Chapter Text
Beneath the shroud of a moonless night, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, stands just beyond the extensive grounds of a Wizarding school in Scotland. His hands, obscured by a flowing grey robe, clasp behind his back. The man—wizard—stood alone, waiting.
Silhouettes of attentive Professors peer from the castle's windows, their curiosity piqued by the impending arrival.
New Professors rarely receive such reception, in a sense. They’re typically uncovered through impeccable résumés or, in rare cases, stumbled upon in the obscure, shadowy alleys where even beggars dared not tread. Once found and allowed an interview, they would enter the castle gates. While subject to the inquisitive gazes of the faculty, they would travel through the winding maze of Hogwarts, searching for Dumbledore’s office—an unspoken part of the interview, a test under the watchful gaze of the Headmaster.
As Dumbledore lingered, a cool breeze passed by, banishing any prying creatures that seek to eavesdrop, not that any creature would find this scene worth taking back to their master.
Before Dumbledore lays a forlorn, battered boot—an unassuming portkey awaiting its purpose.
Dumbledore's mouth, concealed beneath his beard, bears subtle curves, savouring the irony of such a tattered object bringing forth the arrival of a powerful Being.
Powerful, in all ways, except for peace of mind.
It adds a brief moment of amusement to Dumbledore. He takes what he can: A Being worrying for the future in turn caused the wizarding world a favour—even if they do not know it yet.
The boot twitched, prompting Dumbledore to arch an eyebrow. He considered the possibility of an illusion from fatigue—it is the middle of the night—but the boot twitched once more, dispelling such doubts.
Thunder rolled, accompanied by a jagged streak of lightning across the night above. A lesser man might have been spooked, muttering about such improbable coincidences.
It reminded him of that night.
Before Dumbledore has the chance to reminisce, footsteps echoed off concrete slabs behind him. Dumbledore doesn’t need to turn to identify the source.
Minerva McGonagall, an older witch that can be described as Dumbledore's 'right hand,' observed the frayed boot with pursed lips. Her gaze then drifted to Dumbledore, assessing his calm demeanor, though it did little to ease her apprehension. If the Headmaster finds this situation noteworthy, it was bound to be a problem.
How troublesome.
“He’s late,” Minerva observed, distaste clear in her voice. Dumbledore doesn’t so much as twitch at the sound.
"He is travelling all the way from America," he replied, momentarily casting his eyes up to the sky. Minerva followed his gaze, her eyes tracing the lightning dancing among the clouds. A distinct roll of thunder sent vibrations running through her bones, the smell of rain clear around them.
She tapped her arms impatiently.
"Perhaps we should not have gone so far to secure him," she mused with a disapproving frown.
“After all that trouble to get to him?” Dumbledore chuckled.
And—Dumbledore had a point, as much as Minerva loathed to admit it. It's a waste of resources and time to get rid of him. She curled her lips as Dumbledore turns to face her.
“Need I remind you who offered this deal first? He’s not here to tea—” McGonagall cuts herself off as a shiver cuts through her body. Feeling eyes upon her, she cast a fleeting glance back towards the castle. There’s a brief silence.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t become a problem.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Dumbledore answered with a hum. “And that this one will last.”
Light begins to permeate throughout the castle grounds as Dumbledore turned his gaze back to the flashing portkey. McGonagall sighed as the wind reached up to disarm her of her cloak. And—light exploded into the courtyard.
-
Only weeks ago, Harry had been certain that he would suffer with the Dursleys until he was 18, doomed to living under the stairs while doing chores for a living. That ordinary misery had been shattered by the arrival of a letter, addressed to him specifically, in the cupboard under the stairs. It invited him to a place called Hogwarts. The Dursleys' frantic attempts to prevent him from reading those letters were futile for here he was now, following a man called Hagrid down a random street. Hagrid, a giant of a man with wild hair and a friendly smile, did nothing to calm his nerves.
Harry was still trying to wrap his head around it all. Wizards existed? There were schools for it? He could do magic?
Harry tried, and failed, to keep up with Hagrid's giant strides, but eventually, the man slowed. Harry didn’t realize why until he looked up to see a shabby-looking pub in front of them.
“Here we are,” Hagrid said, his voice booming with excitement. “The Leaky Cauldron—a famous place.”
Harry stared at the old, grimy sign. The pub looked like it hadn't seen a paintbrush in decades. It seemed completely unremarkable, a place that ordinary people would pass by without a second glance. Maybe it was supposed to look that way, Harry figured, trying to push away his skepticism.
"Come on, then," Hagrid urged, pushing the door open. Inside, Harry blinked a few times. The interior was dimly lit and filled with the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses. Resisting the urge to turn on his heels and walk the other way, he obediently followed Hagrid up to the counter.
"The usual, Hagrid?" the bartender asked, not even sparing a glance for Harry. Apparently, he didn’t care about the 11-year-old sitting in his bar. Maybe Wizards could disguise themselves as kids? Was that why he didn’t seem to care?
