Chapter 2: To Days to Come

Destiny, change, fate, fortune -they're all just ways of claiming yoursuccesses without claiming your failures.

Anon

Albus awoke the morning after the Sorting Ceremony to a day that was crisp and clear, with a small breeze blowing in through the open tower window that carried with it just a hint of the winter to come in a few months time.

He yawned and rolled over, not quite willing just yet to surrender the squashy warmth of his bed for anything less than a total emergency. His roommates were slowly waking as well. He could hear a few of them stumbling about, heading for the showers.

But the drive to be great is just as strong in you as it was in your father - greater, perhaps, desperate to match his deeds...

Albus sighed and sat up, recalling the confusing words of the Sorting Hat. It had said a lot, that old hat, but those words rang most strongly in Albus's head. His father had cast a very, very long shadow, and Albus just knew that everybody was expecting his children to do great things.

He felt a spike of resentment towards his father for that, but immediately felt sorry for it. His dad hadn't asked to be the hero of the wizarding world, hadn't wanted any of the adventures forced upon him. But he'd had the chance to be great, a destiny paved at his feet, and he'd won through to the end.

All Albus could hope to do this year was play reserve at Quidditch, and even that was a long shot...

He rolled out of bed and into the shower, and after that dressed for the first time in his brand-new dark Hogwarts robes with the Gryffindor emblem roaring fiercely on his chest.

“My parents are muggles,” a young boy with dark curly hair was saying to a taller lad, as Albus stepped back into the room. “Had no idea what to expect when we went to Diagon Alley. And Hogwarts! If they could see this place! Are there any other surprises I should know about before I step foot out there today?”

“Only about a million,” Albus smiled, walking over. “I'm Albus Potter.”

“Frank Jackson,” the muggle-born boy said, offering his hand. “I've heard a bit about you, of course.”

Albus shrugged. “You mean you've heard about my dad.”

“Harry Potter,” the tall boy said, smiling. “I'm Gary Thomas. My dad knew your dad when they came here, helped him fight in the Battle and everything.”

Albus thought about that for a moment. “Your dad's Dean Thomas. I've met him a few times, at Quidditch.”

“Is it true your dad killed an evil wizard?” Frank Jackson whispered, his eyes wide.

“Is it ever!” Gary exclaimed. “The most evil wizard who ever lived. The only reason muggle-borns are still around is because of Al's dad here.”

Albus was feeling a mite embarrassed. He had never really had to discuss his father like this before. He couldn't also help but feel a streak of fierce pride.

“How'd you mean?” Frank asked. “Why wouldn't I be around?”

Albus shook his head. “That's a very long and complicated question there, Frank. There are magical folk who think that the purity of blood actually means something, that if your parents aren't magical, and their parents aren't magical, and their parents aren't magical, and their parents and their goldfish aren't magical, then you aren't worthy enough to use magic, that you are, in fact, stealing it from the purebloods.”

“Absolute tosh, of course,” Gary said, although there was a hard edge to his voice. The prejudice angered him as much as it did Albus.

“Voldemort-” Albus continued, “-that's the wizard my dad did in twenty years ago, when he was at school here. He believed in the purity of blood, and went about as bad as you can go to see the magical world “purged” of people with muggle parents, or even one muggle parent - half-bloods.”

“But that's just silly,” Frank said.

Albus's face was grim. He had grown up on stories of the Dark Wars, of the cost of one silly idea. “Voldemort was crazy, Frank, but he had the power to back up his claims. He killed and ordered the deaths of hundreds of people, and tried to kill my dad more than once.”

Frank swallowed, looking a little uneasy. “Are there people still like that? That will hate me because of my mum and dad?”

Albus shrugged. “A lot's changed, according to mum, but there are some who cling to the old ways. They're just not as open about it as they were when Voldemort was around.”

“Slytherins,” Gary scowled. 'If you're looking for pureblooded bigots, start there.”

“Not necessarily,” Albus sighed. “Like I said, it's complicated, Frank.”

