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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 19: A Place for Secrets
Harry walked through the corridors in a daze, McGonagall's sharp footsteps echoing ahead of him.
His mind was still trapped in the Headmaster's office, replaying every word, every glance, every chill that had crawled down his spine.
"One does not hate an insect. One acknowledges its existence and moves on."
He had known Dumbledore was dangerous. Everything he had learned so far had pointed to a man who ruled through fear and control. But hearing those words spoken so casually, as if discussing the weather, had left him with a bad taste in his mouth.
It was worse than hatred. Hatred at least implied recognition.
Dumbledore did not hate Muggles. He simply did not see them as people.
'And he sees me as a tool,' Harry thought. 'Something he can use and discard, like how he did with my parents.'
"Mr. Potter." McGonagall had stopped outside a classroom door on the fourth floor. "We have arrived."
Harry blinked, pulling himself back to the present. The door in front of him was plain oak, with a small brass plaque that read: Charms – Professor F. Flitwick.
"Thank you, Professor," Harry said.
McGonagall nodded. "See that you pay attention. Flitwick does not tolerate distractions." She turned and strode away, her heels clicking on the stone.
Harry took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The Charms classroom was smaller than the Transfiguration hall, but no less intimidating.
Rows of wooden desks faced a raised dais at the front, where a tiny wizard stood on a stack of books to reach the lectern.
Professor Flitwick was barely three feet tall, with a shock of silver hair and a face that was more sharp than kind. His eyes were small and dark, and they swept over the students with the precision of a hawk surveying a field.
The room was already full. Ravenclaw and Slytherin first-years sat in rigid silence, their wands laid out before them.
"Ah," Flitwick said, his voice sounded high-pitched, and yet, there was a clear, stern tone when he spoke. "Mr. Potter. We were beginning to wonder if you had decided to skip your first lesson."
"No, Professor," Harry said. "I had a meeting with the Headmaster. Professor McGonagall escorted me. She said she would—"
"Yes, yes." Flitwick waved a small hand. "I have been made aware of your official visit to the Headmaster. Very well, Mister Potter. We were about to start, so go ahead and take your seat."
Harry scanned the room. Near the middle, Draco was waving discreetly, pointing to an empty chair beside him. Pansy sat on Draco's other side, and Crabbe was behind them, his thick fingers already wrapped around his wand.
Relief flooded through Harry when he realized that they had saved him a seat.
He slid into the chair next to Draco, setting his bag on the floor. "Thanks," he whispered.
"Are you alright?" Draco whispered back, his grey eyes filled with concern. "You look pale."
"I'll tell you later," Harry murmured.
Flitwick cleared his throat, producing a surprisingly loud sound for such a small man.
"As I was saying before...welcome to Charms," he said, hopping down from his stack of books and walking along the rows of desks. "I am Professor Flitwick. I have been teaching Charms at Hogwarts for longer than most of your parents have been alive. In this classroom, you will learn the art of enchantment, of levitation, of summoning and banishing objects. You will learn that the difference between a successful spell and a disaster is often the width of a fingernail."
He stopped beside a Slytherin girl who was fidgeting with her quill. She froze under his gaze.
"Precision," Flitwick said, his voice sharp. "That is the most important word in this classroom. Charms are not like other branches of magic, where brute force can sometimes compensate for poor technique. A Charm cast with sloppy wand work or imprecise intention will fail...or worse, it will backfire. I have seen students set their own robes on fire. I have seen eyebrows singed off. I have seen a perfectly innocent feather become a homicidal missile." He paused. "I do not tolerate carelessness. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Professor," the class chorused.
"Good." Flitwick's expression softened, but only slightly. "Then let us begin."
The lesson introduced the basics, including wand movements, incantation enunciation, and the importance of maintaining a clear mental image.
Flitwick lectured with brisk efficiency, demonstrating a simple Lumos charm that made his wand tip glow like a star.
Harry took notes automatically, his quill scratching across the parchment. But his mind was elsewhere.
He could not help but be concerned about Dumbledore's intentions towards him and what he could do against someone like that.
He thought of the silver instrument on the desk, recording every word. He thought of the way Dumbledore's eyes kept drifting to his scar.
'What if he can see through it? What if he can read my thoughts?' This idea terrified him, which is why he did his best to avoid making eye contact without making it seem too obvious.
In the books, Albus Dumbledore had been one of the most skilled Legilimens in the world...a wizard who could penetrate minds and read memories. If that was true in this world, then Harry was in grave danger.
'I need occlumency,' he understood that much. 'I need to learn how to shield my mind.'
But where could he learn such a thing? The grimoire might have that knowledge, but it would not open until he was ready. The library might hold books on the subject, but they would almost certainly be in the Restricted Section...or worse, removed entirely.
