Chapter Six: Allies and Shadows

The morning following the Sorting Feast dawned crisp and golden, sunlight bathing the towers of Hogwarts in a warm glow that masked the chill in the late-summer air. The castle stirred slowly to life, its stone corridors murmuring with the shuffle of slippers and the muted calls of portraits greeting each other. The scent of toast and cinnamon drifted from the kitchens, coaxing even the sleepiest first-years from their beds.

In the Gryffindor first-year boys' dormitory, Harry sat at the edge of his bed, already dressed in his uniform, the crimson and gold of his tie stark against the starched white of his shirt. Around him, the other boys stirred: Neville muttering in his sleep, Seamus blinking blearily as he pulled on a sock, and Dean humming a Muggle tune under his breath. Ron, ever awkward with early mornings, rolled over and groaned, burying his face in his pillow.

Hermione met Harry in the common room. She looked composed, every strand of her hair in place, though her eyes betrayed the hours she'd spent rereading their revised class schedules and comparing them to the ones she remembered.

"Charms first, then Transfiguration," she recited as they descended the staircase. "Flitwick followed by McGonagall. It's actually ideal for our purposes. Flitwick teaches with precision—if we can establish a foundation with him early, we'll have more room for advanced spells later."

Harry nodded, the familiar rhythm of Hermione's logic grounding him. "And McGonagall is one of the few professors I trust implicitly. If anything seems off about us, she'll notice. We need to tread carefully."

They reached the Great Hall, where golden morning light poured through tall windows, painting the floor with fractured bars of amber. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the clear sky outside. Harry's gaze flicked to the staff table where Dumbledore sat, already engaged in quiet conversation with Professor Sinistra. His manner seemed casual, but Harry didn't miss the occasional glance cast their way.

They slid into seats at the Gryffindor table just as Ron arrived, his tie askew and hair even more disheveled than usual. He grinned sleepily. "Morning, Harry. Hermione. Blimey, I'm starving. Think the sausages are enchanted to taste better than home?"

Harry chuckled. There was comfort in Ron's presence, even if it stirred complicated emotions. In this version of time, their friendship was only just forming—still authentic, still unscarred. Yet Harry couldn't help but brace for the betrayal that lay months ahead.

Breakfast passed in a blur of porridge and pumpkin juice, and soon the first-years made their way to Charms. Professor Flitwick's classroom was just as they remembered it: sunlit and dust-laced, with stacked books and delicate instruments crowding the shelves. Flitwick himself beamed as he introduced the subject, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

"Charms is the essence of magic refined—its utility and elegance combined. We will not just teach you spells, but how to understand them, how to feel the magic and give it direction."

The lesson began with the Levitation Charm, and Hermione quickly fell into her element. She executed the incantation with flawless pronunciation and textbook-perfect wand movement, her feather lifting cleanly into the air. Harry followed, slightly more relaxed in his technique, but just as effective. Flitwick clapped his hands with delight.

Ron, in contrast, sent his feather spinning into Neville's lap.

Between classes, Harry and Hermione whispered in quiet corners about what lay ahead. They avoided altering events unnecessarily, but when Harry noticed a first-year girl struggling with a misfiring wand, he leaned in with a quiet correction, saving her a trip to the Hospital Wing.

Transfiguration proved more difficult to restrain themselves in. Professor McGonagall was as commanding and precise as ever, and Harry felt a thrill at being in her presence again. When she transformed her desk into a pig and back with a flick of her wand, most of the class gasped.

But Harry and Hermione didn't. Not this time.

Later, as they made their way through the castle's winding passages, Harry lowered his voice. "I want to request an audience with the goblins—privately. It's been on my mind since Gringotts."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "That could raise suspicion. You're still technically a minor, and your vaults are under the control of your magical guardian—Dumbledore."

"I know. But there was something off about the way they reacted when I asked about Mum. Like there's something they aren't telling me unless I ask the right question. We need to understand what they know."

Hermione nodded slowly. "Then we'll need a cover. We'll frame it as academic interest—ancient magical lineages, inheritance laws. I'll prepare some materials."

As the afternoon faded and dinner was served, Harry felt the walls of Hogwarts beginning to close around them, not in menace but in ritual. There was a rhythm to the school—classes, meals, study, sleep—and within it lay the illusion of safety.

But that night, as they sat in the common room beneath the flickering firelight, Hermione whispered, "It's begun. This is the first day of the rest of the war."

Harry nodded, staring into the hearth. "And we have to win it before it begins."