Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17641 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Many thanks to the wonderful J. K. Rowling who offered such a beautiful world for amateurs such as myself to frolick in. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction and all characters and original storylines of Harry Potter belong to her!

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
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A/N: A bit of a wordy chapter, I'm afraid. Sorry if that disagrees with anyone. Also, I tend to take a bit of creative liberty with my conceptualisation of magic and the like. Similarly, I hope this doesn't upset anyone. Enjoy :)

Chapter 3 - Tentative Beginnings
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Harry's first week at Hogwarts passed in a blur of novel experiences and general confusion. It seemed so surreal, that so much could change over such a small, chance event. So small, barely notable and blown far out of proportion in his own head, but an incident that had caused his magic to explode nonetheless. He still didn’t know why; McGonagall believed it a result of magical backlog of sorts and Harry could only agree with her. He knew no better. Yet even explained, when he compared his situation to that he had held barely four months before… it left him astounded, the unfolding of such a profound butterfly effect.
The brief months over the summer, in which he had resided at a Wizarding hotel of sorts called the ‘Leaky Cauldron’, Harry had been largely left to himself save for visits of the Deputy Headmistress to attempt to teach him magic. Otherwise, he had largely lost himself in books of magical theory, drinking up the knowledge that seemed to impossible and attempting to incorporate it into his understanding of reality. How quickly those weeks had passed. It seemed but days before he was alighting onto the Hogwarts Express and travelling to a school of magic – a school that taught magic! – and struggling to make heads or tails of what could have been another planet for all of its familiarity.
Following the suggestion of McGonagall, Harry attended as many classes as he could in an attempt to determine the appeal of each. To ‘get a feel for what he felt most interested in’, she had said, though from the descriptive outline she had promotion of each Harry was left with a rather confronting impression of what the Deputy Headmistress deemed ‘interesting’. It was overwhelming, to say the least. Despite having an admittedly haphazard crash course in magical arts over the summer, he would be the first to admit he was out of his depth.

At the additional suggestion of McGonagall, he kept largely to himself. The Gryffindor Head of House sternly instructed the entire sixth year cohort to leave him to his observations, at least for the first week, before attempting to assault him with their ‘friendliness’. For some of the students, suppressing their curiosity was an obvious strain, but Harry found himself grateful to be granted a reprieve from persistent buzz of questions. One step at a time, and beginning classes was his first of several anticipated giant leaps. He focused instead upon the words of the teachers themselves. Which he understood only in bits and pieces anyway.

He was eternally grateful, then, that the Headmaster had allocated him living quarters were situated away from his fellow students. The rooms belonged to a one Professor Featherwood, who had apparently declined attendance at the school some years ago but had maintained he would one day return to 'renew the teachings of Naturalist Magic'. A tidy suite, with a starkness that Harry had assumed was simply an expression of the absent wizards taste that mirrored his uncle Stephen's until McGonagall informed him otherwise. Apparently the house elves – the maintenance body of the school – had stripped it bare purposely to allow him to rearrange and decorate as desired. A week gone by and it remained as impersonal as when he had first entered. He found he preferred it that way; it afforded some familiarity that, though not to his personal liking, removed him from the mind-boggling novelty of the castle itself.

For the castle was a maze of the unexpected. Talking portraits and gushing ghosts attempted to engage him in conversations at every turn. After happening across several of the latter, he’d had something of an existential crisis upon learning just exactly what they were – it was a realisation he expected would leave him long in recovery. A rabbit warren of passageways led to dead ends as often as not, and floating candles that lit themselves as a student neared. The architecture of the building itself would have left any medieval historian gasping in wonder, and not only because of the frequency it seemed to spontaneously change. It was all more than a little ground breaking and Harry was thankful for the barely traceable – and similarly ever-changing – map that the headmaster provided him with alongside a fond smile and wish of good luck.

By the second week, he had acquainted himself enough with the layout of the building to find himself lost only half of the time. After an extensive one-on-one with the headmaster – naturally interrupted by McGonagall – he had tentatively received a timetable of subjects and classes to attend. The two professors were adamant in assuring him that he was welcome to change his decisions if he found them to be other than that which he desired to study.