A hand clamped down on Harry’s shoulder and jolted him forward. Harry stumbled and looked up, feeling his cheeks about to burn. Above him, the bartender eyed him. Subtly, his eyebrows raised. "Good Lord," said the bartender and he glanced to Hagrid for confirmation. "Is this—can this be—?"
The Leaky Cauldron went completely still and silent. Harry’s head was beginning to pound. "Harry Potter... what an honour," the old bartender said and began to move. Much to Harry’s horror, everyone seemed to do the same. Harry tripped back as everyone began to crowd around him. There were eyes on him, everywhere, all at once.
"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."
Harry turned to Hagrid for help, but the man stood there, beaming.
"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."
The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood on end and a shiver ran down his back. He could feel eyes behind him, judging him. Harry tried to turn around and see, but more people appeared, trying to gain his attention.
"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."
"Always wanted to shake your hand—I'm all of a flutter."
Who was watching him? Panic began to bubble.
Harry took longer to escape a crowd than he should have. After a long conversation with a stuttering Professor Quirrell, Hagrid pulled gently on his sleeve and guided him away from the crowd. Luckily, the crowd thinned around Hagrid, not wanting to get in his way. “We'll just nip through here, Harry,” Hagrid said, but Harry was barely paying attention.
He could feel eyes on him again, but not from the crowd. Harry was not certain how to describe it. It was overwhelming, but Harry’s eyes snagged the edges of the crowd, meeting the eyes of people, but the feeling wasn’t dispersing. It was invasive, like a shadow creeping over his skin, looking for cracks.
Hagrid let go of Harry, and the feeling disappeared for a moment. Harry took the chance and looked at him.
"Now, pay attention, Harry," Hagrid instructed, pulling out his pink umbrella. "This is a bit of magic. Yeh gotta know the right spot."
He counted bricks, tapping them in a specific sequence. Harry watched in amazement as the bricks began to quiver and shift, creating an archway into a bustling street filled with shops, people in robes, and the most wondrous sights Harry had ever seen.
"Welcome," Hagrid said with a grin, "to Diagon Alley."
Hagrid began to walk forward, and Harry followed, leaving the odd feeling behind.
-
When they exited Gringotts, Hagrid swept Harry towards a store called Madam Malkin's Robes. Hagrid paused at the door, his face green. Harry frowned in concern. “Are you alright?” Harry asked, “We can take a rest—”
“No,” Hagrid said, waving a hand in the air. “Yer go in without me. I’ll watch ‘er stuff out here.”
Harry hesitated, watching Hagrid for another moment until Hagrid shooed him into the store. A bell above Harry jingled sharply as Harry stepped through, and a woman bustled towards him, looking him up and down. "Hogwarts, dear?" she said. "Got the lot here—another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."
Harry followed the woman to the back, where a boy with a pale and pointed face stood on a footstool. The woman gestured Harry up on the other stool and slipped a long robe over his head. The other boy looked up at him. "Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," said Harry.
The boy began to talk, his tone bored and condescending. Harry tried his best to avoid letting his mind wander, but it was hard—it's like a buzz in his ear. The longer Harry listened to him, the more the boy strongly reminded him of Dudley. Harry answered all his questions without fail until the boy suddenly spoke.
"I say, look at that man!" said the boy, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid stood there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in. I must have been here longer than I thought, if he's recovered, Harry thought.
"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn't. "He works at Hogwarts."
"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"
"He's the gamekeeper," Harry corrected. He was liking the boy less every second.
“Hm, well, it's worse than letting an American teach at Hogwarts.”
Harry raised a brow. “What’s wrong with an American teaching at Hogwarts?”
The boy smirked, tilting his chin upward. "Americans have no sense of tradition," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "They bumble about with their wands, thinking magic is all fireworks and showmanship. Hogwarts has millennia of history, of respect for the old ways. An American would just... muck it up."
Harry pursed his lips and tried to keep his voice low as he said, “That’s not exactly fair, is it? Judging someone before you even meet them?”
"Oh, can't I? My father says the best wizards are British. Our magical bloodlines are purer. Americans don’t understand the significance of our traditions. They lack the sophistication and refinement of true wizarding culture. His surname isn’t even tied with any purebloods—" The pale boy paused and glanced toward Harry, shifting his head to the side.
“What’s your surname anyway?”
Harry was just glad that Madam Malkin was able to save him from answering that question.
-
After filling Hagrid in on his talk with the vampire-looking boy, they continued on their way through Diagon Alley in search of books. “Hagrid,” Harry began, recalling what the boy said.
“Yeh?”
“There’s another new Professor, right?” Harry asked, “Not just Professor Quirrell, right?”
Hagrid pulled at his beard and nodded, “Yeh—He jus’ arrived a couple o’ weeks ago. From America.”
Harry strung his hands together, watching wizards and witches walk by. Why hire a Professor from America when there are thousands here, probably? The boy said that everyone went to Hogwarts, so wouldn’t the program be competitive? Was it an exchange? Argh! This was all so confusing…
“Professor Phoebus, I thin’. He teaches one of yer mandatory classes—Astronomy, I think. The rest ‘re third year and above classes,” Hagrid said, peeling away at the wrapper of a candy bar. Harry couldn’t make out the name.