“I'll say...”

“Anyway, good to meet you both,” said Albus. “You want to head down to breakfast? We're supposed to get our timetables from Professor Longbottom.”

That was a good idea embraced by all three boys, and making sure they had their wands and their bags stuffed with books and fresh parchment, ink and quill and anything that could possibly be needed for their first day, they set off down through the castle for the first time alone, heading for the Great Hall.

Rose and Hannah were already seated at the Gryffindor table, as were most of the students at all house tables. Breakfast was in full swing, and slipping into a seat next to Hannah, Albus quickly grabbed some toast and jam and filled his goblet with pumpkin juice.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Rose said from across the table. “We thought you boys would sleep right through your first day.”

Albus grinned. “It's tough getting up before nine, especially after a summer of getting up after twelve.”

Frank nodded in agreement of that. “Pretty exciting though, isn't it? I haven't managed to do any magic with my wand yet. Can't wait to get started.”

“Professor Longbottom handed out timetables,” Rose said. “I've got yours here. We've got Transfiguration followed by Charms and then Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Albus accepted the square of card and glanced up and down at his course list for the first week. He had Potions tomorrow, with Professor Slughorn and the Slytherins, History of Magic as well. Tomorrow afternoon was also flying practice, which he was definitely looking forward to.

“Transfiguration is turning something into something else, isn't it?” Frank asked. His brow was deeply furrowed, as if he were trying to absorb and memorize everything on his timetable then and there.

“Basically, no,” a new voice said from behind Frank.

“Hiya, Marcus,” Albus greeted his brother's friend. “Where's James?”

“Boo!”

Albus yelped and jumped in his seat as a pair of hands clapped him on his shoulders. He looked back and scowled at his older brother, who ruffled his hair and leaned over to snatch a piece of toast.

“Transfiguration,” Marcus continued, “can not be so easily simplified. Modifying the properties of one object to another is but a small part of the field, the least complex. Transfiguration involves conjuring objects out of thin air - minding Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, of course - switching spells, vanishing spells.” Marcus's eyes were alight with intelligence, sparkling with the thrill of explanation. “And, of course, self-transfiguration. Becoming an animagus or modifying your body.”

James clapped slowly. “Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses to the Hogwarts' Walking Library himself, Mr Marcus Douglas.”

Marcus sighed. “And on that note, we better set off for Charms, Potter. We're on the eighth floor in the east tower.”

James frowned and whipped out his timetable. “Aw, man,” he said. “We have to walk half a mile first thing on a Monday morning. Merlin save me!”

Merlin, Albus thought, thinking of his owl and not the wizard, I have to write mum and dad today.

“How do we get to Transfiguration?” Frank asked as James and Marcus set off for the east tower.

Gary Thomas checked his watch. “We've got about fifteen minutes to find out before class starts.”

“There's a map on the back of your timetable,” Hannah said. “We're three floors up. Should set off now though, just in case the staircases move away from that part of the castle.”

And so together they set off, and Albus realised that he was already fast making friends. Rose he knew well, and Hannah he had met a few times, but Frank and Gary were just as eager as he was to fit in at Hogwarts. He wondered briefly if these people were going to be his friends for the next seven years of school, and didn't think he would mind that in the least.

On their way up through the castle Albus and the others got swept along in the crowds of students from all years heading to their first lessons of the term. By the time they reached the Transfiguration rooms they were only just on time, two minutes to spare. There was already a crowd of first-years milling about the closed double doors. The emblems on their robes were Gryffindor-red and Ravenclaw-blue.

“Do you know any Transfiguration, Al?” Frank whispered. He was passing his wand nervously from hand to hand. “I don't know any of this... what if I can't do it?” His last words came out as a rough whisper.

“Relax,” Albus replied. “I've seen it done before - my dad can do some pretty impressive things with his wand - but doing it myself, never. We're all beginners.”