In accordance with N.E.W.T level studies, his timetable consisted of seven subjects that would have left him stunned in disbelief had he viewed the schedule six months prior; Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Care of Magical Creature, History of Magic and Charms. From what he could gauge from McGonagall's spiel, such subjects were basically core units undertaken by most students from their early years at school. It was common for students to take eight subjects, as 'one can never gain too much knowledge', but Harry agreed with her when she informed him that leaving himself some room for private study with teachers - as he still had much of the basics to learn - would be at least one subject in itself.

Thus, following the meeting that seemed to take up an inordinate amount of time to discuss very little, Harry found himself trailing behind McGonagall as they headed to Transfiguration midway through the morning. Harry unconsciously kicked the hem of his robe with every step, an irritation that was remarkably difficult to overlook. It was such an unnecessary hindrance.

McGonagall swept into her classroom like a gale of practiced composure, striding towards the wide desk at the front of the room weighed beneath a number of seemingly random trays and vases before turning to face her pupils. 'Good morning, class' was met by a drone of disjointed 'good morning, Professor's that barely a handful of students participated in. The professor nodded curtly to the few who had voiced their greeting before gesturing towards Harry left awkwardly in the doorway.

'Alright, class, I would like you to welcome Mr Potter to your ranks. From this day forward, he shall be attending your lessons with you on a scheduled basis. Please make him feel welcome.'

As one, the entire classroom turned towards the doorway. Harry shoved aside the admittedly anticipated shiver of anxiety and stepped forward with McGonagall's gesture. The stern-faced woman gave a poor attempt at a comforting smile. Turning towards the front row of seats, she directed a question at a student. 'Miss Granger, perhaps you would be able to see to assisting Mr Potter if he requires?'

A bushy brown-haired girl towards the front of the classroom straightened even more in her already ramrod posture, beaming in positive ecstasy as Harry walked with hesitant steps down the aisle, sidling between rows of cluttered tables. He recognised her as an ace of the class, frequently the first to ask for clarification and likely the first to complete her assigned tasks. A pleaser or ‘teacher-pet’ as his old classmates used to say. He should know; the term had been directed to him more times than he had bothered to count, though it was rarely warranted. That probably explained at least in part the good humour brightened her face. Or perhaps she was just one of those people who liked to share knowledge and help those who 'struggled' more than she.

Either way, it was with relief that Harry sank into the empty chair beside her and caught a glimpse of her handwritten notes. One glance was more than enough to suggest she was a well of knowledge that would readily offer assistance if necessary. Perfect legibility, in incredible detail, the brief glimpse from his periphery showed that even after only a week of schooling the girl's stack of used parchments sat nearly twice as high as anyone else's. She was obviously a passionate studier; Harry only hoped, with a twinge of guilt at his own disgruntlement, that such dedication did not manifest in pompous, know-it-all speeches.

'Alright class, if you could please turn to page eighteen of your books, I would like you to read the successive pages on Transfiguration of a solid into a liquid. This is an extension of the work you completed after your O.W.Ls at the end of last year, but I feel it necessary to revisit to refresh your memories.'

The flipping of paper sounded throughout the room as books were opened and pages turned. Heads bowed briefly before rising again as the professor continued speaking.

'Now, though we touched briefly on the wand action used for heated objects, it is slightly different for colder solids as it requires slightly more push for the transfiguration. If you would recall,' at this, McGonagall drew her wand from her sleeve in practiced fluidity, 'a single clockwise rotation of a spiral followed by a horizontal slash to the left is applied for heated objects. For cooler items, an additional second flick of the wrist is necessary. The drop of the second flick increases in depth with each distinct decrease in temperature. This provides more force to the projection of the transfiguration magic.'

Clearing her throat loudly, McGonagall turned towards one of the glass vases that stood in a shallow tray upon her desk, one Harry had largely overlooked given it’s apparent irrelevance to the class. Sister trays and their accompanying vases lined the desk militaristically behind the front pair. Stretching her arm out straight, the stern-faced professor cast a wide, elaborate spiral, followed by a slash and flick to the accompanying phrase 'Liquesciumus'. Before the attentive gazes of the class, the vase melted with oozing slowness, dripping melted glass that morphed steadily into a watery liquid and a final ripple into the tub. A murmur of approval sounded throughout the room, followed by the repeated rustle of pages and heads bowed once more over books.

