Hogwarts: From Little Wizard to White Lord

Harry's Occlumency practice continued.

Thanks to the dream spell, his attitude toward training had improved considerably.

His roommates, however, were far less pleased night after night, just as they were sleeping soundly, they'd be startled awake by Harry's sudden, inexplicable bursts of laughter.

Ron had finally asked, "What sort of dream were you having to make you jump and laugh like that?"

Harry hesitated, then claimed he was too tired and had forgotten.

He was tired. His days were filled with classes, his nights with Occlumency practice, and now that Quidditch season was starting, Oliver Wood had gone into full mania mode upping training to four nights a week, two of them crammed into the weekends.

The only small blessing was that since their last brush with danger, Hermione had begun letting him and Ron copy her homework. She still insisted they write it themselves, but whenever they feigned ignorance, her exasperation would eventually get the better of her, and she'd end up telling them the answers outright.

Her temper only flared when they tried to copy her paper word-for-word.

"Are you trolls? What will the professor think if he gets three identical essays?"

Which was how Harry and Ron often ended up trudging to the library in defeat, scowling at the four-foot essay assignments.

They often saw Peter there.

He was the subject of both admiration and envy among the first-years. Admiration because he had killed a troll. Envy because he never seemed to have to do homework, and none of the professors minded if he read entirely different books in class.

At least, Harry envied him for that.

He also noticed that Peter was showing up to Slytherin Quidditch practice less and less. When Harry mentioned this to Wood, the captain's stormy expression finally lightened.

Wood clapped Harry on the shoulder with such force it nearly knocked him forward.

"Come on, Harry! The match is on Saturday beat Slytherin!"

Yes Gryffindor versus Slytherin, this Saturday.

Time was strange that way. When a date was described as "mid-month" or given as a number, it still felt far away. But once someone said "this week," the urgency seemed to settle right on your shoulders.

The day before the match, Harry stayed in the dormitory, his anxiety mounting, until he convinced Ron to go outside with him for some fresh air.

The weather was biting cold, so Hermione charmed a fire into a jar for them to keep warm before hurrying off to find Peter for her own studies.

The two boys sat in the courtyard, huddled over the jar of warmth, staring out into the chilly wind.

Ron decided to share his Quidditch wisdom. "I think you've got an advantage over Peter. All the famous Seekers are small and light it makes them faster and more agile. Peter's taller and heavier than you."

Then he added, "Of course, because they're so light, Seekers tend to get knocked about by Chasers and Beaters. Last year, England's Seeker broke his arm I heard the bone "

Harry gave a sharp sniff, instantly regretting letting Ron talk.

He'd seen the Slytherin players they were all built like trolls.

For the rest of the day, he couldn't shake the image of himself being smashed off his broom and tumbling helplessly from the sky.

That night, Harry specifically asked Peter to use a stronger dream charm on him.

Peter reminded him, "Harry, the Dream Charm can only give you pleasant dreams. It doesn't help you fall asleep."

But Harry, who just wanted some psychological comfort, didn't listen.

Even though they would be rivals on the Quidditch pitch the next day, it didn't affect their friendship. Harry trusted Peter completely now. When they parted that night, he said seriously, "Do your best tomorrow. Friendship first, competition second."

"You too," Peter replied with a smile.

Both friend and rival, both competitor and ally this balance between them felt almost like something out of an adult's world. It gave Harry the illusion that he had matured, that his thinking had been elevated somehow.

Then he lay awake all night.

As it turned out, he wanted to win.

He wanted to beat Peter his friend who seemed better than him in almost every way.

That also proved the dream charm didn't help with sleeping at all. He kept his eyes open until dawn.

The next morning, Hogwarts was sunny and cold, perfect Quidditch weather.

Harry, however, was in no mood to enjoy it.

"Eat something, Harry, you look awful."

"I don't want to eat."

"At least have a bite," Hermione urged. "You'll be flying soon!"

It might have been better if she hadn't said that, because the reminder only made Harry's stomach churn harder. He looked down at the breakfast table and felt his appetite vanish entirely.

All around them, young witches and wizards were buzzing about the day's match. There was plenty to talk about the fierce rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the fact that both teams' Seekers were well-known in the school.

Everyone passing by stopped to wish Harry good luck.

Fred and George even slipped him a chocolate biscuit, but when Harry didn't want it, they handed it to Ron instead.

"Keep your strength up, Harry," Ron said as he took a big bite. "The other team will always target the Seeker. You've got to have enough stamina to fight them off."

Then he paused mid-chew. "Hmm, this is good. Where'd you get it?"

"Fred and George gave it to me."

Ron's face froze.

Two seconds later, there was a loud pop.

Ron had turned into a giant canary, sending a ripple of startled gasps through the Great Hall. Fred and George were already grinning from ear to ear in the distance.

"Perfect work, Fred."

"Yes, George. Canary Creams brought to you by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!"

The enormous canary fixed them with a beady glare, then began to shed feathers at an alarming rate. When the last one fluttered to the floor, Ron was himself again.

"You traitors!" he roared. "You actually gave Harry a prank biscuit "

"No, no, little Ronnie. We knew Harry wouldn't eat it. He was bound to pass it to you."

"Yes, Fred, perfect plan."

"Yeah!" The twins high-fived.

It was probably wrong to think it, but watching Ron get pranked by his brothers cheered Harry up considerably.

Before heading out to the pitch, he managed to drink a bowl of pumpkin juice and eat a slice of pie.

In the team locker room, dressed in his red Quidditch robes, Harry glanced back and saw Ron leaning in the doorway, looking at him enviously. It was a strange expression.

"Uh, Ron… where's Hermione?"

"She went to find Peter. Humph. She's a traitor too!"

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin locker room…

The Slytherin robes were deep green, trimmed with silver, embroidered with sleek silver serpents.

Aside from the color, which Peter didn't care for, the cut was impressive.

Hermione stood before him, clutching a book and raising her fist in encouragement, her eyes bright. "Do your best, Peter!"

"Thanks, Hermione."

Peter ruffled her hair lightly, and she turned and hurried off, cheeks flushed pink.

When he looked back, the rest of the team were suddenly very interested in anything but him, pretending not to have seen a thing.

"What are you all standing around for? Get ready to go on!"

"Yes!"

...

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