Suddenly the double doors swung open, and the first-years crammed through the doorway and into a spacious room lined with solid wooden desks and chairs. Up at the head of the room, before a heavy, dusty chalkboard stood Headmistress McGonagall.

“Take a seat, please,” she said.

Albus and Frank were forced forward through the crowd and ended up at a desk nearer the front of the room. A lot of the class, probably seeing the Headmistress as rather intimidating, had filled up the desks from the back forward. Rose and Hannah were sitting together behind Albus, and Gary had ended up next to a Ravenclaw boy he seemed to know. Albus recognised him from the Sorting, but couldn't recall his name. Jim? Tim? Something Brookes. 

“Welcome to your first Transfiguration lesson,” Headmistress McGonagall began. “My name is Professor McGonagall and I will be your instructor for your first year. My position as Headmistress unfortunately restricts me from a heavier student-load in the higher years, but I still have time to personally get to know each and every new student coming to Hogwarts.”

Her stern expression softened into something akin to happiness as she surveyed the group.

“From your second year and right up and through any NEWT studies you may pursue, your instructor will be Professor Jauncey, whom I'm sure you'll meet sometime during this year.”

And then the kindness vanished, replaced by the strict and clever look Albus had seen her wear most of the times he had seen her.

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.”

There were several audible gulps around the room, but they were fast replaced by awed gasps as Professor McGonagall flourished her wand and changed her desk into a gaggle of geese and back again, to tremendous applause from the first-years.

“That will be quite enough, thank you. It will be many years before you will be able to manage split-transfiguration.” Her Scottish accent was quick and severe and brooked no argument.

Albus imagined it would be quite hard to transfigure a single inanimate object into a single animate one, let alone five geese from a single object. He whistled low under his breath. Although he could see how it was done - split the source five ways and work six strands of atomised magic, five for the geese and one for the stabilised continuation, in to the main body of the subject and fuse the animal characteristics of the goose-

I have nothing more to say to you, Potter, he said quietly. You have irked me too often, for too long. AVADA KEDAVRA!

Albus winced as a sharp and clear bolt of pain rippled across his forehead, battering through his skull. He saw... something, something with crimson eyes, and then it was gone. It was so fast and so fierce that he almost cried out, slipping down in his chair.

If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy....

It hurt - hurt was too soft a word - the pain in his forehead was blinding. Albus leant over in his chair, his stomach turning on him, and he threw up his hastily-eaten breakfast down his robes and all over the floor. The world was spinning, crimson eyes and lightning pain; the light of tomorrow is the darkness in the depths of the earth-

Professor McGonagall was levitating matchsticks onto everyone's desks. “Copy the notes from the board, understand the theory, and transfigure your match into a sharp silver needle.”

Albus sucked in a harsh breath. He was sitting up at his desk and his robes were clean. His breakfast sat easily in his stomach. There was no pain. He rubbed his forehead, expecting his hand to come away bloody from a split scalp - but there was nothing.

“Are you okay?” Frank whispered. “You're face is flushed. You look like you've run a mile.”

“I-” Albus felt tears in his eyes but he forced them back. He would not cry in front of the class. There was no pain, he was okay. But those eyes had been terrible- “I'm fine, just felt a little dizzy there. Worn out, I guess, busy few days.”

Frank nodded but he looked unsure. “Just don't throw up on my robes!” he joked, but looked uneasy when Albus flinched.

“Frank, did you feel, just a minute ago-”

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Jackson, have you finished scripting today's notes from the blackboard?” Professor McGonagall appeared out of nowhere, standing before their desk. “May I see your transfigured matches?”

“Sorry, ma'am,” Frank mumbled, blushing to his roots and inking his quill fast, beginning to scrawl the transfiguration notes.

Albus just sat there a moment, still reeling from... from whatever.

“Mr. Potter?” McGonagall raised a single eyebrow.

A heavy moment fell, a few seconds ticked by on Albus's wristwatch. “Sorry, Professor,” he said, feeling absolutely fine. He dipped his eagle-feather quill in his pot of fresh ink and hastily scribbled Foundations of First Grade Transfiguration across his scroll of parchment.