Harry stared fixedly at the tray and the 'transfigured' vase, head tilted as he considered the magical display. He had been exposed to too much abnormality over the past few weeks to be even remotely surprised at the apparently impossible act. And yet, instead of the fascinated acceptance of the reality he was prone to falling into, Harry's mind was turned instead to measured scepticism.

Was that truly even transfiguration? Personally, it appeared more as though the glass had just melted. As though extreme heat had been applied to the solid vase to morph its shape. Was it melted glass in the tray, or had the professor actually transfigured the vase into water? And what relevance exactly did the elaborate hand gestures have to melting a vase into liquid glass or water? It seemed rather excessive to him. The thought was so persistent, loud, that he wondered that he hadn’t contemplated it at previously under McGonagall’s brief tutelage.

As though privy to his internal monologue of questions, McGonagall turned towards him and raised a questioning eyebrow.

'Potter, is there something in the reading you do not understand?'

Harry dropped his gaze briefly towards the closed book on his desk before raising lifting it sheepishly. He kept his voice even quieter than usual as he replied 'no, Professor.'

'Then I suggest you continue with your reading.'

'I've already read the book, Professor.' Harry was only partially aware of the enthusiastic smile that turned towards him from the girl - Granger - beside him. 'I was just curious...'

The professor, her face lighting in an expression of mixed surprise and approval, stepped towards his desk. 'Curious? Is there perhaps an element of the text you did not understand?'

Harry shook his head. 'No, it made as much sense as I guess I expected it to. I was more curious about...what you just showed us.'

'Oh?'

Dropping his gaze towards the desk in an attempt to avoid her penetrating stare, Harry took a swallow before continuing. 'It just occurred to me - though perhaps it's because I wasn't really tutored through that absolute basics until recently - that I don't really understand the function of the wand movement. I mean,' he waved his hand in a muted mimic of the motion McGonagall had exemplified, 'I don't understand how such a motion assists the magic. From what I gathered, it is primarily the vocalisation that initiates the act, though even that isn't entirely needed, is it? So, why the...' He made another spiral and horizontal slash of his finger to punctuate his words.

Even before he had finished, Harry felt the amused stares boring into his back, heard the faint ripple of chuckles and a 'what the hell, why would you even have to ask?' The potentially cutting remarks, however, fazed him about as much as a rather persistent breeze. Experience had left him rather resilient to such comments. Ignoring the increasing volume of his classmates, he tilted his head upwards slightly, peering through hid fringe, and met McGonagall's gaze once more.

The professor had adopted an expression of mild exasperation that she was attempting to mask with respectful consideration. 'You are quite welcome to ask any questions you feel would be beneficial to your learning. Perhaps your peers would be able to answer?' Casting a predatory glance around the room, McGonagall effectively shifted the attention from her newest pupil.

Without request the class fired a flurry of replies.

'Well, you just do.'

'It has something to do with the wand action mirroring the shape of the words-'

'The magic just wouldn't work as well if there wasn't any wand-waving-'

'Professor Trelawney says that it's all about the action embodying the essence of the phrase-'

‘It’s best if you just-’ ‘I always thought it helped-’ 'Silence!'

The exasperation on McGonagall's face thrust its focus upon the class as an entirety. A sigh preceded her words. 'It appears we all need a quick revision of rudimentary magical theory. Is there anyone confident in their response who is not swayed by simple subjective opinion?'

The class shifted uncomfortably under the professor's dissatisfied glare in a squeak of chairs. All except Granger, seated next to Harry, who raised her hand with an apologetic shrug to her fellow students. McGonagall failed entirely to suppress the sigh of relief that someone – anyone – had deigned to reply. ‘Miss Granger?'