Harry pondered for a moment. From what he had heard from the boy, the Professor wouldn’t know as many things about the British Wizarding World, much like Harry. Something about different traditions? Harry couldn’t quite grasp what the boy said…
He also remembered how the boy treated Hagrid when he saw him. The boy disliked the American Professor and also Hagrid… Hm. “Have you two met?” Harry asked.
Hagrid shook his head, and said, “I’ve been watching of ‘yer for the past week. I’ gotten no time to meet him yet, but I heard that he’s ‘andsome.”
That wasn’t the answer Harry was hoping to look for.
-
The train ride was a success for Harry, for the most part. He even made a friend. He also got sorted into a good house! Or at least, that's what his new friend told him. Even now, as he leaned forward onto the table, with his stomach full and his hands itching for another plate, he can’t help but feel pleased with himself.
At the far end of the Great Hall, stood a High Table where the Professors sat and talk.
At the far side of the table, Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet while another Professor watched on in horror. Further down the table sats Professor McGonagall, talking to Headmaster Dumbledore. Beside them was a woman wearing Hufflepuff clothing blemished by spots of dirt. She faced the opposite of the Headmaster, animatedly talking with another Professor.
Harry blinked at the man talking to her. He definitely looked different from the rest of the Professors—there was a faint glow buzzing around him. Well, Harry was sure there wasn’t literally a ball of light around him unless he casted a spell.
The man’s long blonde hair was up in a manbun and when he turned his head to the side to glance out to the crowd, his blue eyes lingering on certain tables, Harry could see the slight shift of his robes, revealing some Hufflepuff colours.
Hearty laughter ran out between the two Hufflepuff Professors with a couple of other Professor’s chiming in on the conversation. Harry could guess who the male Professor is—some of the older students around Harry kept on glancing towards him, whispering something about loud Americans.
He had to be the Professor that Malfoy (whose name was learned after an incident just outside the dining hall) was talking about—Professor Phoebus. Harry inclined his head to get a better look at the Professor, stretching past Ron (a new friend of Harry’s).
As Harry did so, Professor Phoebus turned his head to the side, glancing outward at the students with a smile curving onto his face. Harry’s entire body stopped moving as they make eye contact across the hall. The Professor tilted his head as if acknowledging him (but his gaze seem to be eyeing him, looking to see if Harry is up to his expectations) and turned his head back to the other Professor.
He didn’t look back.
Harry blinked and turns back to his table. Taking a sip from the goblet in front of him, Harry turned again back to the high table, glancing further down the hall. Professor Quirrell, who Harry met in that Inn that Hagrid brought him to (which Harry will never return to, especially if that odd feeling will be there as well), was talking to a Professor with greasy black hair, a hooked nose and sallow skin.
The dark-haired Professor looks past Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shoot across the scar on Harry’s forehead. It’s not the same as the feeling back at the Inn, as this time, the feeling is much more physical.
“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head.
‘What is it?’ asked Percy, one of Ron’s older brothers.
Feeling like he’ll be called a fool if he says anything, Harry muttered out, “Nothing.”
Maybe this is a regular occurrence in the wizarding world? When I don’t meet people’s eyes I start to feel like someone’s drilling their stare into me and when I do meet their eyes, I get actual pain.
The pain left as quickly as it came. Harry glanced back to the table, to look at the black-haired Professor. “Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” He asked Percy.
“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to—everyone knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape.”
“Right,” Harry said, pocketing the information away for later. He’s already got a plan formed: Never go back to that Inn and never look Snape in the eye again. Speaking of eyes… Harry glanced back across the table, remembering what Malfoy said about Purebloods not liking Professor Phoebus for whatever reason.
He didn't look as scary as some of the other Professors.
“What does Professor Phoebus teach?” Harry asked. He’s sure he’s asked Hagrid about it once before, but he didn’t remember.
“Hm?” Percy tilted his head to the side and followed his gaze. “The American Professor?”
Harry nodded.
“Hm, he’s the Astronomy Professor for all students but he teaches Medical Magic as an elective for older students. If he keeps his position for two years, his electives class ‘ought to change as he’s given permission.”
Then, in a quieter tone, Percy grumbled, “hopefully something new—expanding on out of date curriculum.”
Harry didn’t ask anything else.
-
Harry’s first class with the American Professor was on Thursday night on his fourth day of school. Reading over his schedule, Harry noted that both Thursday and Friday nights, starting from 11PM, are dedicated to Astronomy. Thankfully, Harry had the class with Hufflepuffs, so it makes for some peaceful nights.
The week had been fun to Harry, even if History of Magic had made almost everyone fall asleep within the first twenty minutes. At least the ghost Professor was one of the few Professors that didn’t bat an eye at Harry’s name. Hopefully the American Professor would be the same. Surely, Harry wouldn’t be known overseas.