McGonagall returned to her desk and the fast and whispery sound of quills scratching across thirty rolls of parchment filled the room. Albus copied the notes as best he could, but his mind was elsewhere, on the pain he had felt and the... the strange images he had seen and heard.

He recalled now the swift and certain pain he had felt on the small boat sailing to the castle last night for the Sorting Ceremony. A headache with a heartbeat, he had likened it to, but this was a hundred times worse - a headache playing around with a muggle chainsaw in his skull. On the lake he had chalked up the brief spike of pain to nerves about finally coming to Hogwarts, finally being sorted into a house. Now he was not so sure...

And what about the thoughts he had had moments before it had happened? The knowing and the surety of how Headmistress McGonagall had transfigured her desk into the geese. He had been so sure that was how it was done, so confident that he could do it himself with ease, and now it was nothing but nonsense he had no hope of understanding. Atomised magic? Stabilised continuation? The words meant nothing - he did not even know basic transfiguration.

He was supposed to be learning it right now.

The rest of the lesson swam by in a bit of a blur for Albus, and try as he might he could not transfigure his match into a needle, although near the end it did take on a silvery-sheen. No one else in the class had much luck either, but Professor McGonagall ensured them not to be disheartened, and then proceeded to assign the task for homework to be completed by their next lesson on Wednesday.

The next lesson the first-year Gryffindor's had before lunch was Charms with Professor Flitwick. The Charms rooms were only five minutes from the Transfiguration rooms, and Albus, Frank, Rose, Gary, and Hannah walked there together, all of them save Albus chatting excitedly about their first magical lesson.

Albus's thoughts were in other places, on the weird headaches and the vision he had seen. He knew who those eyes belonged to, and the voice, as well. Although he had not so much heard that but felt it in his mind.

Lord Voldemort - talking to Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards ever and the man he had been named for. If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy...

His dad had been a boy during Voldemort's rise to power twenty years ago, and it would be fair to say was quite a thorn in the Dark Lord's side. Albus was gripped with a vicious certainty that the boy was his father, and that he had caught a glimpse of one of the battles between the greatest and most deadly wizards of the age. Albus shuddered. All of these thoughts were beginning to scare him, and he didn't know what to do about it. It was only his first day.

As Albus and his new friends entered the Charms room for the first time, the youngest Potter son decided to wait and see what would happen - if anything would happen again - and leave it at that. It had only been a few moments of pain, just a brief headache, and nothing like this had happened to him before.

Charms found Albus seated between Rose and Gary on a long wooden bench as Professor Flitwick introduced himself and the course outline for the year. The small-wizard stood upon a stack of books and cushions at the head of the room, jumping up and down as he demonstrated some of the more average wand-movements they would need to master in order to work even a basic charm.

“And now,” Flitwick said, “we shall learn what many believe to be the most useful charm a first-year can know. Wingardium Leviosa, the levitating charm. Primarily used for light-weight objects - you will have noted the feathers in front of you - yet any and all manner of objects can be levitated if the intention behind the casting is strong enough.” Flitwick grinned and chuckled. “Why, one could levitate the club straight out of a troll's grubby hand, if needs be!”

Flitwick had them practice the correct wand movements for thirty minutes before allowing any actual magic to take place. Albus felt fairly confident he had it down correctly after only a few tries, and was anxious to see if he was any better at Charms than he had been at Transfiguration. So far his wand had produced very little visible magic.

 “Wingardium Leviosa,” Rose said, a little accent to the words. Her feather spun once on the desk and stopped. She tsked and tried again, furrowing her brow.

Albus eyed his thick, white feather and shrugged. He moved his wand just like Flitwick had said and whispered the incantation. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Albus felt it tingle down his arm before it shot up his wand and into the feather. A thin reed of pure magic enveloped the feather and it was fired like shot from a cannon straight up. Albus - and half the class of Gryffindors and Huflepuffs - - gasped as the feather struck the ceiling with a bang a lot louder than a simple feather could make and exploded in a small shower of silver-red sparks which sprinkled down harmlessly to the floor.

