faint wind crawled from the shadowed corners of his office, and the mirrors watched them. His tea was cold, and the sun no longer warm. The blaze of his Phoenix was but dying embers, wrought out by the ensuing cold.

"Everything is silent."