Speaking of other classes, the Defense Against the Dark Arts class was… disappointing to say the least and Harry hopes the rest of the year won’t be the same. Potions was hell incarnate. The Professor decided that Harry, at eleven years old, was their archnemesis. The only Professor that had the same strictness as Harry would expect to see at Hogwarts was Professor McGonagall. Harry would pass away and fade into the afterlife the day that he was a second late for her class.
Professor Phoebus is one of the last Professor’s he’s going to meet, with both classes so late in the week (not to mention at night). From the Gryffindor common rooms, Harry could hear whispers (and giggles) about Professor Phoebus, especially from some of the older students. Harry couldn’t make his own comment yet, but he had seen the Professor stride through the hall—quite dramatically—in between classes.
So, in short, by the time Thursday night rolled around, Harry’s hopes were high.
-
Harry’s first Astronomy class is held in the highest tower of Hogwarts, a winding staircase leading up to a large circular room. The air felt cooler up there, almost as if the ancient stones of the castle absorbed the night’s chill. Halfway up the tower, Harry and Ron both heard the soft lull of what Harry assumes is a harp echoing off the stone walls. Reaching the top, Harry found that the room itself was dimly lit, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor. Bookshelves line dthe walls, crammed with thick, leather-bound tomes and intricate star charts. A large, brass telescope dominated the centre of the room, pointing towards the open sky above them, where the walls break free into intricate patterns to reveal the twinkling stars above.
Harry shivered slightly, rubbing his arms as he followed the other first-year students into the room. The air around Harry shifted as he takes his first steps in, filling his senses with a faint scent of old parchment and something else, something floral and unfamiliar.
Turning his head to the side to look for open seats, he noted that the walls turned to glass doors near the other end of the room, all with balconies lingering just outside.
Professor Phoebus stood at the far end of the room, turning his back to the students as he adjusted the telescope. His long, blonde hair is pulled back neatly, and his robes shimmered faintly in the dim light.
Harry did the natural thing; He shuffled towards the back of the classroom, near one of the glass doors. Ron followed behind him, quite loudly. They made room there and watched everyone else find their seats. It was a bit hard to see the rest of the class since there’s telescopes (albeit small ones) on their desk.
A buzzing filled the air as the last of the students gather into their seats, bringing out their parchment and ink. Harry’s been through this enough to follow everybody else.
When the clock hit exactly 11PM, the music playing through the air came to just a mere hum and the door leading from the classroom to the stairs closed. Professor Phoebus turned around to meet the gaze of his class with a smirk and leaned back against the desk.
"Welcome to Astronomy," Phoebus said, his voice smooth and melodic, carrying a hint of what Harry assumed is an American accent. The Professor flashed a smile across the classroom, one that seemed almost too perfect. "I’m Professor Phoebus and as some of you may have heard, I’m new to this school, much like most of you are."
He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make everyone a bit uncomfortable. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, the telescopes adjusted themselves on everyone’s desks, aligning perfectly with one another. Harry jumped at the movement and casted a glance sideways to Ron, hoping that he wasn’t the only one caught by surprise.
Ron’s eyes were a bit wide, so Harry asked, “I didn’t know wizards could use wands without magic.”
Ron nodded, glancing back to the Professor, and said, “Technically, more powerful wizards don’t need wands for everyone. Wandless magic, I think it’s called. Powerful wizards can do that.”
“What—?” Harry began.
"I know what you’re thinking," the Professor said, breaking through their conversation, his tone shifting to one of mock seriousness. The Professor placed a hand to chest and says, " ‘How come I’m not downstairs with everyone else and tucked away under my bed?’ Well, I don’t want to be up at this ungodly hour either but lucky for you, I’m probably the best Professor you’ll have for this class. You won’t be thinking that again for as long as I’m your Professor here. Congratulations."
Some of the students in front of Harry exchanged glances, some stifling giggles. The Professor leaned away from his desk and began walking forward, bringing out his wand as his mouth opened to talk. Harry watched in amazement as the stars above them seemed to glow whenever Professor Phoebus gestured to them.
“Show off,” Ron muttered under his breath. Across the room, a few students exchanged looks, while others seem amazed by the display. Harry wondered how many others are seeing magic this week for the first time. It all seemed very impressive.
Ron leaned over to Harry and whispered, “Well, if we didn’t know beforehand that the Professor wasn’t American, we could definitely tell by now.”
“I don’t think Americans act that way,” Harry whispered back.
“How many Americans have you met?”
“None, well, Professor Phoebus I suppose now.”
“And how does he act?”
“That doesn’t prove your point.”
Harry turned away from Ron before he could say anything else and instead watched as Professor Phoebus returned to his desk. “Before we begin with the boring part of today, which includes going outside with your telescopes, do we have any more questions?”
One girl slammed her hand up with such force that it made the table jiggle. The Professor blinked a few times before grinning. “Well, that’s the fastest anyone’s hand went up. Yes?”