“The right intention, Mr. Potter,” Flitwick said into the silence, chuckling. “Yet a little too much power behind that. Charms are a delicate art. Try it again, and ask the magic to work, don't force it.”

Albus opened his mouth to say he hadn't done any such thing, that he'd only wanted the feather to levitate and done exactly as instructed. Instead he concentrated, pointed his wand at Frank's feather as the class looked on, watching his movements.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” 

He felt that tingle again, the magic, only this time he recognised it for what it was, and before it shot out of his wand he imagined the feather calmly rising and floating above his head like he had seen Ethan do it on the train yesterday with a coin. The charm hit the feather, and Albus felt the tingle down his arm intensify and surge through his wand, spilling over the feather. Something fierce and hostile pushed his magic forward. He winced, expecting another burst of flames, but was simply astonished when the feather rose quite calmly halfway to the roof - taking the heavy, elongated desk with it.

Students ducked and dived out of the way as quills and pots of ink, scrolls of parchment and a dozen loose feathers rolled off the desk and toward their heads. An overturned ink pot spilt dark black ink through Hannah Longbottom's light-brown hair and she squealed.

Honest surprise was etched all over Albus's face. He kept his calm, even when his own inkpot hit him on the shoulder, stinging and splattering his face with black droplets, and slowly but surely lowered the desk back down to the floor with his wand. He let it go a few inches too soon and it hit the stone slabs with a bang. A heavy fatigue rushed through Albus's arm; it felt like he'd lifted the whole thing himself.

“My, my,” Professor Flitwick said, bouncing down off his stack of books and rushing forward. “Is everyone okay? Good, good-Miss Longbottom, you may want to excuse yourself to go wash up before that ink dries, Miss Weasley, go with her and try not to get lost! Scourgify!” Flitwick cast a small cleaning charm, but it didn't get much of the ink off Hannah's face or hair. She scowled at Albus as Rose led her from the room.

“Sorry, Hannah,” he called after her, smudging drops of ink into his cheek.

“Mr. Potter.” Professor Flitwick regarded Albus over his spectacles. “You have as much raw power in your spellwork as I've ever seen in any eager first-year. You'll need to work on harnessing that strength to control it, and not have your magic produce unwanted... side-effects.”

Albus nodded, slightly abashed.

“That said your... demonstration was quite extraordinary for a first attempt. Ten points to Gryffindor for not only levitating your feather first, but everyone else's, too!”

Frank and Gary were both laughing and clapping Albus on the back once Charms ended an hour later and they set off for the Great Hall for lunch. Hannah and Rose walked ahead, and although Hannah regarded him a bit coolly - her hair was stained right through and would need several washings - she softened at the fact that Albus had already earned Gryffindor ten house points.

All in all, Albus thought as he loaded up his plate at the Gryffindor table with fruit salad and two roast chicken sandwiches, his first morning at Hogwarts had taken a few unexpected turns. He was still a little concerned about what had happened in Transfiguration, but he had felt fine since then and already he was pushing it to the back of his mind. It was a problem if it happened again, but right now he was enjoying a good lunch and looking forward to the double period of Defence Against the Dark Arts that the first-years had with the Slytherins straight after lunch.

“So the Aurors are like the police?” Frank asked through a mouthful of cheese and crackers.

“That's right.” Gary nodded. “They're a department of the Ministry of Magic, highly trained to take down wizards who use dark magic against others, provide security and such. Al's dad here is the head of the Aurors - no surprise there, aye.”

“Professor Drogin's an Auror, isn't he?”

“Senior Auror,” Albus nodded. He had seen Drogin once or twice before at Ministry functions he had attended with his mum and dad. “The elite of the elite. He answers directly to my dad.”