'Well, it's all about focus, really. Though studies have shown that the wand action in and of itself has little to no power over the strength of the spell, the connotations of each wand action instead plant the theory in the mind of the caster, enhancing the chance of the end result being seen as a possibility. This is similar in terms of the enchantment. It is also why witches and wizards of greater skill and practice no longer require the use of wand action or verbalisation. Their focus is so well-honed that such elements previously deemed necessary for conduct of the spell are no longer required.'

The professor nodded approvingly at the textbook recitation. 'Thank you, Granger. I believe that, if nothing else, we have all learnt something new today. Potter, I hope this answered your question.'

Harry dropped his eyes back to the table to avoid her attention once more. 'I suppose, it does a fairly good job, but...'

'But?'

A curious edge lined the comment. Harry couldn't discern whether it was irritation or confusion. It hardly mattered; she clearly did not wish for a continuation of the opportunity to embarrass her class.

'Nothing, Professor.'

'Potter, answer me please.'

Great. Now she was angry at his avoidance of her attempts to 'help' him learn. Gritting his teeth, he decided to cast aside the veil of playing it safe and plough on.

'Well, um...' he glanced through his eyelashes towards Granger beside him, 'you said it was all about focus. That casting a spell with the addition of wand movement and words helps the caster to visualise the outcome more successfully?' The girl nodded in agreement, her brows creased in curiosity at where the statement was leading. 'I just wondered, what if it has the opposite effect?'

McGonagall's brows creased in similar confusion to the pupil directly before her. Harry felt that their trio had fallen into their own dimension momentarily, fellow students completely forgotten. 'You find it distracting.'

‘Yes, Professor.’

The professor's response to his statement held as much elegance as a gold fish, opening and closing her mouth in a comic rendition. Wiping her hands down her robes, smoothing creases in an obvious attempt to regain her composure, she peered once more at Harry with a confusing expression. Puzzlement? It looked something akin to hunger.

'Would you care to demonstrate just exactly what you mean?'

Harry hastily shook his head. His nervous reply was almost a whisper. 'No thank you, Professor, I feel I have already used my quota of class disruption for the day.'

'Potter, do not push me. Come, I know you are not at the same experience level as your fellow pupils, but please. If you would, could you demonstrate what you mean with a spell?'

'A spell?'

'Certainly. You say you find it distracting. If you would, please give me a demonstration, then, of exactly how you would cast a spell if freed from such distractions.'

Mentally kicking himself for his forwardness, Harry slid from the end of the pew-like chair. A brief, unexpected touch on his arm indicated the bushy-haired girl's attempt at offering support, though it provided anything but. His skin tingled uncomfortably under the pressure and he had to fight the urge to flinch from the – don’t. Don’t touch! It was harder than he expected. Refusing to glance at the class, he stepped up beside the teacher, facing the table of glassware and trays.

'Sorry in advance if I do something wrong.’ He spoke under his breath, for McGonagall’s ears only. ‘Or, more likely, if absolutely nothing happens and I've wasted your time.'

The unnerving expression the professor wore on her face broke suddenly into a small smile. 'How many times have you said as much to me in the past months, Potter? I am a teacher; I can't condone holding back for fear of failure.'

Dropping his chin in acceptance, Harry nodded slightly before taking a deep breath and focusing upon the vase. Raising his right hand, he placed his index finger upon the cool glass. For it was cool; cooler than expected. As cool as, say, a tray filled with chilled water. Casting aside the faint shifting of students in the seats, the customary tapping of shoes, squeaking seats and smattering of sniffles, he trained his gaze solely upon the glass. All was silent until the fuzzy brown-haired girl at the front of the room abruptly scraped her seat back from her desk and rose to her feet.

'Oh, Harry, you left your wand on the desk...'

The girl's eyes widened. Throughout the room mouths swung open and gasps resounded in a chorus. The professor at Harry's side was similarly speechless. Spellbound as it were.

'How did you...?'

In the tray, pooling in concentric ripples, was an inch of clear liquid.

Draco Malfoy was irritated. Not the mild irritation experienced by students easing themselves back into schooling routine. No, Draco's irritation manifested more like a heart-felt and overwhelming frustration, the cause of which being a certain magical cabinet located in a hidden room of miscellaneous and admittedly useless junk. Draco had spent as much time in the Room of Requirement as he had attending his studies and the result of his continued attempts had left him with one, overwhelming conclusion: he was a lost cause.