An authoritarian government attempting to control its citizens would not want to make it easy for people to learn how to protect their minds and hide their secrets.
'One step at a time,' He told himself. First, I need a safe place to store my thoughts. Somewhere Dumbledore cannot reach.'
He thought of the plain Muggle diary Petunia had given him before he left; a small, leather-bound book with blank pages. He had tucked it into the bottom of his trunk, not knowing what to do with it.
Now he knew.
He would write everything down. Every thought, suspicion, fear, and secret that he discovered. And then he would hide it where no one could find it.
'And the book...I almost forgot about it,' Harry thought, his hand drifting to his bag, where the "Treatise on Magical Cores" rested, wrapped in a spare robe.
He had not dared to leave it in his luggage for fear that someone would find it.
'I need to find a way to translate the text, but I cannot let anyone see it.'
Something told him that the knowledge inside that ancient tome was not exactly allowed in this society.
He thought about the chained books in Flourish & Blotts, the Restricted Section of the library, and the way Dumbledore controlled the information that people had access to. It all pointed to a regime that feared certain knowledge.
Perhaps it had been an oversight that he even found it in the first place, as no one seemed to check those old books at the shop.
'If they find out I have this book…I could get into serious trouble.'
He glanced at Draco, who was focused on the professor's demonstration.
Then at Pansy, who was taking meticulous notes, and finally at Crabbe, who was staring at his wand as if it might bite him.
He considered asking them for help. Draco might know someone who could translate Old English. Pansy seems very clever, and Crabbe is always reading something; he might know what books to use and where to find them.
But then he shook his head. The fewer people who knew about this, the safer they would be. Dumbledore had eyes everywhere, informants among the students, the ghosts, and even the portraits.
If anyone was caught helping him hide forbidden knowledge, they could lose all of their credit points and be sent to re-education, or simply arrested.
He could not put them in such danger after how well they have treated him.
'I will have to do this alone,' Harry decided.
The rest of the lesson passed in a blur of theory and simple exercises.
Flitwick had them practice the Lumos charm without casting. They just performed the wand movement and the incantation, and then repeated it until their wrists ached.
"Precision," Flitwick spoke while walking between the desks. "The wand must move exactly so. The tongue must shape the words exactly so. Any deviation, and the light will not come."
By the end of the double period, Harry's arm was sore, and his throat was dry. But he had memorised the movement, the incantation, the feeling of magic gathering at his fingertips.
"Homework," Flitwick announced, "is twelve inches of parchment on the history of the Lumos charm, including its invention by the wizard Aldwyn the Luminous in the fourteenth century, and it is due next Monday. You are dismissed."
The students packed their belongings with grateful sighs. Harry stuffed his notebook into his bag, careful to keep the ancient book hidden at the bottom.
"Harry," Draco said, falling into step beside him. "What happened with the Headmaster?. You look almost as pale as the ghosts."
"I...," Harry stopped. "I'll tell you in the common room. Not here."
Draco nodded, understanding.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
"You want to know about the war?" Draco asked.
After dinner, the boys had retreated to their bedroom, and only then had Harry revealed some of the things he spoke about with the Headmaster.
About how his parents were supposed to be heroes who died during a war that started before he was born, and about the mysterious person who killed them.
However, Harry knew nothing about this war. And none of the books he bought in Diagon Alley spoke of it.
He had already been planning on trying to find some information at the library, but while speaking with Draco and Crabbe, he thought about just asking them.
Even if they are the same age as him, since they grew up in this world, they would surely know something.
"That is a grim topic, Harry." Vincent Crabbe said while lying in his bed with a book about magical cuisine in his hands.
"It is normal to be curious about it..." Draco said.
"If you dont want to talk about it, it's fine...I'm sure there are some books at the library that will cover it in detail." Harry didn't want to make them uncomfortable.
"No, it's okay. I will tell you what I know." Draco told him. "People call it the Great Wizard war, and it started nearly twenty years ago..."
The boy went on to speak about a rebellion that was carried out under the leadership of a powerful wizard whose name has been removed from records, and it was only known as "The Dark Lord."
A rebel who tried to sow chaos and unrest in their society...attempting to gain control for himself.
After many years of battles and countless deaths, Albus Dumbledore killed the Dark Lord in an epic magical duel and brought peace to their world again.
Or so the storybooks say, according to Draco.
But Harry had the feeling that something very different had happened back then. Something that the Headmaster didn't want people to know.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
That night, after the lights had dimmed and the other boys had fallen asleep, Harry lay in his four-poster bed, listening to the soft sounds of the lake pressing against the window.
Harry reached under his mattress and pulled out the diary.
He had bought a simple ball pen with him. This was not allowed for homework, but it was perfect for writing while lying in bed without risking spilling ink everywhere.
He opened the diary to the first page and began writing.
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