“DADA should be a lot of fun then,” Gary grinned. “Just think of the curses and hexes we're going to learn.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

“How to defend against,” Rose corrected. “That's the whole point of the class.”

Albus imagined he was already going to know bits and pieces about a lot of what Professor Drogin would cover that year. His dad didn't often talk about the nastier things that were out there, that as an Auror he defended the wizarding world against, but he did mention certain things probably beyond the knowledge of the average first-year. And there were a lot of books at home in the library that Albus had glanced at over the years. Especially in the last year with James being at Hogwarts and writing home about his classes and the magic he was learning every other day.

Ten minutes before the lesson started found Albus, Rose, Gary, Frank and Hannah already waiting outside of the DADA classroom with the rest of the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. The Slytherins were keeping to one half of the corridor, talking amongst themselves, as were the Gryffindors.

Albus learned the names of his other two roommates whilst waiting - Colin Creevey and Greg Cofler. Colin, a small boy with mousy brown hair, had magical parents, and his father had been at Hogwarts with Albus's dad, just a year below. Greg was a big lad for his age, towering over Colin, and he was muggle-born - still taking everything with a pinch of salt.

Professor Drogin opened the door to his rooms and bade them enter a few minutes later. Albus's first assessment of the man last night at the feast proved to be somewhat accurate. The severe almost-frown he wore on his face marked his demeanour. No sooner were the first-years in the door than he proceeded to assign them a desk and chair.

“I'll have none of this house rivalry in my classroom,” he said. “Seating arrangements are Gryffindor-Slytherin, and alphabetically by your surname.”

This left Albus sitting about halfway back in the room, in front of Rose and behind Hannah, and sitting next to the Slytherin whose last name was closest to his in the alphabet.

Malfoy, Scorpius.

Albus regarded the Slytherin boy with a caution he would not have shown any boy of Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff house, and Malfoy in return inclined his head and surveyed Albus emotionlessly, his expression completely unreadable.

“I'm Albus Potter.”

“Gryffindor,” Malfoy said, the word very nearly a sneer. “I am Scorpius Malfoy.”

“Enough idle chatter, thank you,” Professor Drogin said, standing before the class. “Now before we get started I will be laying down one or two ground rules that will be obeyed in my classroom at all times. That is, you will obey or you will be removed from the room and never invited back. I want this clear from the beginning - this subject, no matter how droll or useless you may find some aspects of it - is the single most important thing you will study whilst at this castle, and the most dangerous.”

He allowed those words to sink in, allowed everyone to sit up a little straighter and take note.

“Rule number one - your wand. Never enter my classroom without it; never let it out of arm's reach whilst here, and never cast a single spell without proper authorisation from your instructor - me. Clear?”

The last word was a rough bark and several people jumped in their seats. Albus didn't, and neither did Malfoy. The Slytherin looked mildly approving.

“Rule number two - your textbooks. Read them, cover to cover, five times this term. I shall expect you to have completed it at least once by the end of your second week. You will be quizzed, at random, on any aspect within its pages - and some things you'll find yourself by perusing the cache of defence texts available in the school library. The clever, industrious, and grade-orientated amongst you will have already completed the assigned text - you know who you are.”

The first-years glanced at each other around the room, trying to see and guess who might be ahead already. It did not look as though anyone in particular had read the book cover to cover yet, although Albus thought Scorpius Malfoy looked surprisingly confident.

Albus hadn't read the whole book, or even most of it, but he fully intended to make a good start that evening now. Defence Against the Dark Arts was what his dad had excelled in, what Harry Potter had always known more of than any other student.

“Rule number three - the golden rule,” Professor Drogin said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Constant vigilance... remember those two words, and you may just keep your head when the shit hits the fan. And it will, my little first-years, it always does.”

And here Professor Drogin paused again, a heavy silence falling over his words. Albus knew this man was a Senior Auror, which meant he must have seen and survived a lot to have made it so high in the department. He was old enough to have been an Auror when Voldemort had seized power - both the first and second times. Albus wondered briefly what sort of role Drogin had played during the wars. He didn't seem like the kind of man who would have been on the sidelines.