No matter how hard he stared at the antique cabinet, fiddling with it's magical essence and twisting the frayed edges of it's continuity in an attempt to reverse the destruction wreaked upon it, he was no closer to finding a solution than he had been before he had laid eyes on the thing. Further, even, as he actually confronted the dawning realisation of the exclusive assignment’s impossibility.

Melancholy seemed to tinge every aspect of his day. I'm dead, I'm a dead man. I have sentenced my mother and father to their execution alongside me, and there is nothing I can do about it.

Clutching at the heavy sleeve of his left arm, Draco fought back tears on in the darkness of the cluttered room. For the first time in years, an emotion other than anger or disgust actually threatened to overwhelm him. He did not consider himself a weak person by any standard, yet the helplessness of his situation seemed to crave an outlet in the form of useless dribbles erupting from his eyes. The Slytherin thanked whatever creator of Hogwarts had thought of embedding the Room of Requirement into the depths of the school for the solitude it provided. His pathetically miserable response would have been made infinitely less tolerable had he had an audience.

Seeking enjoyment, or even a distraction, through his studies was about as successful as his attempts to fix the broken cabinet. He struggled to read his textbook with disinterested eyes, words jumbling into a dark, illegible mass that had him thrusting whichever volume weighed in his lap away in bubbling frustration. Talking to his friends left him in a melancholy of isolation at their complete obliviousness to the severity of his situation. Even quidditch had become more of a necessary pastime than a hobby. Nothing seemed capable of drawing his attention.

Well, almost nothing. Something else did pose a, surprisingly, almost equal amount of interest. Draco refused to admit himself toiling with obsession, but a niggling voice that he couldn't quite thrust into the recesses of his mind smirked at him in amusement of the denial.

If he were to be honest with himself, he found his thoughts tracking along the same, well-worn paths, circling one of two images before flickering to the other. One, the ever infuriating yet eternally ominous looming doors of the Vanishing cabinet. The other, equally challenging, the pale, blank face of a boy who Draco still maintained was at least three years his junior, despite the denial embedded in the headmaster's introductory speech. He could not fathom where the sudden interest had sprung from, simply that he revelled in the opportunity to draw his attention from his mulling. Or, well, he would have, had such interest not been a complete reversal of his assumed character.

Not that the boy was a particularly active participant in promoting his obsession. In fact, had he been purposely trying to be less responsive, he would have failed. Shrouded in a general cloak of silence, Potter sat at the back of at least half of Draco's classes, pressed against the wall and hidden by the shadows that seemed to morph with his faded jeans and dark jumpers. Such silences were broken only by the occasional, quiet query for clarification, always knowledge-based and expressing as much insight into the abnormality of his very person as his consistently blank face.

Contrary to the speculated dwindling of interest, the complete disregard for his fellows only enticed gossip and speculation of the boy-enigma. So had he been named for the complete lack of context that accompanied his enrolment in at Hogwarts. Much to his self-disgust, Draco found himself similarly caught in the spider web of curiosity, only managing to suppress contributing to the speculations of Potter's origins through years of practicing his cold detachment.

It was hence with more than a little surprise that, on the second Monday of returning to Hogwarts, barely ten minutes into the second period, Draco found himself staring wide-eyed at the Potter-boy standing awkwardly at the head of the classroom. He was not the only one; every onlooker, students and teacher alike, shared similar expressions of wonder and confusion. The assignment that was to consume their entire lesson at least had been completed, folded neatly into a pretty package, and unexpectedly delivered to their Professor.

The boy had conducted a high-level spell, wandlessly, wordlessly and intentionally, on the first attempt and expressed not a hint of excitement, satisfaction or smugness. If it had not been so unexpected, Draco would have felt downright awed rather than comically flabbergasted.

