For the next two months, Hardwin enjoyed the silence that came with being the biggest outcast in the school—next to no one ever spoke directly to him, and Professor McGonagall tried her best to pretend he didn't even exist unless he was the only person with a hand raised to answer her questions—yet he still felt more at home in the ancient castle than he ever had back in Surrey.
Over time, Hardwin had come to be a frequent haunter of the library. Madam Pince appeared to like him—how could she not when he was polite, quiet, treated her domain respectfully, and always went to her with questions about more advanced books on whatever subject had caught his interest. While several students used the library often, almost none of them thought to use the resource that was the librarian and her vast knowledge of everything there.
To distinguish himself from any other Potter, Hardwin had used his abilities to turn his hair a dark silver, the same shade as the silver on Slytherin's crest. There was no resemblance to the boy he had once been, and no one even knew how he did it. Some assumed he had asked an older student for glamour charms, others (mostly muggle-raised) assumed he had dyed it.
It was amusing that no one assumed he could be a metamorphmagus—which Hardwin now knew his ability was called after several hours of searching through Transfiguration books in the library.
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Quirrell had started paying more attention to Hardwin than the other students—not that anyone noticed. Every class became more and more like a one-on-one lesson between him and the stuttering man, and Professor Quirrell gave a pleased smile every time Hardwin answered a question correctly. The books the Defense teacher had recommended were among the Hardwin's favorites, and he had already utilized some of the nastier hexes and jinxes on Potter and the Weasel when they tried tripping him down the stairs.
After their lesson on Halloween, the Defense teacher held him back.
"H-Hardwin," Professor Quirrell smiled. "I-I have a r-request of y-y-you."
"Yes, sir?"
"I w-was w-w-wondering if y-you w-would like to have s-some extra l-lessons."
Hardwin couldn't believe what he was hearing. Extra lessons in his second-favorite class (not that he would ever say such a thing in Professor Quirrell's presence) sounded like a dream come true.
"Y-You are a-an ex-ceptional st-student," Professor Quirrell praised, and Hardwin stood a little taller. "I-I b-believe that y-you have many h-hidden t-talents."
"I would love that, sir," Hardwin said sincerely.
Professor Quirrell grinned.
Since Defense Against the Dark Arts was Hardwin's last class of the day, the two of them spent the next hour coming up with a schedule that worked for the both of them. They decided to meet every Sunday morning, but also a second day during the week that was dependent on Professor Quirrell's schedule.
With the thought of more advanced spells in mind, Hardwin had a small bounce in his step for the rest of the day, very much anticipating everything he could learn from the brilliant master of the Dark Arts.
While Hardwin didn't particularly want to attend the Halloween feast, he had grown used to having three meals a day and forced himself to go. The Great Hall had been decorated for the occasion—a thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling, and a thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the pumpkins flicker.
Hardwin ate alone, as had become his usual, and was just helping himself to a tasty-looking baked potato when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Headmaster Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know."
He sank to the floor, unconscious.
The Great Hall exploded with noise. Hardwin ignored it all and kept eating while the Headmaster fired several purple firecrackers from his wand to bring silence.
"Prefects," Dumbledore boomed, "lead your Houses back to your dormitories immediately!"
Hardwin gave the headmaster an incredulous look — had Dumbledore intentionally forgotten that the Slytherin dormitories were in the dungeons, where the troll supposedly was, or was he simply too old to be in charge of children and their safety anymore?
In either case, Hardwin got to his feet and followed Prefect Farley and the other Slytherins back down to their common room. It wasn't long before food magically appeared and they were all eating, most of them discussing how a troll could possibly have gotten through the school's wards.
Hardwin didn't particularly care about that—he just wished he could watch the professors take care of the troll. He had read a lot about the creatures in a book Professor Quirrell had recommended, and they were notoriously stupid. All it took to defeat one was a very hard hit to the head to knock them out — their skin was extremely resistant to magic, which made trying to use jinxes, hexes, and curses against them completely pointless.
While everyone else discussed the troll, Hardwin wondered if anyone else had noticed that Professor Quirrell stutter had mysteriously vanished when he was warning Dumbledore.
Three days later, Hardwin arrived at Professor Quirrell's office at exactly eight-thirty in the morning.
"W-Welcome, H-Hardwin," Professor Quirrell greeted.
"Hello, Professor," Hardwin replied. "That's a nice fake-stutter you have."
The teacher's demeanor changed immediately, his hand inching towards his wand. "Indeed?"
Hardwin almost rolled his eyes but didn't think that would go over too well. "I haven't told anyone—nor do I think I will," he assured. "I enjoy your class too much, and I'm curious to see what you have planned for our lessons."
Professor Quirrell relaxed immediately and said, "Very astute of you."
Hardwin smiled.
"I suppose we'll have to start with Occlumency," Professor Quirrell murmured. "I can't have someone finding out what you know…"
"Occlumency, sir?"