“You are young,” Professor Drogin said into the silence, “and over the next few years there are going to be moments in your life that make you, that set the course for who you're going to be.” He laughed, although it wasn't a happy sound. “Most of the time, they will be little, subtle moments. Sometimes... they won't be. Even if you see them coming, you'll never be ready for the big moments. But don't for a damn moment think that makes you helpless, that you don't have a choice between what is right and what is easy.”

Drogin's eyes flashed across the room, over the heads in the first three rows and latched onto Albus's. He smiled.

“A man named Harry Potter told me that, once upon a time. Perhaps you've heard of him? Nobody asks for their life to change, not really. But it will. The big moments will come, can't help that. It's what you do when they come that matters, that's when you find out what your worth is in this world, when you find out who you are... and who you're going to be.”

Professor Drogin held Albus's gaze for several moments following his speech, then the intensity left his eyes and he turned away, pointing his wand towards the chalkboard. Lines of chalk in a thick, curving script dashed across the board.

Introduction to the Dark ArtsChapter I - Basic Defensive Wand Movementsand Shield Charms

“This lesson we will focus on the theoretical aspects of wand-movement. Why specific movements can trigger defensive shields strong enough to repel anything save an Unforgivable Curse, and why certain elements - fire - can be blocked but not the heat transference produced by such an attack.”

Albus - and the rest of the class - were scribbling notes as fast as they appeared on the chalkboard, taking down everything. This was exciting stuff, and Drogin had the full attention of everyone in the room.

“For the last hour we will put theory into practice, and you will be learning the incantations for basic shield charms, which you will practice every evening this week. The Protego Charm will be your main defensive shield - however it is highly basic and predictable.”

The lesson flew by, for Albus at least, and he tried hard to commit everything he could to memory. So far DADA was turning out to be the most intensive lesson in terms of the sheer amount of information that Professor Drogin was loading on them, but it was also the most interesting.

During the practical shield work at the end, Albus was the only first-year who managed to produce anything even closely resembling a workable shield charm. As he had nearly done on the train yesterday, he tried again the Protego shield, and actual managed to create a cone of blue light that solidified in the air for a moment before dissipating.

Professor Drogin was watching each attempt and he raised a single eyebrow at Albus's shield. “Try it again, Mr Potter,” he said. “Twenty house points if you can block a small stinging hex.”

Albus felt a fluttering of nerves as Drogin turned his wand upon him from across the room. The distance was enough that Albus would have plenty of time to cast his shield. He just didn't know if he could deflect a hostile spell yet. Everyone else stopped their own attempts to create a shield and turned to watch Albus and Professor Drogin.

“Wand at the ready, Mr. Potter, I will give you warning before I fire.”

Albus gripped his holly wand and readied the movements in his mind. He could do this, he only needed to block it for a moment, direct it away. He saw himself bouncing the hex back at Drogin, knocking the experienced Auror's wand from his hand. Albus smiled, and so did his professor.

“And three, two, one... Aculeus!”

A bolt of yellow light shot through the air, over the empty desks, and towards Albus. It crackled with energy and hummed with strength.

Albus was already moving his hand and had begun the incantation as Drogin reached one. “Protego!” he cried.

The tip of his wand flared with the brightest blue light he had ever seen it produce, a hundred times brighter than it had been on the train yesterday. A cone of deflective magic formed in the air before him and held steady for a moment. The rush of magic tingling down his arm, the same feeling he had gotten in Charms levitating the feather, was good and strong.

And then it abruptly vanished, taking his shield with it.

Albus winced and his wand clattered to the floor as Drogin's minor stinging hex hit his hand. It felt for a moment like a whip had been lashed across the back of his hand, but the sensation faded almost straight away. He knelt down to pick up his wand, disappointed.

