As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry's mind was racing and his spirits were low. He'd lost five points for Gryffindor in his very first week — why did Snape hate him so much?
Seeing the disheartened look on Harry's face, I walked beside him, keeping my voice low but firm. "He doesn't hate you, you know," I said. "He may seem cold, even harsh, but hate? No. It's more complicated than that."
Harry shot me a puzzled glance. "Sure didn't feel that way."
"Snape's… complicated," I added carefully. "You'll understand in time. Just don't let it get to you."
We were near the Great Hall when Harry turned to me again. "Hagrid invited me to visit him this evening. Want to come?"
"Of course," I replied. A walk and a visit with Hagrid seemed like the perfect way to shake off the dungeons' lingering chill.
We made our way across the sloping lawns to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid's small wooden house stood there, smoke curling gently from the chimney. Outside the door were a crossbow and a pair of massive galoshes.
Harry knocked, and at once we heard a series of frantic scrabblings inside, followed by loud, booming barks. "Back, Fang — back!" Hagrid's voice echoed through the door. A moment later, his large, shaggy face appeared in the crack as he tugged the door open, struggling to hold back an enormous black boarhound.
"Hang on," he grunted. "Back, Fang."
He let us in, wrestling the huge dog by its collar. The cozy, slightly cluttered room was warm with the smell of tea, stew, and the faint scent of something distinctly earthy.
"'Course I remember yeh," Hagrid said, his eyes lighting up when Harry introduced me. "William Whitmore — saw yeh on the platform, didn't I? Yeh've got a proper presence about yeh."
Harry began recounting the day's events in Potions class — Snape's cutting remarks and the coldness in his eyes.
Hagrid listened, sipping his tea, occasionally glancing at me as Harry spoke. When Harry finished, he looked surprised. "Snape? Nah, yeh got it wrong there. William'll tell yeh — it's not hate."
Harry frowned. "But he seemed to really hate me."
"Rubbish!" said Hagrid with a wave of his large hand. "Why should he?" Yet Harry noticed Hagrid didn't quite meet his eyes when he said it.
Before Harry could press further, Hagrid turned to me. "How's yer father, William?" he asked, clearly steering the conversation elsewhere.
As I answered his questions about home, Harry's attention wandered. He picked up a piece of parchment from under a tea cozy on the table. It was a clipping from the Daily Prophet.
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.
Harry's eyes widened. "Hagrid!" he exclaimed. "That break-in happened on my birthday! It might've been while we were there!"
There was no doubt this time — Hagrid absolutely didn't meet Harry's gaze. He made a noncommittal grunt and shoved a plate of rock cakes toward us.
Harry, however, was no longer hungry. He read the article again. The vault that had been broken into had been emptied earlier that same day. And Hagrid… Hagrid had taken something from vault seven hundred and thirteen — a grubby little package, small enough to fit in his pocket. Was that what the thieves were after?
He didn't say anything more about it. But I could tell the wheels in Harry's head were already turning.
---
A month passed like that in lessons. I stuck to what I had decided—never to show more knowledge or magical prowess than what was expected from a Whitmore. I always scored well in class, answered questions when asked, and kept the advanced theory, spells and potion formulae hidden in the private pages of my notebook. Most teachers acknowledged me as one of the brightest students in the year, and that was enough to satisfy my ego. Well… mostly.
Hermione Granger wanted my place badly. She followed me to the library more often than I'd like, eyes always squinting over my shoulder to see what I was reading, trying to figure out how I studied. It was honestly impressive how persistent she was. But because of her, I avoided diving into the more advanced magical topics or spellwork I'd been curious about—at least, not in public. Too much, too soon, would raise suspicions. And while Hermione was a challenge, she wasn't a threat. Not really.
Still, all the attention from both teachers and students—being admired, envied, whispered about—was addicting. But the part I treasured most was the genuine friendship I had formed with Harry. It was real, stronger than I expected. At the same time, I couldn't help but wonder: what changes have already begun in the story because Ron isn't his best friend?