The girl started rambling about something Harry can’t quite place, mostly because he’s tired, but as Professor Phoebus answers the girl's question, his gaze shifted across the room. His gaze caught onto Harry for a moment, and only for that moment, before he turned again to look at others. But in that time, Harry felt it again—that sense of uneasiness he felt back in the Inn that Hagrid brought him to. The same feeling of something non-human watching him. It didn’t feel as spiteful like at the Inn though…
“What's wrong mate?” Ron said, nudging Harry’s arm. “It looks like you just saw Peeves pour a bucket of water over McGonagall’s head or something.”
“Who?” Harry said, snapping back into attention, the feeling still crawling around at the base of his spine. Ron leveled him a look.
“Peeves…” Ron began but shook his head. “Nevermind. I’m sure I told you though.”
Harry shoved the feeling down and coughed out, “Right.” He rubbed his head, trying to shake off the unease. Shifting in his seat, he attempted to focus. The combination of the late hour and Professor Phoebus' hypnotic voice are making his eyelids heavy. Harry hasn’t been up this late before and, despite finding the class interesting compared to others, he couldn't help but feel tired. The room is so dim, the stars so distant and twinkling, that Harry's mind began to drift. He imagined himself among the stars, floating in the void, freed from all worries. His eyes fluttered close for a moment.
"Mr. Potter," a voice said close to Harry's head, pulling Harry out of his reverie. He jerked backwards, blinking rapidly, to find Professor Phoebus standing over him, an amused yet slightly annoyed expression on his face. "Am I boring you?"
Harry felt his cheeks heat up and scanned the room and noticed that everybody else is getting up from their seats to head outside to the balcony. No one stayed behind to notice him. "No, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep," Harry said.
“Nearly fell asleep,” Professor Phoebus corrected. “Hmm…” He placed a hand under his chin, thinking.
Harry exchanged a bewildered glance with Ron as Phoebus coughs, spreading out a hand to pause them.
"In a room of stars,
Sleepyheads will find their doom,
Eyes open, stay awake."
The Professor finished with a flourish, as if he had just delivered the greatest poem of all time. Ron and Harry stared at him in stunned silence before Ron asked, “Is that supposed to be a hike-whatever?”
“Yes, sounds lovely doesn’t it? Came up with it on the spot.”
“I can tell,” Ron muttered.
The Professor narrowed his eyes and Harry immediately stood, his chair screeching behind him. “Thank you, Professor. We’ll get to work right away.”
Professor Phoebus raised an eyebrow at him as Harry hurriedly shuffled Ron towards the balcony door. "Alright,” Phoebus said, waving his hand dismissively. "Back to work. But do try to stay awake, Mr. Potter. It’d be distasteful for you to hate my class so soon."
-
The next time Harry talked directly to Professor Phoebus outside of class was two weeks later, right when Harry attempted a duel with Malfoy. Though, it didn’t go as Harry had been hoping. At first, Harry tried to sneak out of Gryffindor Tower (alone) at night but somehow ended up with three other people following him, which included Neville, Hermione, and Ron. To make matters worse, Harry found out that Malfoy had tricked him by tipping Filch about their (supposed) duel location.
Which led them to where they were now, running through corridors to escape Filch—and Peeves, who appeared shortly after the group arrived in the corridor. Harry quickly pushed them all into a hopefully vacant room, listening to Peeves taunt Filch.
“—I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” Peeves' mocking voice trailed off, accompanied by the sound of his departure and Filch’s frustrated curses. Harry listened intently, feeling a sliver of relief.
“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered, feeling his heart settle. “I think we'll be ok—get off, Neville!”
Neville had been tugging on the sleeve of Harry's dressing-gown for the last minute. “What?” Harry turned around—and saw quite clearly, what. For a moment, he thought he'd walked into a nightmare—this was too much, on top of everything that had happened so far.
They weren't in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden.
They were staring into the eyes of a monstrous dog, its massive form towering to the ceiling. The creature's matted, dark fur shifted as it turned towards Harry. It took him a moment to register that the dog had not one head, but three—all six eyes fixating intently on them.
A low growl rumbled from the monster’s throats, causing the stone slabs beneath their feet to tremble. Hermione squeaked, backing into Ron, who nearly stumbled into Harry in return.
Looking at the dog, Harry knew that the only reason they weren't already dead was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous growls meant. Harry groped for the doorknob—between Filch and death, he'd take Filch.
But the door didn’t open.
“We need to get out of here,” Hermione whispered urgently as they pressed closer to the door, edging away from the beast.
"Well, the door’s locked, isn’t it?" Ron hissed, his voice quivering. He tried to keep his eyes on all three heads of the beast as he pushed his back against Harry, whose hands shook against the doorknob, nearly pulling the knob off by its hinges trying to open it.
Neville whimpered as the sound of the fumbling doorknob creaked through the corridor under the growls of the dog. He pressed himself against the wall, as if trying to merge with the stone to escape. "We're going to die. We're going to die," he repeated, his voice rising in panic.