“Not a bad effort, Mr Potter, yet you acted far too soon and were not able to keep the shield in place.” Professor Drogin had put his wand away, yet Albus knew the man could draw it again faster than he could raise his, pointing as it was toward the floor. “It would have blocked my hex, had you timed it right. Anticipation is a precise skill.”

“Why didn't his shield remain in place for longer?” Scorpius Malfoy asked quietly, drawing every eye in the room. “It flared and disappeared.”

“It takes time, with any spell, to get every aspect of it right, Mr Malfoy,” Drogin said. “Some spells require certain circumstances to perform well, some need to be fuelled by certain emotions - love, hate, kindness, anger - whilst others still need to be practiced, practiced, practiced!” Drogin paced forward, and waved his arm over a row of unlit candles on his desk. They flickered to life with small, blue flames. “A wand is just a tool, it helps us to focus what we are born with. Consider, for a moment, that your magical ability is a muscle. You students are just now beginning to exercise that muscle. One day you may be able to lift mountains with it, but for now you levitate feathers. Understand?”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes, Professor.”

“There's a lot more to it than that, of course. I suggest again you peruse the wealth of knowledge available to you in the library. Magical theory books may seem tedious, but understanding just how magic operates can exercise the muscle in different ways, making it well-rounded and strong.”

Albus was hungry by the time dinner rolled around that evening. It had been a long first day, and he had done more magic with his wand, learnt more about magic from his professors, than he ever had in his life before.

Chomping his way through golden wedges of potato and tomato relish sauce, he yawned. “My magical muscle is knackered,” he moaned.

Rose nodded, catching his yawn with one of her own. “Are you going to make a start on some of the homework tonight?”

Albus shrugged. It had been the plan earlier in the day, when he hadn't been so tired. Now it just seemed like far too much effort.

“Those four-poster beds are ridiculously comfy,” he said pensively. He looked down and across the table at Frank and Gary. They both looked as if they were about to fall onto their plates, most of the first-years did.

“Got a good hex out of Drogin today, didn't we,” Gary said, catching Albus's eye. “Stinging hex. Thanks for that, Al. Aculeus.”

Albus chuckled. He knew a few hexes that did a lot worse than a little slap on the wrist. There was the Bat-Bogey hex his mother didn't know he knew about, for one. But he was too tired just then to get into a discussion with Gary about cool hexes.

And so half an hour after dinner found Albus in his pyjamas and brushing his teeth, getting ready for bed.

He slipped under the heavy, warm covers and pulled the curtains closed. Tomorrow, he thought decisively, he would definitely find time to send a letter off with Merlin to his mum and dad.

Satisfied with his first day and stuffed with food, Albus had pretty much forgotten about the headache he had suffered in Transfiguration. Memories of that bothered him not at all as he drifted off to sleep. He was already looking forward to whatever tomorrow brought - new magic, new chances to learn. Defence Against the Dark Arts was his favourite subject by far, and he was the only one who had done a shield charm, even if it had only lasted a second.

Smiling to himself, Albus rolled over and his head disappeared into the depths of the feather pillow.

He dreamt that night, and they were strange dreams. He was alone in the Transfiguration room, and the floor was shrouded in a glowing mist right up and over his knees so that each desk looked like a small island at sea. Professor McGonagall was lecturing before her desk, her mouth moved silently, and her eyes were thin slits of crimson light. Albus tried to levitate the mist out of the room but he didn't have his wand. Professor Drogin appeared and berated him for not being prepared, for letting his wand out of his sight. Drogin had the same crimson eyes as McGonagall.

And then finally, Scorpius Malfoy appeared standing on one of the desks, his dark silk robes almost reflecting the silvery light of the mist. The emerald-green in his Slytherin emblem shone particularly brightly. “All right, scarhead?” he smirked. And the blood in his eyes was burning fiercely.

Strange dreams, the same dream, faded in and out of Albus's mind all night. The dreams didn't wake him, and he slept quite peacefully enclosed in his four-poster bed.

He woke the next morning completely refreshed from the night's sleep, and did not remember a thing.

*~*~*~*