"A Mind Art," Professor Quirrell clarified. "Occlumency is used to defend the oneself against external penetration of the mind, also known as Legilimency. It also helps for clearing your thoughts and controlling emotions, which can be useful in duelling and wordless casting."
Hardwin couldn't help but be excited at the thought of learning how to duel.
Professor Quirrell smirked. "Yes, I suppose we will start with that." He flicked his wand and his desk moved against the wall, but the chairs remained. "Take a seat, Hardwin," he instructed, "but keep your wand out."
When Hardwin had done as asked, he continued, "I will be using Legilimency on you. Your task is to force me out of your mind using any means necessary—short of killing me, that is. We will start off slowly to help you adjust to the feeling of someone probing your thoughts, then increase the power behind each attack as you progress. Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir," Hardwin said confidently.
Professor Quirrell grinned—a somewhat sinister look, his face shadowed in the light of the rising sun—and aimed his wand at Hardwin's face. "Legilimens!"
The further into November they got, the colder the weather became. Professor Quirrell's lessons in Occlumency were excellent, although Hardwin was surprised at how angry his teacher was getting on his behalf from the memories he saw. At first, Hardwin had been nervous about revealing his past to someone he barely knew, but then he had decided that, in the end, the benefits of knowing the Mind Art far outweighed losing a few secrets to the only teacher who was genuinely trying to help him.
The morning of the first Quidditch match of the season dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of breakfast and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking forward to a good match.
Hardwin couldn't say he cared about the sport, after everything he had heard over the last two months, but he would go anyway to support his House in their match against Gryffindor.
It was as if the entire school had filled the stands surrounding the Quidditch pitch by eleven o'clock. Hardwin saw a group of first year Gryffindors with a large banner made from what was possibly a ruined bedsheet that said Potter for President with a large lion underneath. Someone had charmed the paint to flash different colours—Hardwin guessed it was Potter's little groupies, Weasley, Longbottom, and Granger.
The rumours around the school said that Granger had joined their little crew of mischief-makers after they saved her from the troll, despite the fact that it had been because of them that she was hiding in that bathroom in the first place. Hardwin didn't know if she was clueless, desperate, or seeking a spotlight of her own, but he thought Granger could do much better than the brainless lions who only ever tempered their behavior around Professors McGonagall and Snape but did whatever they wanted the rest of the time.
Eventually the two teams came out onto the field—seven in robes of scarlet and gold, the other seven in emerald and silver. Madam Hooch's voice rang clearly over the stadium when she said, "Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you," but it was obvious she was looking at Slytherin's captain, Marcus Flint, a sixth year. "Mount your brooms, please."
Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle, fifteen brooms rose up high into the air, and the game began.
As Hardwin watched, he wondered what dunderhead allowed Lee Jordan—a third year from Gryffindor—to commentate the match. He was clearly biased towards his own House and, while the Slytherin players weren't exactly keeping the game clean, there was no need for childish insults and name-calling. It was annoying how often he tried to flirt with the three girls who were Gryffindor's Chasers.
"Slytherin in possession," Jordan was saying, "Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the—wait a moment—was that the Snitch?"
Hardwin saw a flash of gold blur past Adrian Pucey's left ear. Like an idiot, Pucey dropped the Quaffle to follow it with his eyes. Slytherin was just lucky that the rest of the players on the field did the same, except for the two Seekers.
Just before Potter could get it, there was a large WHAM! as Flint blocked him, spinning his broom off course.
"Foul!" the Gryffindors roared.
Madam Hooch spoke angrily with Flint before awarding a free shot for Gryffindor.
The game continued, and Hardwin continued ignoring it for the most part, instead focusing on how each individual player moved and acted. He found observing the way the players were positioned and thinking to be far more interesting than the game itself — like the way the Weasley twins were moving so they could pelt Bludgers at anyone, or how the Slytherin Chasers worked as a unit instead of spreading out like the Gryffindors did, even how the Seekers had different styles with Pucey sweeping low and Potter circling high.
Then people started screaming and pointing up—Potter's broom was jerking all over the place very far above the rest of the players. It started to roll over and over, with Potter barely holding on. Then a collective gasp rang out as the broom gave a wild jerk, swinging Potter off. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.
Hardwin's eyes immediately sought out the staff in the crowd. He borrowed a pair of binoculars from a nearby student and focused on them.
In the middle of the staff, Professors Snape and Quirrell were both muttering nonstop, their eyesight locked onto Potter's broom. Knowing that they were both rather talented with the Dark Arts, Hardwin couldn't say for certain which one was jinxing Potter's broom and which one was trying to save him. While he didn't particularly care about Potter, this was definitely to remember for a later date.
As he was watching, Hardwin saw movement and Professor Quirrell was knocked headfirst into the row below him. A figure with bushy brown hair caught his sight, and then Professor Snape's robes were suddenly lit with bright blue flames.