The dog lunged just as the door opened from the other end. Harry fell down, passed the door and the others followed close behind, all falling like dominos on top of him. Harry turned to see sharp jagged teeth reaching for him just as the door slammed shut behind it, locking.
“We’re free,” Ron gasped, flooding his voice. “But what was that dog?”
Harry had a bigger concern though—there was a pair of shoes in front of him, almost covered underneath robes. The boy shakily got to his feet, feeling his cheeks heat up as he came face to face with the Astronomy Professor. The man’s hair was down around his neck, looking a bit rough at the edges as if he had just been woken up.
“Oh!” Hermione squeaked somewhere behind him, and Harry shared the sentiment. The whole reason why they were running around in the first place was to avoid being caught by Professors. It had only led them to be in deeper water; they were caught in the forbidden corridor, which was certainly off limits.
"Well, well, well," Professor Phoebus said, his voice dripping with a mix of amusement and mild annoyance. "What do we have here? A late-night adventure, Mr. Potter? And with an audience, no less." His eyes swept over the group and Harry knew that he was going to get an earful the next morning from Professor McGonagall.
The thought scared Harry a bit. Lead on his tongue, Harry stumbled over his words, “We—uh—we didn’t mean to—"
"Of course you didn’t," Phoebus interrupted smoothly, his tone indicating he wasn’t particularly interested in excuses. "You’ve stumbled upon something quite dangerous, though I suppose you’ve realized that by now."
If someone had dropped a needle, it would have echoed through the corridor. Professor Phoebus must’ve taken pity on them because he sighed, his voice lighter now. "As thrilling as this encounter must have been, I believe it's time for all of you to return to your dormitories. Before Mr. Filch catches wind of this, yes?"
Hermione made a noise at the back of her throat and said, “So you’re not going to…?”
The Professor snorted and said, “What? Punish you after you guys nearly got killed? Your lack of trust in Professors is truly disturbing… Perhaps I should bring this up with Dumbledore.”
Ron grumbled, “If you do, I have a couple of names you could bring up…”
“Thank you, Professor, for helping us,” Hermione interjected.
A chorus of “Thank you’s” followed Hermione’s voice, and Professor Phoebus’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Well, then, up to your dorms.”
All four of them didn’t linger. They only talked when they arrived back at the common room, Neville hurrying to his room.
“What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” asked Ron when they reached the steps leading up to their dorm. “If any dog needs exercise, that one does.”
“Didn't you see what it was standing on?” Hermione breathed out, who had been suspiciously quiet during their walk back.
“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn't looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads.”
“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It's obviously guarding something.”
“But—“ Ron began.
“Professor Phoebus told us to stop messing around with stuff that doesn’t need our attention,” Hermione remarked. She stood up, glaring at them. “We’re all lucky that Professor Phoebus found us and didn’t give us detention.”
“We could’ve been killed,” Ron objected, “And detention is what you’re worried about?”
“Yes! Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed.”
-
Later that night, staring up at the ceiling, Harry realized that Hermione had given him something else to think about. The dog was guarding something … What had Hagrid said? Gringotts was the safest place in the world for something you wanted to hide—except perhaps Hogwarts. And, something else, how had Professor Phoebus found them? Had he known they would be in the forbidden corridor? He looked like he just woke up—and he certainly knows what hides behind those doors…
-
Nothing (re: exciting) had occurred for Harry since he stumbled upon the forbidden corridor over a month ago. He hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about the dog either, maybe except for Ron, but the conversation hadn’t been going anywhere.
During the month, Harry had successfully joined the Quidditch team, managed to avoid detention for walking into the forbidden corridor, and watched the Weasley twins play pranks on other Gryffindors. Everything was going fine until it wasn’t.
It wasn’t exactly Ron’s fault for making Hermione cry (it was Ron’s fault, Harry just didn’t want to tell Ron that). It wasn’t until halfway through the Hallowe’en feast that Harry began to feel uneasy.
“Something’s not right,” Harry whispered to Ron, reaching over his platter of mashed potatoes. Indeed, he could feel his stomach clench uncertainly, like he had forgotten something important.
“Does this have to do with Hermione?” Ron asked, licking his fingers clean of ketchup.
Harry nodded—there were eyes on the back of his head, drilling through him. He could feel a gaze linger there until it shifted down, through Harry’s spine. He knew there was nothing behind him but a brick wall, but the feeling didn’t leave. It almost felt like a warning. It appeared as soon as Harry and Ron started to eat and hadn’t gone away for the past ten minutes. In fact, the eyes on his back seemed to become more urgent.
It made the plate of food in front of him look quite dull and unappetizing, like a block of sludge.
Harry needed to get out of there and preferably find Hermione.
Harry didn’t wait for Ron to follow as he got up from his seat and walked out of the dining hall, going unnoticed by everyone. Harry could hear Ron clambering out of his seat to follow Harry, a piece of bread still in his mouth. Slipping into the hallway, Ron turned to him. “You’ve gone bloody insane! I’m sure Hermione’s perfectly fine-!”
