Chapter 155: Harry's Troubles
Christmas was approaching fast.
One chilly morning in mid-December, Hogwarts awoke to find the grounds buried under several feet of snow. The lake had frozen solid. Icicles hung from the roofs, and the castle sparkled under the pale winter sun.
The Weasley twins had once again been punished—this time for charming enchanted snowballs to pelt Professor Quirrell from behind, targeting the back of his turban. Their defense?
"It's for his own good! If he catches a cold, he can rest, and Dumbledore might have to teach in his place!" George had declared with utmost sincerity.
Their punishment had doubled. Professor McGonagall, red with fury, muttered something about "blatant disrespect," and even Fred's grin didn't survive her glare.
Elsewhere, Alexander Smith had finally stopped stirring up trouble—at least for the moment.
For weeks, his antics had been partly fueled by boredom. With no real threats on the horizon, he'd been letting himself get carried away—poking at the timeline, shifting events slightly, and subtly nudging key characters into new arcs.
But after the discovery of Poseidon and the Moon City, Alexander had realized something humbling: his own plans, compared to those ancient magical systems, were crude. There were wizards before him who had already reshaped the world in ways he barely understood.
So lately, he'd focused his attention on Harry Potter. Or, more precisely—he'd been letting Harry rest.
Harry had been through a lot in recent weeks. The Quidditch match, the unraveling mystery of the Sorcerer's Stone, and his growing suspicions about Professor Quirrell—all had taken a toll. Alexander knew Dumbledore would soon take over guiding the boy through the next phase of events.
For now, he would simply watch.
Bored, Alexander sat at the window of the Ravenclaw Tower, watching snowy owls struggling through the wind as they arrived with morning post. After delivering letters and parcels, most of them had to recuperate in Hagrid's hut before they could take off again.
"Achoo!"
That loud sneeze belonged to Neville, and it echoed through the high stone walls. One downside of living in the upper towers was that if you forgot to close your curtains or left a window cracked, you'd inevitably wake up with a cold.
Soon, dozens of young witches and wizards across Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had runny noses and steaming mugs of Pepper-Up Potion. Slytherin and Hufflepuff, whose common rooms were deeper underground, remained mostly unaffected.
Alexander chuckled to himself as he saw red-nosed first-years shuffle around, heads steaming from the potion. He even considered letting Kate catch a cold just for the comic effect—but her magical immunity had grown too strong for that.
For most of the students, however, Christmas was all they could think about.
Even after Ravenclaw's Quidditch Cup hopes were suspended, and Roger Davis had been expelled from the team, everyone's focus had shifted to the holidays. Common rooms were decorated, students were counting down the days, and classes seemed more like suggestions than requirements.
Soon, even the steam-headed students were vanishing from the halls. The drafty corridors were bitterly cold, the castle windows rattled in the wind, and only the lounges and Great Hall remained lively, warmed by roaring fires.
Alexander stretched and muttered, "So boring… Why hasn't Dumbledore given Harry the Invisibility Cloak yet? Can we get the next arc moving?"
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December 1st, 12:16 PM – Potions Class
The Potions classroom was ice-cold. Every student huddled close to their cauldrons, seeking warmth as their breath came out in clouds of white mist.
For the first time in months, Dudley Dursley turned to speak to Harry.
"Hey, Harry…" he mumbled awkwardly. "Are you… going home this Christmas? I, uh, my mum wanted me to ask."
Harry flinched, nearly dipping his hand into his bubbling cauldron. "What?"
"I mean—are you staying? Or going back? I'm going home. Mum sent a letter..."
Harry's voice turned cold. "You already know the answer to that. I'm not going back."
Dudley looked like he wanted to say more—maybe something like "It's different now. I'm a wizard too." But Harry cut him off.
"It has nothing to do with that."
Just then, Professor Snape swept into the classroom like a silent bat, robes billowing. He said nothing about the warming cauldrons and started class immediately.
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Later, in the Gryffindor common room, Ron dropped onto the couch beside Harry and whispered, "Snape's foot seems healed. Think that means anything for the Philosopher's Stone?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "He was bitten on October 31st. Remember what Alexander said? The injury would take about a month to heal. It's already December."
"And you still think Snape's innocent?"
"I'm more suspicious of Quirrell," Harry said flatly. "He was running around in the snow today with George and Fred pelting him like a target. What kind of Dark Arts professor can't defend himself against a few snowballs?"
"Fair point," Ron admitted. "But I'm staying this Christmas anyway. Mum and Dad are off to Romania to see Charlie, and George, Fred, and I are all staying here."
He didn't mention Percy. It was almost as if they forgot he existed.
At that moment, a familiar voice interrupted them.
"Harry! I've been looking for you everywhere!"
It was Anthony Goldstein, along with his younger brothers Terry and Michael.
Harry groaned inwardly.
Ever since the Hufflepuff match, Anthony had become his number-one fan. Every conversation began and ended with Quidditch, and Harry was done with the topic.
Not because of the praise—but because every compliment was followed by another jab at Roger Davis. Some teammates even wanted to make Harry the acting captain. Even Johnny had volunteered to step in as a Chaser instead of leading.
Harry hated it. Every comment, every sideways praise stung like a reminder of how Roger had been ousted—and how he might have played a part in it.
And so, he had taken to dodging Anthony altogether.
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(End of Chapter 155)
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