What are you doing, Granger? Hardwin wondered.
Potter's broom relaxed once Professor Quirrell was knocked over, which answered that question, yet Granger had targeted Professor Snape. She had clearly seen their muttering, like Hardwin, but had acted before checking to see which one was truly jinxing the broom, which was extremely foolish. If it had been the other way around, then she would have condemned Potter to death.
But what else could one expect from a Gryffindor?
The game ended when Potter burped up the Snitch less than a minute later, Gryffindor winning one hundred and seventy points to sixty.
"He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it," Flint was still howling twenty minutes later, but it made no difference. No rules had been broken, and the Gryffindors were still cheering.
As Hardwin walked back to the castle, he wondered why Professor Quirrell had been trying to kill the Boy Who Lived.
Hardwin felt that he was missing some crucial information, and he desperately wanted to know whatever it was.
He was still pondering the issue several hours later as he walked through the school on his way back from the library, where he had been finishing an essay for History of Magic. Hardwin couldn't think of any valid reasons as to why Professor Quirrell, a graduate of Ravenclaw House, would attack someone so openly with hundreds of observers present—it was so unintelligent that it didn't make any sense.
Hardwin could understand attacking the Boy Who Lived to make a political statement, but that didn't answer the question of why it was so foolishly public—the only rational reason he could think of was that there would be so many people in attendance that it would be more difficult to ascertain who had been done it, but that had failed because both he and Granger had spotted Professor Quirrell, and now Professor Snape was more likely to keep a closer eye on him.
That brought Hardwin to his next question: Why had Professor Snape saved Potter, a student whom he seemed to despise on principle but had come to utterly loathe over the last two months?
Hardwin could understand Professor Snape doing it as part of his teacher's duty to protect each and every student, but the frantic look that had been present in his eyes indicated that it was something else entirely. Perhaps Dumbledore had requested his staff keep a close eye on their local celebrity?
Whatever the case was, Hardwin was more concerned with Professor Quirrell's attempted murder of a boy his age for an as-of-now unknown reason.
Looking around, Hardwin realized he was in a part of the school he had never been to before. There was a nearby door, however, so he tried to open it.
It was locked.
Hardwin pulled out his wand and tapped the handle. "Alohomora."
The lock clicked and the door swung open. Hardwin walked inside the room on the other side, and promptly froze at the sight before him. He suddenly knew where he was, and now he knew why it had been declared off limits to all those who did not wish to die a painful death at the start-of-term feast.
Towering over him was a monster with three heads, each one with a drooling mouth and sabre-sized, yellowish fangs. All six of its mad eyes were focused hungrily on Hardwin, its three noses twitching as it sniffed, taking in the scent of the human meal that had willingly wandered into its clutches. The whole room seemed to tremble when it growled.
Hardwin felt for the doorknob behind him and fell backward through the entrance just as the monster lunged at him. He slammed the door shut in the face of the middle head right before it could snatch him up. Hardwin turned heel and tore through the castle, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the three-headed dog as possible. Its barks echoed through the school as he ran, and Hardwin had no doubts that someone would investigate soon.
It was a stroke of sheer luck that allowed Hardwin to make it back to the dungeons without being spotted by a single person. The Slytherins all ignored the panting boy—like usual, but this time he wasn't in the mood to think negatively of it—as he made his way through the common room to the boys' dormitory. He entered his bedroom and collapsed, his back against the door and his legs tucked up beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs.
"What the hell were they thinking, bringing something like that into a school?" Hardwin asked aloud even though he was alone. "What purpose could they possibly have for something so stupid?"
Using what basic knowledge he possessed of Occlumency, Hardwin was able to slow his breathing and clear his thoughts after several minutes of running through his exercises.
Now that he was able to actually think, Hardwin thought over what had just happened and frowned when he realized something — that dog had been standing above a trapdoor. That could only mean that it was guarding an unknown object of some kind. But what could be so important that it would be brought here for protection instead of somewhere better suited, like Gringotts?
Wait a moment… Gringotts had been robbed during the summer—Hardwin's eleventh birthday, to be precise—he had read the article about it using an old copy of the Daily Prophet that one of the other Slytherins had left in the common room. Was it possible that the two circumstances were related to one another? Was the three-headed dog guarding whatever the thief had attempted to steal? And if so, why would Dumbledore bring it to a school full of children, who were supposed to be under his protection instead of hiding it somewhere unknown that only he knew about? What was the purpose of bringing it here, unless he was trying to bait the thief?
It was widely known that Dumbledore worked closely with the Minister of Magic's Office, so it was far from an assumptive leap to theorize that this was all a plan with law enforcement.
Hardwin had one question that took prominence above all others, though: "What could be important enough for them to risk the lives of students in an attempt to catch the thief?"