Ron didn’t get the rest of his sentence out in time - Professor Quirrell came running from the hall, where the dungeons were. A look of horror decorated his face, and dread immediately began to pool in Harry’s stomach.
“Professor?” Harry asked warily.
The Professor nearly stumbled over his robes as he looked over the two boys. Breathlessly, Quirrell gasped, “You two ‘ought to stay away from the dungeons—there’s a Troll!”
He didn’t let up his pace, and the two of them watched the Professor head straight towards the Dining Hall.
“You don’t think…?” Ron began.
“Hermione—you scared her off, remember?” Harry said.
“Me?”
Harry remained silent.
“Fine, sure—but, uh. Harry, it's a Troll.”
“Well, Hermione could die if we don’t get to her in time!”
Ron hesitated only once more before they went running towards the dungeon.
-
Harry had never been so close to death before, well, from what he remembered. He didn’t exactly know how he ended up on a very dirty bathroom floor, sticking his wand up in what he assumed was the general direction of the Troll. Fear tightened the grip around his wand, the roughness of the wood against his palm forcing him to stay focused.
His glasses had been thrown somewhere in the gaps in his memories. Harry didn’t know enough spells to retrieve his glasses, nor did he have enough time to think about getting them back.
Two stalls had already been destroyed, no thanks to the Troll. Hermione was casting all the spells she knew, but none of them seemed to work. Even Ron was at the end of his rope, failing miserably at trying to get the Troll's attention.
Perhaps Harry should’ve turned around back at the dining hall and asked for help. Maybe this was the end for him—
Hermione let out a squeak as the Troll finally turned away from Harry, covering its eyes, and Hermione yelled out, “Lumos!” The brightness allowed Harry some clarity as the Troll stumbled through the room, breaking every sink in its sight as it palmed the walls for something to grab onto. Ron stumbled out of the way, bringing his wand up to defend himself as Harry grasped his glasses.
At the same time, the bathroom door creaked open. All four of them, including the Troll, froze.
Harry looked up just as a pair of shoes stepped into the room and a flash of yellow twisted in Harry’s vision. Harry wondered how many times the Professor would find them in this position; on the brink of death in the middle of Hogwarts, which was sounding like a not-very-safe school at the moment.
Professor Phoebus raised an eyebrow up at the Troll, which towered above him. “You know, I was looking forward to Samhain and the Feast. You know how long it’s been since I visited during this time?” His voice was calm, almost casual, as if confronting a massive troll were an everyday occurrence.
The Troll raised its club, and the Professor raised a pointed hand. “Ah! Patience! I’m trying to be kind here; it doesn’t happen often. Well, the food has been delicious, which makes me even more disappointed as to why I’m here, sacrificing a good meal just to save a couple of kids.”
Harry didn’t get time to translate what the Professor meant by that because the Troll roared and dropped its club down on the Professor. Harry blinked, half-expecting to see Professor dead on the floor. Instead, Phoebus merely side-stepped away from the Troll with his brows up to his hairline in disappointment.
“Were you even aiming for me?” the Professor asked, bringing a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. He glanced towards the three wizards on the ground, as if suddenly remembering their presence.
“Ah, should I act surprised that it’s you three?” Phoebus asked and waved his wand. The air shimmered in front of them, casting a barrier between them and the Troll, who was trying for another swing while the Professor was distracted.
Professor Phoebus spared the Troll a glance before he said, “I suggest you three turn away before Madam Pomfrey yells at me for giving children PTSD.”
“What—?” Ron began, but Hermione pushed both of them towards the ground.
“Confringo!”
Something wet splattered across their backs, coloring the walls in front of them. The sound wasn’t much better, and Harry closed his eyes, listening as what he assumed was blood dripped off the wall. Gross, Harry decided.
“Bloody hell!” Ron said, immediately looking up. All three of them turned at the same time as what Harry realized as blood disappeared around them, the Professor waving his hand.
Phoebus waved his hand and wrinkled his nose, “Man, now I feel like throwing up.” He glanced towards them, and they glanced back at the dark burnt spot that was the Troll.
“It’s dead?” Hermione asked.
“If it isn't, I don’t know what would kill it,” Professor Phoebus drawled, pocketing his wand. He glanced at them again, eyes scanning them for any injury. He nodded after a moment, a smile appearing on his face.
A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the four of them look up. Professor Phoebus turned around, his smile dropping, as what Harry assumed were the footsteps of Professors. Hermione let out a sound of relief and crashed down next to the two boys, forgetting about their argument.
“Well, since the three of you look like you’re about to pass out, I’ll guess I’ll be the one dealing with them. I didn’t even get a thank you,” Professor Phoebus said, observing them from his stance, a hand placed out on his chest mockingly.
“Thank you, Professor, for saving us,” the three of them chorused for what Harry thought was the third time that year already.
-
With his first Quidditch quickly approaching in November, Harry had done much to study with the help of Hermione, who quickly became their friend after that Troll incident. With Snape limping around and throwing five points off Gryffindor, it hadn’t made Harry the happiest person around. Even more so when he found out that Snape also knew about the three headed-dog inside the corridor. It had apparently bit him (found out via snooping).
