Chapter 9
The Gryffindor common room was warm and golden that evening, flickering firelight casting long shadows across the walls. Students lounged on squashy chairs, chattered about their first day, or played with enchanted chess pieces that grumbled and swore under their breath.
Thomas Greene sat near the window with his Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 open across his knees. But his eyes weren't on the pages—they drifted now and then toward Hermione Granger, seated in a nearby armchair, furiously scribbling notes into a crisp leather-bound journal.
He waited until she paused to stretch her fingers before leaning over.
"Hey," he said quietly, "want to go over some Transfiguration theory together?"
Hermione perked up immediately. "Oh! Yes, definitely. That class was fascinating. McGonagall is… formidable."
Thomas nodded, settling on the carpet beside her as he turned his book around to a specific passage. "I was thinking about what she said today. Transfiguration isn't just about making something look different. It's about changing what it is."
Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. "It's the beginning of a complex magical discipline that involves altering an object's form and appearance. The subject emphasizes precision in wand movements and mental focus, with the goal of achieving complete and accurate transformations."
Thomas smiled. "Exactly. It's probably the most technical branch of magic we're learning so far."
"Definitely," Hermione agreed. "You did quite well with that matchstick, by the way. Your point was sharper than mine."
"I did say I practiced a little over the summer," Thomas said. "It wasn't great, but enough to get a feel for wand movement and pronunciation."
Just then, a voice floated over from across the room.
"Oi, look at those two," Ron Weasley said, not bothering to lower his voice. He was talking to a sandy-haired Gryffindor first year that Thomas hadn't met properly yet. "Bet they'd be happier in Ravenclaw. Maybe they'll transfigure their brains into encyclopedias."
The other boy laughed weakly. Ron chuckled to himself and kicked his feet up on the arm of a chair.
Thomas caught the flash of emotion across Hermione's face—a flicker of hurt she tried to disguise by straightening her spine.
He knew that look. He'd seen it on bright kids who were always picked last, on children who read too much and smiled too rarely. Eleven years old, first year at Hogwarts, and already being made to feel like she didn't belong.
He leaned in gently. "Want to head to the library for a bit? It's quieter there. And besides, they're just wasting time."
Hermione blinked, then nodded, tucking her journal into her bag.
As they slipped through the portrait hole, Thomas kept his voice soft. "I mean it. Let them laugh. They'll fall behind eventually. Magic's not about who talks loudest—it's about who listens, and who learns."
Hermione said nothing for a long moment, but when she glanced at him, there was a flicker of gratitude in her eyes.
---
The library was dim and magnificent—row upon row of tall, dusty shelves, crammed with every magical subject imaginable. Candlelight flickered in sconces, casting dancing reflections on the polished floor. A few students huddled at study tables, whispering quietly, while Madam Pince prowled the aisles like a hawk in a cardigan.
Thomas and Hermione settled into a quiet corner by a window.
They reviewed the basics from McGonagall's lecture, cross-referencing wand gestures and magical intent. Then they moved on to Potions.
"I looked into powdered root of asphodel," Hermione said, tracing her finger down a page. "It's a powerful base for sleeping draughts, but it must be handled carefully or it loses potency."
"Snape didn't even give us a chance to review that," Thomas muttered. "Neville looked like he was going to faint."
Hermione frowned. "He shouldn't have taken points off Gryffindor. That wasn't fair."
They kept working in comfortable silence, until Thomas mused aloud, "You know, if we could apply Transfiguration creatively… like changing the stone floor beneath someone's feet into spikes or something—"
"Spikes?" Hermione laughed, half-whispering. "What are you planning, a duel to the death?"
"I mean theoretically," Thomas said quickly, grinning. "Just… it's a versatile branch of magic, right? Think of the possibilities."
"First," Hermione said pointedly, "we need to get through the first-year curriculum."
They worked for another hour, cross-checking wand movements and jotting down corrections. As curfew approached, Madam Pince began lighting fewer lamps, and the library dimmed even more.
Thomas stood and stretched. "We should get back."
Hermione nodded, yawning softly. "Thanks for studying with me."
"Anytime."
---
The next morning brought a slight chill in the air. Thomas and Hermione joined the other Gryffindors at breakfast, buttering toast and reviewing their class schedules.
Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Neville again—still sitting at the end of the Slytherin table. But this time, someone was sitting beside him.
A pale girl with long black hair and silver-rimmed spectacles chatted with him softly. She seemed nervous, glancing around as if worried who might be listening.
Neville looked more at ease than before.
After breakfast, Thomas crossed paths with Neville near the entrance hall.
"Hey," Thomas said. "That your new friend?"
Neville gave a shy smile. "Yeah. Aurelia. Aurelia Flint. She's half-blood. Some of the other Slytherins are giving her a hard time too."
"Flint?" Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Any relation to Marcus?"
"She says he's her cousin, but they don't get along. She's not like him at all. We've both been kind of… cornered together."
"Glad you've got someone," Thomas said sincerely.
Neville nodded, as he mentioned "Herbology with Ravenclaw wasn't so bad yesterday. They were at least polite."
The morning bell rang, and they parted ways—Neville heading down toward the greenhouses while Thomas and Hermione made their way upstairs to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
---
The classroom was shadowy and long, filled with the sharp scent of garlic and a hint of dampness. The walls were adorned with odd talismans, garlic ropes, and strange, moth-eaten scrolls.
"Smells like someone tried to pickle a vampire in here," Thomas muttered under his breath.
Professor Quirrell stood at the front, hunched and timid. He wore a deep purple turban that wrapped around his head like a coiled snake, and his eyes darted nervously from student to student.
"W-w-welcome to D-defense Against the D-dark Arts," he stammered. "I—I am Professor Quirrell. And I—I will be your teacher this y-year."
Hermione whispered to Thomas, "I read somewhere he got the turban from an African prince for saving his village from an undead horde."
"Sure," Thomas said dryly. "That sounds... plausible."
Despite his stammering, Quirrell began the lesson with surprising clarity. He outlined the syllabus:
Jinxes and Their Counters: How to identify and defend against basic hexes and jinxes. The Knockback Jinx, Jelly-Legs Curse, and the Curse of the Bogies were mentioned in passing.
Dark Arts Awareness: A cautious overview of dark magic, framed with warnings rather than demonstrations.
Ethics of Magic: Quirrell spoke carefully about the dangers of misuse—of power wielded without thought or responsibility.
Thomas kept his gaze low, avoiding eye contact. Something about Quirrell made the hairs on his neck stand up. He couldn't see anything obviously, but his instincts screamed at him that it had to be Voldemort.
Still… he had to admit the man could teach.
As the class ended, Thomas gathered his books, glancing back at Quirrell.
"If I'm careful," he thought, "maybe I can learn something from him. Without letting him learn too much about me."