Edging slowly towards his seat again, Potter looked askance at the professor, cocking his head slightly as though requesting permission. McGonagall, shaking herself out of her stupor, nodded agreement for him to sink into his seat and turned to face her class once more. In an obvious attempt at nonchalance, pushing the incident to the side as though it were an everyday occurrence, she ran her hands down the front of her robes in that annoyingly predictable display of discomfort she so frequently conducted.

'Alright, class, you have now witnessed two demonstrations, both significantly differing in execution. I believe it is time for everyone to begin participating in this practical class. If you would, one tray per person. Anyone so much as touches someone else's work and you'll be spending the evening with a quill in your hand and head bowed over parchment.'

The deliberate divergence from the incident that still held everyone spellbound was so blatantly obvious that Draco felt himself drawn from the depths of his surprise. Rising to his feet alongside his classmates, the Slytherin fell into line to receive his equipment.

Approaching the front of the room gave him, and everyone else, the opportunity to stare more closely at the object of their fascination. Like a shiny new toy, the novelty was all consuming. Draco maintained his regal composure with straight posture and forward gaze, yet even he could not be blamed if the boy featured strongly in his periphery.

McGonagall and Potter conversed in deep, serious tones that could only be faintly heard from the aisle. Or, well, McGonagall spoke while Potter listened with only few and brief nods of his head as contribution. The boy seemed completely unfazed by the focused seriousness of the professor. The now familiar blank mask etched into his face was apparent even from his profile, even through the curtain of black fringe that seemed to permanently hang over his simple, black-framed glasses.

His cold composure was an odd mix with the air of fragility that cloaked him. The lengthy robe offered no assistance in hiding the smallness of his frame, the long sleeves pulled down to his knuckles giving the impression of a child in his father's coat. Unusually, the mane of dark tresses had been affixed in a fair semblance of a braid that hung loosely over his shoulder, freeing his face and nape from concealment. Protruding collarbones could just be seen above the neck of his jumper. Coupled with the almost child-like delicacy of his features, he seemed utterly breakable. Far removed from the impression such a display of magic should have presented.

And, be damned, Draco was staring directly at the boy now. He scowled, snapping his face to the front of the room and mentally kicking himself for the unconscious display of curiosity. Scooping his tray and vase from the front desk with unnecessary force, he strode back to his desk without a backwards glance. Well, maybe one glance. One and a half.

The rest of the lesson passed in a surprisingly jovial haze of whispers and excited speculations. Draco bared his ears, straining in particular for Granger's hushed discussion with Longbottom and Weasley when she, having completed her task, slid onto the bench beside her friends. He would never admit it aloud, but the girl was smart. Regardless of her Muggleblood status. If anyone could provide an accurate analysis of the unexpected occurrence, it was the Gryffindor.

'..aco. Draco. Hey, Draco!'

Turning from his straining attentiveness, head tilted to catch the barest breath of words, Draco scowled at the Slytherin girl beside him. Pansy Parkinson returned the scowl with like-minded intensity, but Draco saw through the hostile display like looking through water. Disgruntlement and mild confusion pooled beneath the surface.

'What?'

'Hey, now, why are you in such a mood lately?' The girl flipped her dark hair in annoyance, turning back towards her half-melted vase. 'I was just wondering if you knew when our next Potions class was.'

Draco raised an bored eyebrow. 'What? Why?'

Pansy shrugged nonchalantly, a motion that positively screamed she was hiding something. 'No reason, particularly. I just heard that new potions professor, Slughorn, was scouting for members for his elitist club. I wanted to prepare myself accordingly. Get on the in, make connections, you know?'

Draco frowned, confused. Pansy had never been one to suck up to teachers. Even her preening before Professor Umbridge in the previous year had been a farce forced upon her by her fellow Slytherins to gain favour of the detestable woman. The thought caused Draco to cringe internally; thank God the woman had been removed from the school. The continued subservience under her infuriating stupidity would have sent him packing if it did not so obviously irked the Gryffindor Trio of Wonders. Longbottom, Weasley and Granger had hated the toad. Yet towards the end of the year, even Draco had to admit she wore painfully thin.

'Pansy, why do you really want to know?'