Ron, to be fair, was still a friend—just not that friend. More like Neville, Seamus, or Dean. Present, but not central.
Everything was going smoothly: my playful academic rivalry with Hermione, my sarcasm and commentary shared with Harry during class, my own quiet exploration of Potions, Transfiguration, and Herbology (the few subjects I hadn't mastered at home), and the occasional exchange of words with Malfoy. Thankfully, first-year Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so Malfoy's presence was a rare irritation.
Until, of course, the notice was pinned up in the Gryffindor common room.
Flying lessons would begin Thursday—Gryffindor and Slytherin together.
"Typical," Harry muttered, frowning. "Just what I always wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy."
He had actually been looking forward to flying. I smiled. "You don't know that you'll make a fool of yourself," I said casually. "Anyway, Malfoy's always going on about how brilliant he is at Quidditch. I'd bet that's all talk."
In truth, Malfoy did talk a lot about flying. He boasted about broom chases and run-ins with Muggle helicopters, none of which sounded remotely believable. Seamus shared his own tales of childhood broom zooming, and even Ron had stories about almost knocking over a hang glider on one of Charlie's old Cleansweeps.
I had plenty of flying experience myself. Our family picnics often involved broom races and obstacle courses. I was good. Really good. But I had no interest in competing with Harry—not here, not now. Let him shine. I liked flying… but I loved books more.
Hermione, predictably, tried to overprepare. She quoted flying technique from Quidditch Through the Ages at breakfast until we wanted to Transfigure her toast into a Quaffle. I could see it—she was trying to keep up, to belong in the wizarding world.
---
A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke.
"It's a Remembrall!" he explained. "Gran knows I forget things — this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red — oh . ." His face fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet,
". . . you've forgotten something . . ."
Neville was trying to remember what he'd forgotten when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched the Rebemembrall out of his hand.
Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. They were half hoping for a reason to fight Malfoy, but Professor McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there in a flash.
"What's going on?"
"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor."
Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall back on the table.
"Just looking," he said, and he sloped away with Crabbe and Goyle behind him.
Later that afternoon, our first flying lesson began on a wide stretch of lawn by the Forbidden Forest. Twenty school brooms lay in rows. The Slytherins were already waiting.
Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!' "
"UP!" everyone shouted.
Mine shot into my hand instantly, as did Harry's and—grudgingly—I'll admit, Malfoy's. Hermione's rolled a bit. Neville's didn't move at all.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle — three — two —"
But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.
"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle — twelve feet — twenty feet. Everyone saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and —
CRACK.
He hit the ground hard. I winced. I knew that sound. A clean fracture.
Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.She turned to the rest of the class. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."
Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.
No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter.
"Did you see his face, the great lump?"
The other Slytherins joined in.
"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil.
"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."
"Look!" said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him." The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.
"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch.
Malfoy smiled nastily.
"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find — how about — up a tree?"
"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn't been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called,
"Come and get it, Potter!"
Harry grabbed his broom.
"No!" Hermione shouted. "Madam Hooch said not to move—you'll get us all in trouble! Say something, William!"
I looked at Harry, already mounting his broom. "He'll be fine," I said calmly. Hermione gave me a mix of disbelief and confused look
Harry mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from Ron and Seamus.He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Malfoy looked stunned.
"Give it here," Harry called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"
"Oh, yeah?" said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried.
Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping.
"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry called.
The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy. "Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground. Harry saw the ball rise up in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down — next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball — wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching — he stretched out his hand — a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.
"HARRY POTTER!"
His heart sank faster than he'd just dived. Professor McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling. "Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —" Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, "— how dare you — might have broken your neck —"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor —"
"Be quiet, Miss Patil —"
"But Malfoy —"
"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now."
Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle's triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strode toward the castle.
"What's going to happen now?" Ron asked, nervously.
"He'll be fine," I repeated.
"You said that last time!" Hermione hissed. "How are you so sure?"
"Because I was right last time," I said. "And McGonagall won't expel him over this."
---