They needed to plan—in case Snape tried anything.
It was after a quick study session in the middle of November when Hermione said something. The lights of the common room fire danced across Hermione’s face as she pulled Harry and Ron to a desk near the window at the far corner of the room, far away from prying eyes.
It’s a chilly evening, and the warmth of the fire does little to ease the uneasy feeling that settled over Harry since the encounter with the troll. Miraculously since then, the eyes that often seemed to linger on Harry—the feeling of being watched—had disappeared since October.
That fact didn't help Harry at all.
Harry’s mind buzzed with questions that refused to quiet down, and he knew his friends felt the same way when all of them seemed eager to talk.
Hermione leaned in as she placed her books on the table, as if they were doing homework. "We need to talk about what's under that trapdoor. What do you think it's hiding?"
Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Something big, I reckon. Hagrid said it's between Gringotts and Hogwarts for being the best at keeping things safe, remember? It must be important."
Harry glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "I've been thinking," he said quietly, "I saw Snape limping the other day. I'm sure he tried to sneak past that dog."
Hermione's eyes widened. "You think he was trying to get under the trapdoor?"
Harry nodded. "Why else would he be limping? It looked like he got bitten. Maybe he knows what's down there."
“Well, we’ve all seen his limp. You’d know he’s been bitten by the dog?” Ron asked.
“I, uh…” Harry’s face flushed, trying to not imagine their faces when they realize Harry snuck into Snape’s office. “I was looking for a book that I left behind in Snape's office after detention…” Harry began.
Hermione groaned and leaned back in her seat, her hands covering her face.
“Please tell me you weren’t caught,” Ron said.
Harry remained stubbornly quiet.
“God…” Hermione said. She shook her head at Harry. “You’ve got a death wish! Besides… Snape's a professor. He’s not kind or anything but I don’t think he’d be trying to get in there…”
“Well, what else would he be in that room than? That dog is guarding that trapdoor, right? Snape would’ve gotten close to that door if he was bit,” Harry said.
Hermione tapped her chin, her mind working through the possibilities. "Snape has always been… intense. But he’s also very smart. He wouldn’t go down there without a reason."
The common room door swung open and a group of students entered, laughing and talking loudly. Ron nearly leapt out of his chair at the noise, face going red. Hermione covered a laugh behind her robe and tried to avoid Ron’s eye by watching the newcomers.
The Gryffindors dispersed quickly, all locating up in their dorms or closer to the fire, the sound of which filtered through the air. The sound made Harry pause.
"What about Professor Phoebus?" Harry suggested, turning back to the others. "He knows about the corridor. He showed up almost instantly when we were there."
Hermione nodded slowly. "That’s true. But his office is all the way up in the Astronomy Tower and he looked like he just got up. Besides… Professors can’t apparate in Hogwarts—It’s in the Hogwarts: A History book…”
“Uh huh,” Ron said, leaning back in his chair once again. “He saved us from the troll, didn’t he? Maybe he’s keeping an eye on things."
"Or he could be in on it," Harry said quietly. The few times when those eyes were watching him included when Professor Phoebus was in the room. The eyes were warning him earlier about Hermione… "He found us pretty quickly down in the dungeon.”
Hermione shook her head. "He did save us, Harry. And he hasn’t done anything to make us think he’s working with Snape."
"But what if he’s trying to find out what Snape’s up to?" Ron suggested. "He could be trying to stop him, right?"
“Should we tell Professor Phoebus?” Harry asked.
"We can’t just go around accusing professors of plotting, especially to other Professors," Hermione pointed out. "We need more information before we talk to anyone."
"Maybe we can follow Snape. See if he does anything suspicious," Ron said.
Harry nodded, feeling a rush of excitement. “Yeah—um. Maybe not me though, since he knows that I know about the bite on his leg.”
“Great job Harry,” Ron drawled.
“Hey!” Harry protested, “I just wanted my book back.”
“You wouldn’t be in that position in the first place if you weren’t in detention,” Hermione added, her lips quirking up.
“Great, both of you guys are teaming up on me,” Harry complained.
Hermione rolled her eyes and said, “Whatever. Look, all three of us share the same Astronomy class. Maybe we can hint to Professor Phoebus about the trapdoor and the dog from there and figure everything out from there.”
“Sounds great,” Ron yawned, “Yo, Professor Phoebus! You know that dog that we ran into a couple months ago? I just had a dream that there was a trapdoor hidden underneath of it, crazy right? I think the constellations are trying to tell me something!”
Ron’s cut off by Hermione smacking him with her book. “That’s not what I meant!” She hisses out.
“Blimey,” Ron says, rubbing his arm. “You have an arm of steel or something?”
“Yes! Now, our next class with Professor Phoebus is tomorrow night while our next class with Snape is Monday. Let’s try and figure out what’s going on before Christmas, okay?”
“Okay,” Ron and Harry echoed.