The girl shrugged again. 'I told you, connections are important, even in high school-'

'Er, wrong, Pansy, it is so bloody obvious.' Blaise leaned his elbow on the table, nearly knocking his own vase to the floor in his attempt to position himself to be included in the conversation. 'Everyone could tell the real reason for your question. Or, well, everyone except Draco apparently, who has been off with the fairies since the beginning of class. You alright, Dray?'

Before Draco could answer, Pansy leaned into the boy beside her and flicked him sharply on the forehead. 'Do not undermine me, Blaise Zabini. I have no hidden motives-'

'Pansy, my dear, you are a Slytherin. Of course you have hidden motives. And if your fixed staring at a certain new student is any indication, I'd say I'm right on the mark with my speculations. You just heard from Brown a second ago that Potter is definitely taking the Potions class. Isn't that right, Pans?'

Pansy flushed faintly at Blaise's suggestion of her being interested in anything and proceeded to give him a verbal tongue-lashing. Draco, for his part, blinked in mild surprise. He was apparently the not the only one who found the Potter boy interesting. His classmate’s interest was apparent from the continued muttering throughout the room, but never would he have suspected the tidal wave of wonder the boy left in his wake.

Were they all so deprived of something novel that the students sunk their teeth into even the smallest morsel of curiosity. What was it about the boy that was so fascinating? Besides the wandless magic, of course.

'I hear you, my friend. Though I can't say even I am immune to this new plague that seems to have gripped everyone. Hmm, I wonder...'

Draco didn't realise he had spoken aloud until Blaise answered him with an uncharacteristically serious statement. 'Probably just a phase. I'm sure everyone will get over it.'

'Certainly. Eventually. What do you think Dumbledore is going to do with him? You think he'll get sorted?'

Pansy, finally having regained her composure, interjected herself pompously. 'There is hardly a need for him to be formally sorted. It's obvious that he has Slytherin blood in him; he kept his magic suppressed for years would take an iron will. That speaks of a Slytherin mind.'

'Ah, but he is neither intimidated nor overwhelmed at being thrust into an unfamiliar environment. Even a Slytherin would know to lay low before testing out the waters of new surroundings, not flounce about spurting wandless magic. That reeks of Gryffindor.'

Draco nodded in amused agreement to Blaise's assessment. 'But if he actually could control his wandless magic, that would point more to Ravenclaw than Gryffindor.'

The three turned in unison to bore the boy's back with their intent stares. McGonagall still engaged him in conversation, though the tempo seemed to have dropped marginally from her previous hasty mutters. Her eyes no longer seemed on the verge of popping through her glasses.

'I guess, at least not Hufflepuff.'

Blaise and Draco both snorted in unison at Pansy's comment, struggling to suppress their snickers. The girl cast a wicked grin at her friends; it was generally acknowledged that Hufflepuff was reserved for the calm and the kind, with generosity bordering upon the truly stupid.

'True,' Blaise added. 'Unless he suddenly demonstrates a taste for all things small and fluffy.'

'Well, he does have a cat,’ Draco interjected, recalling the eerie, green-eyed fur ball. ‘You never can pick them.'

The trio paused briefly, faces mirrors of serious contemplation before cracking simultaneously into fits of laughter. Draco sighed in relief at the good-humour, the easing of tension in his shoulders, however brief it may be. It was the first time he had laughed since his return to school. It felt good; he had missed laughing with his friends.

The lesson continued in relaxed enjoyment. None of the three managed to liquefy their vases completely, and Pansy somehow managed to tinge the base of hers pink, but it was a lesson well spent in posing questions without answers. Theodore Nott, never one to be excluded from an opinion-based discussion, turned from his conversation with Boot to add his own queries to the pool of Unsolvables, vase neglected and barely shimmering with liquidation.

The distraction of the 'incident' turned out to be in their favour, as for everyone else in the class. Only Granger, aside from Potter, had successfully managed to complete the transfiguration, but McGonagall was too distracted by her thoughts to even offer a reprimand to her pupils. The students dribbled from the classroom in small clusters, casting many an inquisitive glance at the professor and the anomaly at the other end of the room.

A/N: All comments, suggestions and questions are welcome and very much appreciated. Thank you for keeping on reading!
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The Masks of Real Heroes